the most thrilling first night of sheila’s life was her debut as a mother. the doctor and the stork had a nip-and-tuck race. the young gentleman weighed more than ten
pounds.
according to all the formulas of tradition, this epochal event should have made a different woman of sheila. the child should have filled her life. according to actual
history, sheila was still sheila, and her son, while he brought great joys and great anxieties, rather added new ambitions than satisfied the old.
bret senior did not change his business interests or give up his office hours because of the child. indeed, he was spurred on to greater effort that he might leave his
heir a larger fortune.
the trained nurse, who received twenty-five dollars a week, and the regular nurse, who received twenty-five dollars a month, knew infinitely more about babies than
sheila.
the elder mrs. winfield, with the best intention and the worst tact, thought to make sheila happy by telling her how happy she ought to be. this is an ancient practice
that has never been discarded, though it has never yet succeeded.
the elder mrs. winfield said, “it’s a splendid thing for baby that you’ve given up the stage.”
sheila felt an implied attack on her own family, and she bristled gently: “it’s fine for me, but i don’t think the baby would notice the difference if i acted every
night. my mother didn’t leave the stage, and her mother and my father’s mother were hard-working actresses. and their children certainly prospered. besides, if i
were out of the way, the baby would have the advantage of its grandmother uninterrupted.”
the new grandmother accepted the last statement as an obvious truth and attacked the first. “you’re still thinking of going back, then?”
“not at all,” said sheila. “i’ll never act again. i was just saying that it wouldn’t harm the baby if i did. and,” she added, meekly, “it might be the making of
him to have me out of the way.”
she said this with honest deprecation. she was troubled to find that she had not become one of those mere mothers that are so universal in books. she was horrified to
discover that at times the baby lost its novelty, that its tantrums tried her nerves. she did not know enough to know that this was true of all mothers. she felt
ashamed and afraid of herself. she did not return to her normal glow of health so soon as she should have done. she kept thin and wan. cheerfulness was not in her,
save when she played it like a r?le.
at length the doctor recommended a change of scene. since it was not quiet that she needed, he suggested diversion, a trip to the city. the three winfields made the
journey—father, mother, and baby, not to mention the nurse.
the quick pulse and exultant life of new york reacted upon sheila. she found the theaters a swift tonic, and, since “the woman pays” was now on the road after a long
season on broadway, there was no danger of choosing the wrong theater. she and bret reveled in the plays with the ingenuous gaiety of farmers in town.
at this time, also, a monster “all-star” benefit was being extensively advertised. a great fire had destroyed a large part of one of our highly inflammable american
cities, leaving thousands of people in such distress that public charity was invoked. the actors, as usual the most prompt of all classes to respond to any call upon
their generosity, organized a huge performance to be given at the metropolitan opera house.
players, managers, scene-painters, and scene-shifters were emulous in the service. stars offered to scintillate in insignificant r?les. a program lasting from one
o’clock to six was speedily concocted. the opera house was not large enough for the demand. boxes were sold by eminent auctioneers at astonishing premiums.
bret took it into his head to assist. he paid two hundred dollars for a box.
sheila left the baby with the nurse, put on a brand-new paris frock, and gulped an early luncheon that she might not miss a line. bret saw with mingled relief and
dismay that she was as eager as a child going to her first party.
they read with awe the name-plate on the door of the box they had rented; it was that of one of the war lords of american finance.
the opera house was seething with people. bret and sheila wedged their way through a dense skirmish-line of prominent actresses selling programs printed free with
illustrations designed free. bret had bought five for ten dollars before sheila restrained him.
the bill was a reckless hash; everything was in it from a morsel of tragedy to a bit of juggling and repartee. the vast planes of the auditorium were crowded with
people. the dean of the dramatists announced from the stage that the receipts were over fifteen thousand dollars and that a program autographed by every participant
would be auctioned later.
bret, in a mood of extravagance, determined to buy it for sheila. it would show that he was not ashamed of her past or afraid of her future. during an intermission
they promenaded the corridors thronged with notables. sheila bowed her head almost off and was greeted with an effusiveness usually reserved for long-lost children.
at length sheila heard her name called, felt a hand plucking at her elbow. she turned and faced dulcie ormerod, who gushed like a faucet:
“how are you, sheila dear? i haven’t seen you for ages. how well you look! isn’t this wonderful? our play is in trenton this week, so mr. eldon and i just ran over
to take in this show. and is this your husband? mayn’t i meet him?”
sheila made the presentation helplessly, and dulcie gushed on:
“i’ve been dying to see you. you remember mr. eldon, don’t you? where is that man? oh, floydie dear, here’s an old friend of yours.”
to sheila’s horror and bret’s she turned and seized the elbow of a man whose back was turned and whose existence they had not noted in the thick crowd. dulcie
dragged eldon about and swung him into his place at her side. he confronted sheila and bret as by miracle.
