One thing Jake and I did for our protection; that was to buy, on one of our infrequent trips to the junction, an electric flashlight apiece as well as one for Sigrid. These we carried, lighted, when walking about at night, and not once in the month that followed our first encounter with the non-shapes did we have any misadventure.
The middle of July brought the full moon again, and with it the approach of our opening night.
The theatrical sections of the papers—Varduk had them delivered daily—gave us whole square yards of publicity. Jake had fabricated most of this, on his typewriter in our boathouse loft, though his most glamorous inventions included nothing of the grisly wonders we had actually experienced. Several publishers added to the general interest in the matter by sending to Varduk attractive offers for the manuscript of Ruthven, and receiving blunt refusals. One feature writer, something of a scholar of early Nineteenth Century English literature, cast a doubt upon the authenticity of the piece. In reply to this, Judge Pursuivant sent an elaboration of his earlier statement that Ruthven was undoubtedly genuine. The newspaper kindly gave this rejoinder considerable notice, illustrating it with photographs of the judge, Varduk and Sigrid.
On July 20, two days before opening, Jake went out to nail signs along the main road to guide motor parties to our theater. He was cheerfully busy most of the morning, and Sigrid deigned to let me walk with her. We did not seek the road, but turned our steps along the brink of the water. An ancient but discernible trail, made perhaps by deer, ran there.
“Happy, Sigrid?” I asked her.
“I couldn’t be otherwise,” she cried at once. “Our play is to startle the world—first here, then on Broadway—”
“Sigrid,” I said, “what is there about this play that has such a charm for you? I know that it’s a notable literary discovery, and that it’s pretty powerful stuff in spots, but in the final analysis it’s only melodrama with a clever supernatural twist. You’re not the melodramatic type.”
“Indeed?” she flung back. “Am I a type, then?”
I saw that I had been impolitic and made haste to offer apology, but she waved it aside.
“What you said might well be asked by many people. The pictures have put me into a certain narrow field, with poor Jake Switz wearing out the thesaurus to find synonyms for ‘glamorous.’ Yet, as a beginner in Sweden, I did Hedda Gabler and The Wild Duck—yes, and Bernard Shaw, too; I was the slum girl in Pygmalion. After that, a German picture, Cyrano de Bergerac, with me as Roxane. It was luck, perhaps, and a momentary wish by producers for a new young foreign face, that got me into American movies. But, have I done so poorly?”
“Sigrid, nobody ever did so nobly.”
“And at the first, did I do always the same thing? What was my first chance? The French war bride in that farce comedy. Then what? Something by Somerset Maugham, where I wore a black wig and played a savage girl of the tropics. Then what? A starring role, or rather a co-starring role—opposite you.” She gave me a smile, as though the memory were pleasant.
“Opposite me,” I repeated, and a thrill crept through me. “Lavengro, the costume piece. Our costumes, incidentally, were rather like what we will wear in the first part of Ruthven.”
“I was thinking the same thing. And speaking of melodrama, what about Lavengro? You, with romantic curly sideburns, stripped to the waist and fighting like mad with Noah Beery. Firelight gleaming on your wet skin, and me mopping your face with a sponge and telling you to use your right hand instead of your left—”
“By heaven, there have been lots of worse shows!” I cried, and we both laughed. My spirits had risen as we had strolled away from the lodge grounds, and I had quite forgotten my half-formed resolve to speak a warning.
We came to a stretch of sand, with a great half-rotted pink trunk lying across it. Here we sat, side by side, smoking and scrawling in the fine sand with twigs.
“There’s another reason why I have been happy during this month of rehearsal,” said Sigrid shyly.
“Yes?” I prompted her, and my heart began suddenly to beat swiftly.
“It’s been so nice to be near you and with you.”
I felt at once strong and shivery, rather like the adolescent hero of an old-fashioned novel. What I said, somewhat ruefully, was, “If you think so, why have you been so hard to see? This is the first time we have walked or been alone together.”
She smiled, and in her own individual way that made her cheeks crease and her eyes turn aslant. “We saw a lot of each other once, Gib. I finished up by being sorry. I don’t want to be sorry again. That’s why I’ve gone slowly.”
“See here, Sigrid,” I blurted suddenly. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, or try to lead up diplomatically or dramatically, but—oh, hang it!” Savagely I broke a twig in my hands. “I loved you once, and in spite of the fact that we quarreled and separated, I’ve never stopped. I love you right this instant—”
She caught me in strong,
