CHAPTER VII

THE LEADING LADY

The days that followed were busy and pleasant ones for Ruth. Even when her doubt concerning the wisdom of engaging Layton Boardman and thus inviting Sol Bloomberg’s enmity would crop up, she put it resolutely from her. She certainly did not intend to borrow trouble.

Then, too, she thought often of Tom’s laughing remark concerning the attractive western actor. Could it be that Tom was really inclined to be jealous of this man, whom, so far, she hardly knew? The idea was too absurd to be seriously considered.

Helen and Chess were openly happy over the good fortune of the latter. The big business deal which had been hanging fire for some time held almost the certainty of success, now that Chess had secured the necessary amount of credit to push it through.

No wonder they were happy! Their happiness was contagious, which was one reason, perhaps, that Ruth found herself in such high spirits during that time.

The local paper came out with an account of the fire and of the part Ruth and the others had played in it. The fire had really been a small affair and the theater was once more running as usual, the new film drawing crowded houses.

But “Snowblind” was being shown elsewhere, too--six sets of films of the picture had been made--and Ruth was eager to see what critics in other cities would have to say about it. As the city newspapers came in she read the notices eagerly, as did Tom.

“A knockout, Ruth!” cried the young man. “A regular knockout everywhere!” And he was right, in every city where it was shown “Snowblind” was a big success.

Ruth’s chums still stayed on in Cheslow. They visited the Red Mill almost every day, occasionally staying to dinner or some other meal, and they never failed to declare that they were having the “time of their lives.”

They were receiving a good deal of attention from the young men of Cheslow, and, since most of these were well-off and owned their own cars, the girls naturally did not lack for pleasant occupation. Jennie, as chaperone, was enjoying herself hugely. It was not in Jennie to be formal, still in France, as Madame Marchand, she put some restraint on herself, which now in the midst of her old school friends she threw off entirely and became once more the old “Heavy” Stone of their Briarwood days.

Ruth was, of course, invited to attend all these parties, and at first her old friends seemed a bit offended when she refused, pleading her work.

However, it was not long before, with Helen’s loyal assistance, they were able to understand that Ruth’s work did make heavy demands on her time and was not a light pastime to be attended to in odd moments.

If it had not been such a particularly busy time with Ruth she would have liked nothing better than to have joined in all the fun with her friends. As it was, she was able to accompany them once in a while, and she never failed to return from one of the merrymakings strengthened in mind and with a fund of fresh enthusiasm for her work.

Meanwhile plans for the house party which she meant to give her old school chums before the end of their visit were taking definite shape.

Although the accommodations of the house at the Red Mill were limited she could manage to put the girls up for a night; at least, all except Mercy, who lived in Cheslow, and Helen, who would go back with Tom and the other young fellows whom Ruth had already invited to the party.

Ruth had made inquiries in Cheslow and found that she could secure the services of a young girl to help Aunt Alvirah with the work.

It would be a lark, and Ruth was looking forward to it eagerly.

Meanwhile, there was a great deal of work to be done. Ruth was anxious to finish all details connected with her new picture so that they might start for Montana as soon as possible.

The script was finished. She had gone over it with Tom and, still later, with Layton Boardman.

Both young men were pleasantly enthusiastic. The actor had offered suggestions here and there that, Ruth felt, strengthened the script.

She liked Layton Boardman’s free and easy western manner that was yet always pleasant and respectful to her. And she liked the way he took hold of the part she offered him. She became more and more convinced that she had found the right actor for her drama.

Another thing that engaged her attention was the problem of the feminine lead. She could not use Anita Townsend, the star of “Snowblind.” It was not the rôle suited to Anita. She must have an actress for the lead in “Hearts of the Mountains,” and that quickly.

She and Tom had discussed most of the stars on the horizon and found the majority of them--at least those fitted for the part--tied up already by handsome contracts.

“Viola Callahan is the ideal one for our purpose,” said Ruth, in one of her many conferences with Tom. “And I think her five-year contract with Brennan has about run out. Still----”

“Try her and see,” suggested Tom. “The most she can do is refuse.”

But Viola did not refuse. Like the majority of shining stars in Filmdom, she had chosen to exercise her temperament, and in a fit of rage had thrown her contract--literally--in the face of an outraged manager. Since this contract was nearly expired, having only three weeks to run, and since the fair Viola had allowed her temper to run away with her several times during the past five years with disastrous results to the company in general, Mr. Brennan had decided--with a sigh of relief--to let his western beauty go.

Now, it is one thing to throw your contract away and quite another to have it politely handed back to you with the request that you keep it and do with it what you please. The pride of a genius would not allow Viola to humble herself to the point of asking the polite Mr. Brennan for a chance to go on again, so she found herself, for the first time in many years, without a sign of a job.

Viola did not fancy this very much, and was in a state of mind to receive Ruth’s overtures graciously.

So it came to pass that not long after her conversation with Tom, Ruth found herself in audience with the fair Viola herself.

Viola seemed out of place, someway, in the quaint, old-fashioned living room of the Red Mill. She was flamboyant in dress and action and so overflowing with vitality that one felt her presence in a room even before she began to speak. And then, to use Ruth’s own phrase, “one was simply overwhelmed with Viola.”

The girl had beauty after a fashion, although the screen did something to her features, softened them, refined them, made them infinitely more appealing than they appeared in the full and brutal light of day.

But Ruth had seen the girl on the screen many times, knew that she could act, and in her picture would be an effective opposite to Layton Boardman.

Viola rather took her breath away on the subject of salary. However, after considerable hesitation, Ruth signed her up at a figure which she knew was going to cause considerable worry in the weeks to come. With Viola’s salary to be paid every week, there would be little allowance for delay or drawback of any kind. And in the making of a picture, delays and drawbacks are the rule.

After the business part of the interview was at an end, Viola chose to become expansive, taking Ruth into her confidence almost, as Ruth said afterward to Tom, as though Ruth were an old friend.

“You’ve got a nice place here,” she said, wandering about the room, touching small ornaments here and there. “Old-fashioned and homey with plenty of windows and sun coming in at them. The kind of place me and Tony was to have sometime.” She heaved a huge sigh and Ruth looked at her curiously.

“Tony?” she repeated. “Do you mean Tony Martano?”

Tony Martano was a name well known in the picture world, though the man himself had never risen beyond the rank of second-rate player.

Viola stopped roaming about the room and sat down in a big chair close to Ruth’s, assuming a languid posture. She seemed willing, almost eager, to talk of her blighted romance.

“You know how handsome Tony is,” she said. “Well, I guess it was his looks that got me, for there’s nothing inside here,” she tapped her forehead significantly, “but a solid mass of bone.”

Ruth laughed.

“I always thought he was a pretty good actor,” she said.

“What he got, his looks got for him,” Viola said with brutal frankness. “If he’d had an ounce of brains he’d have edged some other leading man off the map long before this. It only goes to show,” with another tremendous sigh, “that love is a funny thing.”

“Then you love him still?” asked Ruth. She was rather taken aback by this frankness on the part of Viola, especially to one who but a few moments before had been a total stranger. However, she supposed a great many things could be laid to that mysterious thing called temperament. Something told her that Viola was full of temperament!

“Love him!” cried Viola, rolling her large and rather prominent black eyes. “What I wouldn’t do for that man! And do you know,” she leaned forward and fixed Ruth with a tragic gaze, “the only thing that stands between us and a little nest of our own?”

“What?” asked Ruth, with difficulty keeping herself from smiling.

“Jealousy!” hissed Viola, and settled back with a satisfied compression of her overfull lips.

“What kind of jealousy?” asked Ruth, bewildered. “Yours or his, professional or personal?”

“His!” snapped Viola, evidently put out that this could be misunderstood even for a moment. “And it’s entirely professional. That’s what proves him a bonehead. No one should ever let anything stand in the way of love--do you think so?” Viola had become languorous again and Ruth stirred restlessly beneath her look. She wished suddenly that the girl would go. There were so many things to do!

“No,” she said in answer to a repeated question from her guest, “I don’t suppose anything ought to stand in the way of love--if it’s the right kind.”

She thought of these words after Viola had gone and smiled a bit ruefully herself.

“I wonder if I meant that? At any rate I don’t practice what I preach,” she told herself. And still later, in reviewing that interview with Viola, she added: “I don’t like that girl. For some reason I distrust her, though I can’t for the life of me tell why!”