Jack and Susan in 1913 (12 page)

She had no thought that what she'd written was in any way equivalent to a
real
play—even to such a piece of sentimental tripe as
He and She
. It had to be true—didn't it?—that the worst legitimate play ever mounted on a creaking stage was inherently superior to the most ambitious screen drama. Be that as it may, Susan was as full of pride in her production as if what she'd written was about to be mounted on the stage of the Eltinge or the Shubert theater.

When it came time for
Hopwood's Harem
, Susan grasped Jack's hand in excitement and fear and squeezed it tight.

A filigree-bordered announcement appeared on the screen, displaying the title and Mr. Mixon's name and caricatured face—exactly the same as all the other Manfred Mixon photoplays. Next appeared a second card bearing the names of the other players in the piece, headed by the inscription: “The Cosmic Players.” And after that came a third card, which read:

Susan turned and stared at Jack in the semidarkness: “What on earth did you tell Mr. Fane about me?”

O
UTSIDE THE THEATER again, Susan stared about her as if she'd been dropped at Columbus Circle directly from the Argentine pampas. Everything was now different in her life. Until now, she had never really quite believed that the words she had sat in her chair writing would actually be translated into real moving pictures, and that complete strangers would then gather in darkened rooms and pass judgment on their worth. The audience in the Circle Theater seemed to have been favorably impressed, it was true—but what if they had hissed? How would Susan have felt then?

“Are you not feeling well?” Jack asked.

“Thank you,” said Susan uncertainly, “perhaps if we could…”

Directly on Columbus Circle was Faust's Restaurant and Café, and Jack huddled Susan inside. The backs of the booth he secured for them were high and protective, and Susan leaned against the dark wood as if she were exhausted.

“That certainly came as a…surprise,” she said falteringly.

“A pleasant one, I hope,” said Jack. “May I please order you a restorative?” She nodded, and he asked the waiter to bring two glasses of brandy and water.

“It was pleasant,” said Susan. “But what if the audience hadn't laughed?”

“But they
did
. In fact, it was the funniest Mixon comedy I've ever seen. And you just watch—every comedy from now on will have a dozen chorus girls straight off the music hall stage.”

“‘Young Lady in High Society'?” Susan quoted suddenly, remembering the card at the beginning of the picture. “What
did
you tell Mr. Fane about me?”

“I did a little embroidery on Miss Light's identity, that's all,” explained Jack. “When I first spoke to him of your scenario he was going to dismiss it. After all, who was I to recommend a writer to him? All I'd done was to fix a gear on one of his cameras. So I begged his pardon, but told him that what I held in my hand had been written by a lady in society who much admired Mr. Mixon and was of a literary turn of mind and wished to try her hand at formulating a scenario for a moving picture. I made you sound very top-of-the-brow.”

The waiter brought the drinks. After nodding to Jack over the rim of the glass, Susan sipped at the light-colored liquid. It burned—and it made her feel better almost immediately.

“Did Mr. Fane ask how you came to be acquainted with a young lady of such exalted station? And how you gained her confidence?”

“He did. I said that I had once been engaged as a mathematical tutor to the young lady, and that I still had entree to the house as a tutor to her younger brothers. Twins, I said. And that on my last visit, while waiting for the twins to return from an amateur sporting match, I had fallen into conversation in the conservatory with the young lady, and she had confessed her infatuation with moving pictures and Mr. Mixon. When she discovered that I lived in the same apartment house as Hosmer Collamore, a gentleman actually acquainted with Mr. Mixon, she confided the manuscript to my care.”

“I think you're the one with the imagination at this table,” said Susan. “Perhaps you and not I should be writing scenarios. Did Mr. Fane believe you?”

“I don't know,” said Jack. “But he looked at the scenario, and he bought it.”

“And you don't think he would have if he had known it was written by an out-of-work actress living on West Sixtieth Street with a three-legged dog and a broken limb?”

“I think that Mr. Fane saw an opportunity for some publicity in producing a moving-picture written by a society lady who does not wish her name to be known. I don't believe that the writers of these photoplays are usually mentioned at all—and Mr. Fane wrote an entire story up there about the mysterious Miss Light.”

Susan grimaced.

“I know what you're thinking, but please don't,” said Jack.

“What am I thinking?” said Susan.

“You're thinking that he didn't buy the story on its merits as a story. But I can assure you he did.”

“But you just said—”

“Did Mr. Fane change any of it?”

“No,” said Susan.

“Did he ask for others?”

“Yes.”

“Did he buy your others?”

“Yes.”

“And Hosmer tells me they've already gone out to some great rolling farm in New Jersey to shoot the outdoor scenes for the second Mixon play. Mr. Fane might have bought
one
scenario from the society lady for the novelty of the thing—but he would not have bought three.”

Susan realized that Jack was right, but she felt that she'd duped the Cosmic Film Company somehow. As if her success were not due wholly to her talent, but due—at least in some part—to Jack Beaumont's smooth story.

“But you think,” she said, “that it would not be wise to confide the truth to Mr. Fane?”

Jack pondered the question for a moment, taking a big sip of his brandy and soda and dribbling a fair amount on to his shirtfront in the process. “I think that you should wait till Mr. Fane and the Cosmic Film Company are so dependent on your services that Miss Sarah Light could come forward as the kaiser himself and Mr. Fane would accept her.”

Susan leaned across the table and dabbed at Jack's shirt with her napkin.

“Mr. Fane wants more,” said Jack. “He says you are his steadiest, most reliable writer.”

Susan positively beamed with pride, and in all her vocabulary couldn't come up with words to do justice to her happiness. She leaned against the windowsill and tilted her head back and looked up into the cloud-filled early March sky above.

Jack slouched in her armchair, legs stretched out halfway across the room, turning his hat around and around on his lap. He was safe, for Tripod was roaming the streets.

“He thinks I leave the studio and take the bus uptown for a clandestine meeting with the young lady in society. We meet at a restaurant where she wears a black veil, and she hands me the latest scenario in an envelope beneath the table. He says that you should think of making
that
into a picture.”

A springlike breeze had unsettled Susan's hair, so she let it down, shook it out, and once more arranged it loosely atop her head. “You sound as if you are at the bottom of a blue funk.”

Jack shrugged, and continued to fumble with his hat. It suddenly slipped from his grasp, rolled across the floor, and before he could get to it, neatly upended itself in Tripod's water dish. It was a typical wardrobe accident for Jack—unlikely, and nearly terminal for the article of clothing involved. Jack grimaced, but didn't seem a bit surprised at the fate of his hat. “Your work is going so well—” he said.

“And yours isn't?”

“I can't seem to get my mechanism to work properly,” said Jack. “I took it to Mr. Fane today to show him, and the thing fell apart, but not till it mangled the film in the camera. Even Hosmer laughed.”

“You don't have the time to work on it,” said Susan. “That's all. You're always running about for me, or else you're downstairs fixing some decrepit piece of machinery for someone who doesn't have the money to pay you for it. The reason I've been successful is that I don't have anything to do except write. I have you to do my shopping, you to run the scenarios down to the studio, and you to keep me company and pick up my spirits. That's why
my
work is going well. I know that if you only had time—”

Susan stopped suddenly in mid-speech. She realized with a start of unpleasant astonishment that she was sounding just like the dreadful heroine of
He and She
.
She
had a splendid career going—going better than her husband's, in fact. But when
he
slid into a depression because of his inferior position, she gave it all up. She wondered now if Jack was feeling jealous. Maybe he was angry with her for doing better than him. She had to find out.

“Jack,” she asked without preamble, “does my success upset you?”

He looked up at her, a bewildered look on his face. “No,” he replied unhesitatingly. “Have I said something—”

“I'm only asking. You went down to Cosmic today and showed Mr. Fane your machine—and it didn't work.”

“That's being very polite,” said Jack. “Actually, I felt I was fortunate it didn't explode.”

“While at the same time, Mr. Fane bought the scenario you delivered to him.”

“After glancing at it for about thirty seconds.”

“Some men would feel that…” She trailed off.

“Would feel what?” asked Jack, as if he really didn't understand.

“That it was the man's place to succeed,” said Susan.

Jack stared at her. “My invention failed because I hadn't done my work properly. Your scenario sold for the simple reason that you had.”

“And that's what you truly believe?”

“Yes.” And then, as if this exchange was boring him, Jack said, “Oh, I nearly forgot. Mr. Fane would like you to dash off something for him. He just bought a lot of fancy-dress costumes—English stuff—and he'd like to use it. So if you could come up with something with Queen Elizabeth or Sir Francis Drake, he'd much appreciate it. Also, he'd like a story line in which Ida Conquest gets to be dressed as a boy. All exteriors to be woodland scenes—Central Park, I suppose. By Tuesday.”

“He doesn't want much, does he?”

“I told him I thought you could manage. And you can, can't you?”

“Do you think I can?”

“I think you can do anything you set your mind to, Susan.”

Susan smiled. So, whatever was going to be between them, Jack Beaumont and Susan Bright, it wasn't going to be a tedious replaying of
He and She
.

That evening, Jack brought in Susan's dinner, corned beef and potatoes from a small restaurant around the corner, and shared it with her. She asked him questions about his invention, and learned that one, he was convinced that with enough work, it
would
operate as he envisioned it; two, he only wanted time to perfect it; and three, he hadn't as much time now as he'd like.

“But why are you asking all these questions?”

“Because you know all about my work—you read all of my scenarios—and I know almost nothing about yours.”

“My work is sitting at a table in bad light, and filing away at little scraps of metal,” said Jack. “I'll admit that it's exactly the kind of thing I like to do and always have. I wouldn't do anything else, even if I had the opportunity. And I
have
had the opportunity. I once made a great deal more money than I do now, but I am much more pleased with this occupation than I would be with any other.”