the brand-new couple forgot problems of this and every other sort in the raptures and supernal contentments of belonging to each other utterly and forever.

the notifying of their parents was one of the unpleasantest of tasks. they put it off till the next day. sheila’s father and mother had already begun their tour to

the coast and the news found them in the middle west.

sheila telegraphed to them:

hope my good news wont seem bad news to you bret and i were quietly married yesterday please keep it secret both terribly terribly happy play opens grand rapids monday

best love from us both to you both.

her good news was sad enough for them. it filled them with forebodings. that phrase “terribly happy” seemed uncannily appropriate. between the acts of their comedy

that night they clung to each other and wept, moaning: “poor child! the poor child!”

winfield’s situation was summed up in a telegram to his home.

happiest man on earth married only woman on earth yesterday please send your blessings and forgiveness and five hundred dollars.

bret’s mother fainted with a little wail and his father’s weak heart indulged in wild syncopations. when mrs. winfield was resuscitated she lay on a couch, weeping

tiny old tears and whimpering:

“the poor boy! the poor boy!”

the father sat bronzed with sick anger. he had built up a big industry and the son he had reared to carry it after him had turned out a loafer, a chaser of actresses,

and now the worthless dependent on one of them.

charles winfield pondered like an old brutus if it were not his solemn duty to punish the renegade with disinheritance; to divert his fortune to nobler channels and

turn over his industry to a nephew who was industrious and loyal to the factory.

but he sent the five hundred dollars. in his day he had eloped with his own wife and alienated his own parents and hers. but that had been different. now his mouth was

full of the ashes of his hopes.

reben was yet to be told. sheila said that he had troubles enough on his mind and was in such a state of temper, anyway, that it would be kinder to him not to tell

him. this was not altogether altruism.

she dreaded the storm he would raise and longed for a portable cyclone-cellar. she knew that he would denounce her for outrageous dishonor in her treatment of him, and

from his point of view there was no justifying her unfealty. but she felt altogether assured that she had accomplished a higher duty. in marrying her true love she was

fulfilling her contract with god and nature and life, far greater managers than any reben.

she had, therefore, for her final rapture the exquisite tang of stolen sweets. and to the mad completeness of the escapade was added the hallowing sanction of law and

the church.

it was a honeymoon, indeed, but pitilessly interrupted by the tasks of departure, and pitifully brief.

the question of whether or not her husband—how she did read that word “husband”!—should travel on the same train with her to grand rapids was a hard riddle.

both of them were unready to publish the delirious secret of their wedding.

there was to be a special sleeping-car for the company. for sheila as the star the drawing-room was reserved, while reben had claimed the stateroom at the other end of

the coach.

to smuggle bret into her niche would be too perilous. for her to travel in another car with him was equally impossible. if he went on the same train he might be

recognized in the dining-car. for her to take another train would not be permitted. a manager has to keep his flock together.

at length they were driven to the appalling hardship of separation for the journey. bret would take an earlier train, and arrange for their sojourn at the quietest

hotel in grand rapids. she would join him there, and no one would know of her tryst.

so they agreed, and she saw him off on the noon express. of all the topsy-turvy households ever heard of, this was the worst! but they parted as fiercely as if he were

going to the wars.

the company car left at five o’clock in the afternoon, and was due in grand rapids at one the next day. eldon and pennock alone knew that the young star was a young

bride. both of them regarded sheila with such woeful reproach that she ordered pennock to change her face or jump off the train, and she shut herself away from eldon

in her drawing-room.

but she was soon routed out by batterson for a reading rehearsal of a new scene that prior had concocted. she was so afraid of eldon’s eyes and so absent-minded with

thoughts of her courier husband that batterson thought she had lost her wits.

twice she called eldon “bret” instead of “ned,” the name of his r?le. that was how he learned who it was she had married.

even when she escaped to study the new lines she could not get her mind on anything but fears for the train that carried her husband.

after dinner reben called on her for a chat. he alluded to the fact that he had wired ahead for the best room in the best hotel for the new star.

sheila was aghast at this complication, which she would have foreseen if she had ever been either a star or a bride before.

reben was in a mood of hope. the voyage to new scenes heartened everybody except sheila. reben kept trying to cheer her up. he could best have cheered her by leaving

her. he imputed her distracted manner to stage-fright. it was everything but that.

that night sheila knew for the first time what loneliness really means. she pined in solitude, an early widow.

the train was late in arriving and the company was ordered to report at the theater in half an hour. the company-manager informed sheila that her trunk would be sent

to her hotel as soon as possible. she thanked him curtly, and he growled to batterson:

“she’s playing the prima donna already.”

she was all befuddled by this new tangle. how was she to smuggle her trunk from the hotel to her husband’s lodgings, and where were they? he had arranged to leave a

letter at the theater instructing her where they were to pitch their tent. she went directly to the theater.

she found a corpulent envelope in the mail-box at the stage door. it was full of mourning for the lost hours and full of enthusiasm over the cozy nook bret had

discovered in the outer edge of town. he implored her to make haste.

as she set out to find a telephone and explain to him the delay for rehearsal, she was called back by reben to the dark stage where batterson and prior and eldon were

gathered under the glimmer of a few lights on an iron standard. they were discussing a new bit of business.

sheila was aflame with impatience, but she could not leave. before the council of war was finished the general rehearsal was called—a distracting ordeal, with the

company crowded to the footlights and struggling to remember lines and cues in the battle-like clamor of getting the scenery in, making the new drops fast to the ropes

and hoisting them away to the flies. hammers were pounding, canvases going up, stage-hands shouting and interrupting.

the rehearsal was vexatious enough in all conscience, but its crudities were aggravated by the icy realization that this was the final rehearsal before the production.

in a few hours the multitude of empty chairs would be occupied by the big jury.

under this strain the actors developed disheartening lapses of memory that promised complications at night. when the lines had been parroted over, reben spoke a few

words like a dubious king addressing his troops before battle. the stage-manager sang out with unwonted comradery:

“go to it, folks, and good luck!”

sheila dashed to the stage door, only to be called again by reben. he offered to walk to the hotel with her. she dared not refuse. he invited her to dine with him. she

said that she would be dining in her room. in the lobby of the hotel he had much to say and kept her waiting. he was trying to cheer up a poor fluttering girl about to

go through the fire. he found her peculiarly ill at ease.

at last she escaped him and flew to her room to telephone bret. she knew he must be boiling over by now. pennock met her with exciting news. certain articles of her

costume had not arrived as promised. shopping must be done at once, since the stores were about to close.

all things must yield to the battle-needs, and sheila postponed telephoning bret; it was the one postponable duty. by the time she had finished her purchases it was

too late to make the trip out to the cozy nook he had selected. she was bitterly disappointed on his account—and her own.

she reached the telephone at last, only to learn that he had gone out, leaving a message that if his wife called up she was to be told to come to their lodgings at

once. but this she could not do. and she could not find him to explain why.

he found her at last by telephone, and when she described her plight to him he was furious with disappointment and wrath. he had bought flowers lavishly and decorated

the rooms and the table where they were to have had peace at last for a while. nullified hope sickened him.

he could not visit her at the theater during her make-up periods or between the acts. he had to skulk about during the performance, dodging reben, who watched the play

from the front and shifted his position from time to time to get various points of view, and overhear what the people said.

numberless mishaps punctuated the opening performance of “the woman pays,” as the play had been relabeled for the sixth time at the eleventh hour. lines were

forgotten and twisted, and characters called out of their names.

in the scene where eldon was to propose to sheila and she to accept him, the distraite sheila, unable to remember a line exactly, gave its general meaning.

unfortunately she used a phrase that was one of eldon’s cues later on. he answered it mechanically as he had been rehearsed, and then gave sheila the right cue for

the wrong scene. her memory went on from there and she heard herself accepting eldon before he had proposed. he realized the blunder at the same time.

they paused, stared, hesitated, wondering how to get back to the starting-point, and improvised desperately while the prompter stood helpless in the wings, not knowing

where to throw what line. reben swore silently and perspired. the audience blamed itself for its bewilderment.

but even amid such confusion sheila was fascinating. there was no doubt of that. when she appeared the spectators sat forward, the whole face of the house beamed and

smiled “welcome” with instant hospitality. reben recognized the mysterious power and told starr coleman and the house-manager that kemble was a gold-mine.

bret felt his heart go out to the brave, pretty thing she was up there, sparkling and glowing and making people happy. he was proud that she belonged to him. he felt

sorry for the public because it had to lose her. but he was not the public’s keeper. he was glad he had made her cut out that embrace with eldon—both of the

embraces.

the last curtain fell just before the lovers moved into each other’s open arms. this was the “artistic” effect that sheila had persuaded reben to try. even bret

felt a lurch of disappointment in the audience. there was applause, but the rising curtain disclosed the actors bowing. there was something wanting. bret would have

regretted it himself if he had not been the husband of the star.

he was aching with impatience to see her and tell her how wonderful she was. he did not dare go back on the stage, lest his presence in grand rapids should require

explaining. he must wait in the alley—he, the owner of the star, must wait in the alley!

he hated the humiliation of his position, and thanked heaven that after this season sheila would be at home with him. he hoped that it would not take her long to slip

into her street clothes.

he was the more eager to see her as he had prepared a little banquet in their rooms. in his over-abundant leisure he had bought a chafing-dish and the other things

necessary to a supper. everything was set out, ready. he chuckled as he trudged up and down the alley and pictured sheila’s delight, and the cozy housewifeliness of

her as she should light the lamp and stir the chafing-dish. they would begin very light housekeeping at once, with never a servant to mar their communion.

but sheila did not come. none of the company emerged from the stage door. it was long after twelve and nobody had appeared. he did not know that the company had been

held after the performance for criticism. aligned in all its fatigue and after-slump, it waited to be harangued by reben while the “grips” whisked away the scenery.

reben read the copious notes he had made. he spared no one. every member in turn was rebuked for something, and he carefully refrained from any words of approval lest

the company should become conceited.

reben believed in lashing his horses to their tasks. others believe otherwise and succeed as well, but reben was known as a “slave-driver.” he paid good prices for

his slaves and it was a distinction to belong to him; but he worked them hard.

batterson and prior had also made notes on the performance and the dismal actors received spankings one after another. sheila was not overlooked. rather she was

subjected to extra severity because she carried the success or failure on her young shoulders.

as usual, the first performance found the play too long. the first rough cuts were announced and a rehearsal called for the next morning at ten.

it was half past twelve when the forlorn and worn-out players were permitted to slink off to their dressing-rooms.

sheila knew that her poor bret must have been posting the alley outside like a caged hyena. she was so tired and dejected that she hardly cared. she sent pennock out

to explain. pennock could not find him. she did not look long. she did not like him. when at length sheila was dressed for the street she found reben waiting for her

with the news that he had ordered a little supper in a private room at the hotel, so that she and batterson, prior and eldon and the company-manager and the press

agent, starr coleman, and the house-manager, might discuss the play while it was fresh in their minds.

sheila had never sat on one of these inquests before, and she had not foreseen the call to this one. such conferences are as necessary in the theater as a meeting of

generals after a hard day’s battle. long after the critics have turned in their diatribes or eulogies and gone home to bed, the captains of the drama are comparing

notes, quoting what the audience has said, searching out flaws and discussing them, often with more asperity than the roughest critic reveals.

in these anxious night-watches the fate of the new play may be settled, and advance, retreat, or surrender decided upon.

sheila, thinking of her poor husband, asked reben to excuse her from the conference.

his look of amazement and his sharp “why?” found her without any available excuse. she drearily consented and was led along.

during and after the cold supper everybody had much to say except sheila. endless discussions arose on minutely unimportant points or upon great vague principles of

the drama and of public appeal. at three o’clock sheila began to doze and wake in short agonies. there was a hint of daybreak in the sky when the meeting broke up.

she was too sleepy to care much whether she lived or died or had a husband or had just lost one. she made a somnambulistic effort to search for bret, but reben and the

others had adjourned to the hotel lobby for further debate and she dared not challenge their curiosity.

she went to the room the manager had reserved for her and slept there like a juliet on her tomb.