Chapter XIII: The Forming of the Chrysalis

That Stewart Thrall wasted no time when once a plan was settled upon and a thing seriously undertaken may be gathered from a letter written in a Western city by the manager of a stock company playing a summer season in the theatre attached to a soldiers' home. The park coaxed people from the city, and the theatre then drew them from the park to the play.

This letter, having mentioned the safe arrival of certain manuscripts, scene-plots, and property-plots, continued:

"And now about the young maid of high degree you sent us,
with the valiant Jim Roberts acting as guard and henchman.
And, to begin at the ending, like the Irishman I am, let me
just tell you no better sheep-dog ever lived than this same
James. He's kept as straight as a colonial
front-door--honest, he has! If you could see the poor devil
shake and quake for need of a few drops of 'mountain dew,'
you'd believe me fast enough! He escorts her to and from the
theatre and follows her like a secret-service man whenever
she goes to the city of an errand. Of course, keeping
straight to play sheep-dog leaves him all right as to memory
too, and he hasn't lost a word since he's been here.

"Now as to the young damsel you want me to report on. She's
all right and safe in the boarding-house my wife secured
for her. She's a little too stiff and reserved and a great
deal too pretty to be very thoroughly liked by the women.
She started out very friendly and pleasant, but--well, you
see, Lou Daskam and Dick Turner are engaged to each other,
and George Jones and his wife Grace have only been married a
few months, and their unrestrained endearments were somewhat
confusing to her conservative mind. My wife explained
matters to her; but though she now understands that the
whole affair was a question of manners, not of morals, she
remains a bit starchy toward the amorous four.

"As to business--she's doing well. She's got _act_ in her,
_sure_! And Lord! what a face for the footlights! My wife's
teaching her how to make-up, and when she's properly rouged
and carmined and promaded, and that fleece of black hair
loosened about her head, she's a cross between a princess
and a gypsy, with the bearing of one and the coloring of the
other. The audience has not disturbed her much. At my advice
she looks at the people who are on the stage with her,
instead of staring in front all the time. The thing that
embarrassed her most was the tilt of the stage, which is
very steep in this shop. That worried her a bit at first,
but she walks quite naturally and unconsciously now. She is
learning to gauge her voice to the house--by my rule. I send
someone out in front, who stands at the back of the seats.
When her scene is on, she glances at him. If he shifts
about, or bends his head as if to hear better, she gently
raises her voice or speaks with a little more force, until
he stands still, hearing satisfactorily. She will soon be
able to make the voice test in any theatre by watching for a
moment or two some distant auditor.

"The greatest stumbling-block in her way is that, so far,
she simply cannot talk while walking. She speaks her exit
speech standing still, and then walks off in an awkward
silence, or she walks to the door silently, then speaks her
lines and _pops_ off--making the house laugh.

"To-day Jim Roberts has taken her in hand, and out on the
stage I can hear this going on: (Girl's voice) 'I will go'
(Jim's voice, warningly: 'Step!') 'to my aunt's' (Jim:
'Step!') 'and say' ('Step!') 'I shall keep' ('Step!') 'my
promise' ('Step!') 'to marry Harry!' ('Exit!!' shouts Jim.)
'Now, Miss Sybil, try it again, and say "step" to yourself
this time. Pretty soon your feet will carry you along
unconsciously.'

"Now her voice, sounding very forlorn and unbelieving,
begins: 'I will go (step) to my aunt's (step)----'

"It sounds awfully funny, but she's a persistent little
devil, and she will hang on till she can make a decent exit.

"I'd like to bet something, old man, that I'm on to your
game! You are not a man to put me into baby-farming like
this for nothing. Well, good luck! She's bright and quick,
and I'm crowding as much 'shop' into her head as I can on
short notice. Jim Roberts has done a good deal in the way of
teaching her technicalities. She understands all the
entrance directions, the uppers and lowers and centres, etc.

"I believe that's all. Any further orders will be attended
to. Thank you for the use of that play--it pulled us through
in fine shape.

"Fraternally,
"J. A. WILLIAMSON."

By the same mail there had come a second letter from the theatre at the Soldiers' Home. It was written with woful shakiness showing in every spidery line, and with more than a spider's venom in its words. The envelope held, too, a folded ten-dollar note, which was a return for the like amount paid out by Thrall to a certain Mrs. Hoskins, who in her character of suspicious landlady had basely broken her promise "to wait a week," and had impudently presented her claim against Roberts to his manager--which was certainly an injurious proceeding and treacherous as well. Therefore the letter opened with some remarks about landladies, individual and in bulk, and though his style was a trifle florid and his spirit somewhat bitter, he nevertheless showed a thorough and discriminating knowledge of his subject, particularly where he pointed out the difference between a "she-shylock" and a harpy (Mrs. Hoskins was a harpy), the shylock being, he declared, ever satisfied with her single pound of flesh, while the harpy, beginning with your eyes, picks your every bone bare, and then tries to reach through your vitals.

Having eased his bosom of much perilous stuff, he went on:

"Business is very good. The company is far better than you'd
expect to see at the salaries paid, but every one's so
devilish glad to get something to do in the summer that they
are willing to work on half pay. Old Williamson's a
first-class stage-manager--queer thing he never gets into
New York, and he's taking so much pains with Miss Lawton, or
Miss Sylvia Latimer, as you've got her billed here, that
everyone is talking and wondering about it. But there's no
mystery to me in this matter any longer. I went to her door
yesterday to hand in a few pounds of mail from her
people--they must all write every day of the week to her.
She was not in the room, but the door was ajar, and I
entered and placed the letters on the table. As I did so the
wind fluttered open the leaves of a play-book--it was 'Romeo
and Juliet,' and the lines of Juliet were all pencil-marked
for study. So that's the game, is it? That's why the girl is
hidden under a stage-name, while she is learning her acting
a-b-abs out here in the West? That's why I suddenly become
of service to you? I am to guard this fruit from wicked
little boys who may look over the orchard wall and spy it
out? Oh, you think you are immeasurably deep, don't you?
Well, you're not! But you're the damndest, luckiest beggar
on earth! And you're smart--oh, yes, you're smart, where
number one comes in!

"What a card you have found! and how cleverly you will play
it, and gather in the stakes--for yourself! Beautiful,
talented, poor, and good--now! Don't give me your sneer,
please! Even a drunkard knows an honest woman when he comes
up with one. And this girl is a wonder! She is innocent,
though she's not ignorant. Theoretically she knows of sin's
existence--her stories, poems, and plays have all made her
so monstrous wise; but, practically, she is as much of a
child as was that other girl who came to you to learn to be
an actress. Damn you! Oh, yes, I know this girl has gifts my
sister Bess never had, but--purity is the subject now, and
Sybil Lawton looks at you with precisely the same innocent,
dauntless eyes that made my sister irresistible. Poor little
maid! If it were not that she and the Missus, and even this
last, your pet devil of a divorcee, were all such fair
women, I'd think your sending me on here to guard this girl
would have made me suspicious of another sort of game! See
here, Thrall, don't you come any of your dam'd
drooping-eyelid and lowered-voice effect over this girl!
Leave her alone, if you know when you are well off. I know
I've been your dog, your cur, but curs snap sometimes, and a
silence, however long, may be broken. No, we don't want any
Bessie in this! Stewart Thrall, manager--even Stewart
Thrall, Romeo to the loveliest Juliet God ever made! But,
don't you see how like she is to your victim, little Bessie,
save in color of her hair and eyes? How like! For God's sake
let that likeness protect-- I--oh, my head's all gone to
pieces! No, I'm not drunk! I'm queer for want of drink--but
I dare not touch it while I have her to care for. I think if
I met her eyes when I was 'off' I'd curl up like a worm
that's stepped on!

"She--so gentle and so kind! And yet Herod could not touch
her for pride! There, I've had a smoke; I'm steadier now.
Yes, your find is a great one. When once she conquers her
trouble over her exits she will be quite a decent actress.
Her voice is clear and carries well. Hers is a genuine stage
beauty too, lighting up radiantly. To your question--yes,
she is easily coached. I've got rather a long part to break
in, so I guess I'll go at it, after I mail this and get a
bite. Watching others' preserves is hungry work. Tout a
vous!--which I wish I wasn't!

"_Jim_."

"Confound him!" said Thrall, "I don't know when he is worst--crazy drunk or crazy sober! Why must he remind me of that resemblance? For, deuce take him, it does exist! It's not his drunken fancy, as I wish it were!"

He shivered in the warmth as he recalled the fair, childish face that used to beam with adoration upon him, unconscious avowal shining in each blue, honest eye. Shallow and inconsequent he had thought the little creature, and yet she had snapped the thread of life with her own hand rather than wait for its slow fraying under abandonment and separation from him. And Jim, by his silence and his craft combined, had averted an awful scandal.

He wiped his forehead and re-read the letter. Suddenly his face flushed. "The drivelling idiot!" he muttered. "I believe in my soul he's in love with this little Crown Princess, who yearns to be a Queen! If he dares to let her know of it I'll wring his neck! He's mighty brave on paper--threatening me, who has kept him out of the poor-house these five years! And my young affections are supposed to be strictly confined to 'the fair Ophelia' type, eh? I am to be blind to the fact that there's more beauty in this dark, lowering young face, more temptation in the upward curl of her swift smile, than could be found in the pink-and-white redundancy of the most perfect Rubens type alive! Oh, I am a fool to notice his rambling, maudlin nonsense! Let me keep to the business in hand. It's very evident that this girl has something in her, when tough old Williamson finds her promising and can see her beauty too. And this crazy wretch, Jim, who knows the requirements of a good actress as well as I do, says she's quite a decent actress now. All of which means that if she is let alone she will probably succeed only after years of struggle and hard work and many disappointments. Yet that is the natural, normal way to success. Perhaps I'd better leave her alone [surely, if Stewart Thrall ever had a guardian angel, its friendly whisper was in his ear at that moment]--leave her to work out her own artistic salvation? I--I could give her a start--I could use my influence to secure a good position somewhere for her first season. That would be the wise thing, Stewart, my boy! For there's no denying the girl's getting too strong a hold on my imagination. Yet what a furore it would create to spring this unknown, unheard-of beauty upon the public! What a vision she would be in the white satin lace and pearls of Juliet, with her young, dark, swift-changing face; and, as for acting the part, why--" A slow smile crept across his lips, unconsciously he drooped his heavily fringed eyelids, in the very way that Jim Roberts had cursed, and murmured: "I could teach her--I could teach her. This letter says she is easily coached. I could open the season with this new French play, holding 'The Duke's Motto' ready for revival in case the new play doesn't strike hard enough; and meantime I could either place my little Princess with old Mrs. Mordaunt for training, or--coach her myself, work the press to arouse curiosity, and by February at furthest spring my surprise--play my great card! The production will cost--but I'll gather it in again from the houses she will draw, if I bring her out as a star. I suppose I'd be wiser to drop this plan--but, oh, by Jove, I can't! I promised, fairly and squarely promised, she should have her crown. Poor little girl! I'd like to make the path to success easier to her than most people find it. Then, again, some cheap tuppenny-ha'penny actor may gather her up and marry her, out of hand, and so spoil all her future. Oh, devil take it! I'll toss a coin. No, I won't, either; that doesn't seem decent! But I'll wait for the next letter, and if she has learned by that time to make a correct exit, I'll bring her back here at the end of old Williamson's summer season, and begin coaching her on the quiet for the great coup! If she has not yet succeeded, I leave her to her own efforts. There, fate has it to manage now! I stand aside and wait!"

Seven days later this telegram reached Jim Roberts: "Bring Miss L---- on here at close. She can't go with Williamson for winter season. Train arrives late, so escort her to Riverdale first, then report to me at theatre.--Thrall." While in a certain paper's "Stage Gossip" there appeared:

"The air of the Rialto is full of mystery just now. There
are whispers of a society _debutante_ who is to become a
stage _debutante_. Sometimes she comes from the West with
consenting friends; sometimes, being wealthy, she has defied
the authority of lover and guardian alike and is openly
preparing for a stage career. The one thing that steadies
the wavering rumor is that the name of the theatre to be
favored by this shadowy society actress never changes--that
part of the story is ever the same. Stewart Thrall is to be
her manager and the Globe is to be the scene of her triumph.
So much for the _on dit_ of the Rialto. Perhaps Mr. Thrall
will kindly rise and explain."

And a more staid and conservative paper stated: "That it was undoubtedly true that a young lady of birth and breeding, a member of one of New York's oldest families, was to be brought before the public as soon as the full consent of her family could be obtained, Mr. Stewart Thrall, with a most commendable sense of honor, refusing by his aid to place the beautiful suppliant in opposition to her natural guardians. The lady's name will only be given to the public when all opposition to her wishes have been withdrawn."

So the good angel had whispered his warning all in vain; and Thrall was already busy with glue-pot and paper and book of gold-leaf, for had he not promised, with the rose-petals that fell from her breast held red in his hand--had he not promised to crown the obstinate, ambitious girl who longed to be Queen of that fair domain, the Drama, who, while hoping to win fame herself, was "sorry that he had missed the way"? "God bless her!" he murmured, "God bless her!" and he made note of several new fables to give to the press anent the social debutante's private brougham, her lovers, her maids; for thus is the chrysalis formed from which, the dormant time being passed, the radiant butterfly will flutter forth to gladden the eyes of those whose curiosity has been cleverly aroused. Ah, yes! no chrysalis, no butterfly!