A Bright Tomorrow (10 page)

Without Lylah, the show lost its luster, and Hackett had closed it almost at once. Going back to his gold mine, he'd said, “Gerald, the time is ripe for something really
new
on the stage—”

Hackett easily persuaded Partain to put up the money for a new play, and this time he chose
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,
which had been done in a highly successful manner by the famous Richard Mansfield two years earlier. It was more or less a one-character play, which suited Hackett exactly. It would mean a very small cast, consisting of one more man and two women. And it was for one of the women's roles that he'd agreed to interview a young woman recommended by Eddy Sparks, an old friend of his.

“She's not a trained actress,” Sparks had warned Hackett, “but she needs a job bad. She's a good looker, though…see?”

Hackett had taken the picture Sparks handed him and made up his mind on the spot, though he didn't say so. “Have her come by to see me at the Crescent next Saturday, Eddy, but warn her the pay's not much.”

And when Hackett opened the door to his hotel room and greeted the young woman who stood there, he knew he had to have her.

“Miss Beaumont?” he smiled, stepping back. “Come right in. Here, take this chair.” He ushered her in, seated her, then proceeded to turn on his charm, which was highly developed and seldom failed.

“I've heard such fine things about you from Eddy.” He smiled warmly. “Too bad the troupe had to break up. Have you found anything yet?”

“No, Mr. Hackett,” Rose said nervously. She had made it a rule never to be alone with a man in his room, but this time there had been no choice. Still James Hackett seemed nice enough, and as she sat there listening to him describe the play, she began to relax. Finally she said, “Mr. Hackett, I'm not an actress. I have no experience except with Eddy Sparks's company…and all I did in that was dance a little.”

Hackett waved his hand with an eloquent gesture. “Of course, Rose…may I call you that? Good! Well, Eddy told me, and really what I'm offering you is not a part in the play so much as a job helping with the costumes and the tickets…things like that.” Hackett knew that if he didn't find someone to do these menial chores, he'd have to do all the work Lylah had taken on herself, and he had no intention of doing that. “The role you'll play is very minor—not more than twenty lines in all—and it doesn't call for any great ability. That's why, as I think Eddy must have mentioned, the pay is not large.”

“Oh, I don't mind. I'll do
anything
, Mr. Hackett!”

Rose had no idea how appealing she was as she leaned forward in that pleading stance. She was aware that men found her attractive, but was one of those rare women of real beauty who did not dwell on the matter. There was not a trace of pride in her character, as she said simply, “Please give me a chance.”

Hackett hesitated. “You have a husband? No? A family?” He listened carefully as Rose explained that she had nobody, and this relieved him. He'd been forced to face more than one jealous husband and one or two offended fathers and brothers in his time, but this one was free of all encumbrances.

“Well, I don't see why not,” he said. Getting to his feet, he moved to the oak dresser, took out two glasses and a bottle of wine. As he poured the wine, he said easily, “I'll have to give you some training, of course, but I see no reason why we can't work this thing out.”

“I–I don't drink, Mr. Hackett,” she said when he offered her a glass.

“Well, that's
splendid,
Rose!” he said heartily. “A good idea, but this is only wine, not liquor. I insist…a toast to the success of our new venture!”

Rose took the glass reluctantly. She had been practically raised in a saloon, and had seen the worst that drunkenness can do to a human being.
It's only wine,
she argued, and managed a smile. “Well…just one, then.”

“To the play—” Hackett said, and then favoring her with his most ingratiating smile, held his glass high, adding, “And to us, Rose—”

The wine was strong, and Rose got to her feet at once. “If you'll tell me what to do, I'm ready to start, Mr. Hackett.”

Hackett noticed that she had her back braced and was eyeing him cautiously.
Like a deer watching a big wolf
, he thought, but said aloud, “We'll meet the rest of the cast later. First, we'll go have a late breakfast and I can tell you about your part.”

Hackett got his coat and slipped into it, but before he opened the door, he let his hand fall on Rose's shoulder. She looked at him with alarm, and he removed it immediately. “I'm glad you came by this morning, Rose. I think we're going to have a splendid time.”

Rose was glad when he motioned her forward with a little bow and did not see the glitter in his eyes as he followed her out of the room. She could not know that he was a man who found innocence a challenge and that he had already started planning his strategy to claim her as one of his many triumphs over virtue.

A
fter eight weeks on the road with an abysmally bad play, Lylah was drained emotionally, physically, and financially. The play,
Old Heads and Young Hearts,
was a piece of sentimental claptrap, cheapened by the histrionics of the actress who played the leading role—Georgia Cayvan. Herbert Kelcey, her co-star, was not bad, but was unable to keep the performance from sinking into a sticky, saccharine morass each night as Georgia shed enough tears to float a battleship.

The troupe had performed in forty towns, most of them one-nighters, with a few two-night stands. The cities and towns had become nothing but a blur to Lylah. And life was a dreary ritual—perform, pack the scenery and costumes, fall into a strange bed for a few hours of sleep, get up with an awful groggy feeling, catch a train to the next town, set up the stage, perform—then do it all again.

The men she met were all after the same thing, of course. Actresses were considered only slightly better than prostitutes, she discovered, and when Lylah did agree to have dinner with one of them, she spent most of the evening keeping her guard up. Many of them commented on the glamorous life she led, to which she wearily replied, “If you like working long hours, living in cheap hotels, eating poorly cooked food, getting by on starvation wages, and living on the razor's edge, not knowing from one day to the next if you'll have a job—why, yes, it's
very
glamorous.”

The end came in St. Louis, when the show failed to attract more than twenty in the audience. Todd Blankenship, the manager, had paid them off—not as much as they had been promised, but all that could be scraped together. Lylah was weary of travel, and when Blankenship pulled her aside, she was ready to hear what he had to say. “Lylah, I can't promise a thing, but I'm on my way to Chicago to put together a show for Al Kendal. Think I can find a place for you.”

“I'd appreciate that, Todd. How long will you be gone?”

“Three weeks at least.”

Lylah thought quickly, adding up her assets and finding them short. “I'm going home to see my folks, Todd. I'll give you my address. When you need me, write, and I'll come.”

“Sure, Lylah. I'll try to get you something better than you had in this clinker!” Shaking his head with disgust, he added, “You've got more talent in your little finger than Georgia's got in her whole body!”

Lylah had taken the southbound train out of St. Louis, so weary she had slept sitting up in the day coach. She'd longed to take the sleeping car, but was short of money.

“Fort Smith! Next stop—Fort Smith!”

Startled by the conductor's shrill announcement, Lylah looked out the window. The low hills flew by, then the train slowed as it began passing through the outskirts of the town. As she watched the farmhouses and isolated shacks appear out the window, then the real beginnings of the town, she wondered what sort of welcome she'd receive. She hadn't written to her family for a long time, ashamed to do so. But when Amos had found her and practically forced her to write, she'd written a short note, which her mother had answered at once. She still had the letter, would always have it, for it had restored her hope. Her mother had written in a thin hand:

Lylah took the letter from her pocket and read it again. It was an anchor for her. How many times she had wanted to quit and run back to the house surrounded by the mountains, longing to forget all about show business!

But she had not, for there was something in her that would not let her rest, and she knew deep inside that she would never again have a simple, safe life such as she had known as a girl.

The train ground to a stop, expelling great clouds of steam, and Lylah got off the coach and took her suitcase. Seeing a man with a wagon, she walked over to him. “Can you take me to the Bible Institute? I'll be glad to pay.”

“Why…shore I kin—” The man nodded. He looked at her carefully, taking in the cut of her dress, her quite obvious charms. “If you're aimin' to go to that preacher's school,” he offered when he'd helped her in and taken his seat, “you'll have to git a different dress.”

Lylah laughed. “Why, I've already been to Bethany!”

The driver looked her over with a skeptical eye. “Then you done gone and backslid, missy,” he pronounced firmly. “Ain't none of the young women from there looks anything like you!”

He introduced himself as Hiram Moon when she gave her own name. He was a tall, lanky man of no more than thirty, and Lylah sensed that he was a kindly sort.

Moon took in the lustrous eyes, the full tempting lips, the curving figure. “My wife would kill me if she found out I was squirin' you around, but she can't kill me but once, now kin she?”

When they pulled up in front of the school, Moon leapt out and helped her step down. “No charge.” He shook his head when she attempted to pay him. “Man needs to spend all the time he can with upstanding young folks from the Bible Institute.” He grinned and shook his head. “My Molly will sure hear about this little trip. You know how people are—always gossipin' about folks. Well, good luck now.”

Lylah thanked him, thinking of his words, then went at once to the dean's office, where his secretary looked up, instantly assuming an air of distaste. Miss Saddler was a plain woman with brown hair and No written on her face. Now she said, “So…
you're
back. I wouldn't think you'd have the gall!”

“And a good morning to
you
, Miss Saddler,” Lylah said cheerfully. Looking around the office, she shook her head, thinking of the times she'd spent in this office. The Dean had seen the rebellious spirit in her and had tried to help her. He was a fine man, Lylah knew, and she had always regretted the difficulties she'd caused him. “I'd like to see Donald,” she said.

“He's in Greek class,” Miss Saddler snapped.

“Well, I'll just wait, if that's all right.”

It was certainly
not
all right, Lylah saw, for a dark cloud gathered on Miss Saddler's face. But Lylah smiled sweetly, and sat there patiently for fifteen minutes. When a bell rang, she rose. “Don't bother getting up, Miss Saddler. I'll find Donald myself.” She left the office, walked out, and saw the students filing out of the classroom.

“Hey…it's Lylah!” somebody cried, and instantly she was surrounded by her former classmates, caught up in a flurry of hugs and handshakes. But she noticed that Donald Satterfield was not among them.

As soon as she could, she went over to join him. “Don, will you talk with me for a few minutes?”

“All right, Lylah.” He was not smiling, and there was pain in his eyes. “We can walk outside if you like.”

They left the classroom building and strolled down the cobblestone walk under the large chestnut trees. “We can sit here, I guess,” Satterfield said, motioning to a painted bench.

Lylah sat down, and as he joined her, said quickly, “Don, I should have written you. I treated you terribly. But…I just couldn't. I was so ashamed.”

Satterfield's expression thawed, and he said at once, “It's all right, Lylah. I just hated to see you take the way you did. There's no happiness in it for you.”

There was, Lylah saw, no point in arguing with Don. She ignored his statement, put her hand on his, and said softly, “Can you forgive me, Don? I didn't want to hurt you, but I would have gone crazy if I'd stayed here.”

“Why, you know I couldn't refuse you anything, Lylah.”

Realizing that Don Satterfield meant exactly what he said, Lylah could not stop the tears that misted her eyes. She was not accustomed to finding such devotion in men. “You ought to use a horsewhip on me,” she murmured, trying to smile. “Maybe if you had, I'd be a better woman.”

Don shook his head, turning the subject aside. “Tell me, Lylah, what you've been doing.”

She told him, not knowing that it gave him great pain to hear it. Satterfield had loved her for a very long time, and as he listened, the death knell sounded for his hopes. Lylah, he saw, would never be for him. He had given his life to God, and she would never accept that kind of existence.

He said nothing, however, until she had finished, then, “I'll borrow a buggy and take you home.”

“Oh, Don, you don't have to do that,” Lylah protested, but he insisted.

An hour later they left Fort Smith and spent the day on the dusty roads that led to the mountains. Stone County was well named, for the rugged mountains of the area broke through the shoulders with bare rock. As they rolled through the narrow passes, they seemed to be enclosed with stone walls, green and mossy from the waters that washed over them.

It was a hard trip, and when Satterfield finally pulled the weary team to a halt on the ridge overlooking the valley where the cabin rested, the sun was settling behind a western line of hazy mountains. Then he spoke to the team, and thirty minutes later they drew up into the yard.

The door opened, spilling out first the smaller children, then Owen and Lylah's parents. “Lylah! Lylah…you're home!” Lenora and Gavin struck her with flying hugs, and as soon as Lylah had kissed them both, Logan was there to claim her attention.

Then she turned to Owen, who looked much bigger and taller, grabbed him in a fierce hug, whispering, “Oh, Owen—”

Owen gave her a hard hug, then stepped back, and there was her mother, with two-year-old Christie in her arms, blue eyes trained on the newcomer. “Oh, Ma!” Lylah gasped and fell into her mother's arms. She clung to her, struggling to keep back the sobs that bubbled up inside her, before she turned to face her father.

She was most afraid of him, though he had never been hard on her as a child. But she had heard him speak harshly of young people who dishonored their parents, and now she faltered under his gaze. Unable to say a word, she dropped her head, wishing she'd never come.
He hates me,
she thought, and was about to turn away, when he stepped forward and took her in his arms. “Welcome home, Lylah—”

Lylah welcomed her father's strong arms. But even as she held on to him, she thought,
I'll never be as good as they are
…
not in a million years. They've got something that was left out of me.

By the time she'd had a supper such as she hadn't eaten for months, and recounted some of the things that had happened to her, it was late. Don Satterfield had slipped away to see his own people—and to avoid being thanked, Lylah suspected. Finally the younger children were put to bed, and only Lylah was left at the table with her parents and Owen.

“How long can you stay, Lylah?” her brother asked.

“Well, maybe two weeks or so. I've got a job coming up in Chicago.” Lylah watched disappointment sweep over Owen's features, and after he got up and left to go to bed, she asked, “What's wrong with Owen, Ma?”

Marian tucked a lock of hair away, her face growing sad. “He's like you and Amos, Lylah. The others all like the farm, but Owen's like a caged animal. He's only fifteen, but he's done a man's work ever since Amos left.”

“He'll be the next to go, I guess,” Will said heavily. He shrugged his shoulders, putting the thought away, and asked briskly, “Well, what do you think about that big brother of yours, daughter? Ain't he a caution!”

“Amos?” Lylah stared at her father. “I haven't heard from him in weeks. What's he done?”

“Done?” Will pounded the table with the flat of his hand. “Why, he's up and gone to Chinee…that's what he's done!”

“China!” Lylah exclaimed. “What in the world?”

“We got this letter from him last week,” Marian said, rising to fetch an envelope from the washstand. She handed it to Lylah. “Read it.”

Lylah put the letter down, and her face was grave. “He didn't mention Rose.”

“Rose? Oh, the girl he was stuck on before he went to war?” Marian said. “He's never said a word about her since he came home.”

“No, and that's what worries me.” Lylah nodded. “If he was over her, he'd talk about her…say
something
. But he's never mentioned her name.”