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Schaum s Outlines Trigonometry With Calculator Based
Solutions 4th Edition Robert Moyer Digital Instant
Download
Author(s): Robert Moyer, Frank Ayres
ISBN(s): 9780071543507, 0071543503
Edition: 4
File Details: PDF, 5.57 MB
Year: 2009
Language: english
Trigonometry
This page intentionally left blank
Trigonometry
With Calculator-Based Solutions

Fourth Edition

Robert E. Moyer, PhD

Associate Professor of Mathematics
Southwest Minnesota State University

Frank Ayres, Jr., PhD

Former Professor and Head, Department of Mathematics
Dickinson College

Schaum’s Outline Series

New York Chicago San Francisco

Lisbon London Madrid Mexico City
Milan New Delhi San Juan
Seoul Singapore Sydney Toronto
Copyright © 2009, 1999, 1990, 1954 by The McGraw-Hill Companies, Inc. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the United States
Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval
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 Preface
In revising the third edition, the strengths of the earlier editions were retained while reflecting changes in
the vocabulary and calculator emphasis in trigonometry over the past decade. However, the use of tables
and the inclusion of trigonometric tables were continued to allow the text to be used with or without
calculators. The text remains flexible enough to be used as a primary text for trigonometry, a supplement
to a standard trigonometry text, or as a reference or review text for an individual student.
The book is complete in itself and can be used equally well by those who are studying trigonometry for
the first time and those who are reviewing the fundamental principles and procedures of trigonometry.
Each chapter contains a summary of the necessary definitions and theorems followed by a solved set of
problems. These solved problems include the proofs of the theorems and the derivation of formulas. The
chapters end with a set of supplementary problems with their answers.
Triangle solution problems, trigonometric identities, and trigonometric equations require a knowledge of
elementary algebra. The problems have been carefully selected and their solutions have been spelled out in
detail and arranged to illustrate clearly the algebraic processes involved as well as the use of the basic trigono-
metric relations.

ROBERT E. MOYER

v
This page intentionally left blank
 Contents

CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications 1

1.1 Introduction 1.2 Plane Angle 1.3 Measures of Angles 1.4 Arc Length
1.5 Lengths of Arcs on a Unit Circle 1.6 Area of a Sector 1.7 Linear and
Angular Velocity

CHAPTER 2 Trigonometric Functions of a General Angle 10

2.1 Coordinates on a Line 2.2 Coordinates in a Plane 2.3 Angles in Standard
Position 2.4 Trigonometric Functions of a General Angle 2.5 Quadrant Signs
of the Functions 2.6 Trigonometric Functions of Quadrantal Angles
2.7 Undefined Trigonometric Functions 2.8 Coordinates of Points on a Unit
Circle 2.9 Circular Functions

CHAPTER 3 Trigonometric Functions of an Acute Angle 26

3.1 Trigonometric Functions of an Acute Angle 3.2 Trigonometric Functions
of Complementary Angles 3.3 Trigonometric Functions of 30, 45, and 60
3.4 Trigonometric Function Values 3.5 Accuracy of Results Using Approxima-
tions 3.6 Selecting the Function in Problem Solving 3.7 Angles of Depression
and Elevation

CHAPTER 4 Solution of Right Triangles 39

4.1 Introduction 4.2 Four-Place Tables of Trigonometric Functions 4.3 Tables
of Values for Trigonometric Functions 4.4 Using Tables to Find an Angle Given
a Function Value 4.5 Calculator Values of Trigonometric Functions 4.6 Find
an Angle Given a Function Value Using a Calculator 4.7 Accuracy in Computed
Results

CHAPTER 5 Practical Applications 53

5.1 Bearing 5.2 Vectors 5.3 Vector Addition 5.4 Components of a Vector
5.5 Air Navigation 5.6 Inclined Plane

CHAPTER 6 Reduction to Functions of Positive Acute Angles 66

6.1 Coterminal Angles 6.2 Functions of a Negative Angle 6.3 Reference
Angles 6.4 Angles with a Given Function Value

CHAPTER 7 Variations and Graphs of the Trigonometric Functions 74

7.1 Line Representations of Trigonometric Functions 7.2 Variations of
Trigonometric Functions 7.3 Graphs of Trigonometric Functions 7.4 Horizontal
and Vertical Shifts 7.5 Periodic Functions 7.6 Sine Curves

vii
 viii Contents

CHAPTER 8 Basic Relationships and Identities 86

8.1 Basic Relationships 8.2 Simplification of Trigonometric Expressions
8.3 Trigonometric Identities

CHAPTER 9 Trigonometric Functions of Two Angles 94

9.1 Addition Formulas 9.2 Subtraction Formulas 9.3 Double-Angle Formulas
9.4 Half-Angle Formulas

CHAPTER 10 Sum, Difference, and Product Formulas 106

10.1 Products of Sines and Cosines 10.2 Sum and Difference of Sines and
Cosines

CHAPTER 11 Oblique Triangles 110

11.1 Oblique Triangles 11.2 Law of Sines 11.3 Law of Cosines 11.4 Solution
of Oblique Triangles

CHAPTER 12 Area of a Triangle 128

12.1 Area of a Triangle 12.2 Area Formulas

CHAPTER 13 Inverses of Trigonometric Functions 138

13.1 Inverse Trigonometric Relations 13.2 Graphs of the Inverse Trigonometric
Relations 13.3 Inverse Trigonometric Functions 13.4 Principal-Value Range
13.5 General Values of Inverse Trigonometric Relations

CHAPTER 14 Trigonometric Equations 147

14.1 Trigonometric Equations 14.2 Solving Trigonometric Equations

CHAPTER 15 Complex Numbers 156

15.1 Imaginary Numbers 15.2 Complex Numbers 15.3 Algebraic Operations
15.4 Graphic Representation of Complex Numbers 15.5 Graphic Representa-
tion of Addition and Subtraction 15.6 Polar or Trigonometric Form of Complex
Numbers 15.7 Multiplication and Division in Polar Form 15.8 De Moivre’s
Theorem 15.9 Roots of Complex Numbers

APPENDIX 1 Geometry 168

A1.1 Introduction A1.2 Angles A1.3 Lines A1.4 Triangles
A1.5 Polygons A1.6 Circles

APPENDIX 2 Tables 173

Table 1 Trigonometric Functions—Angle in 10-Minute Intervals
Table 2 Trigonometric Functions—Angle in Tenth of Degree Intervals
Table 3 Trigonometric Functions—Angle in Hundredth of Radian Intervals

INDEX 199
Trigonometry
This page intentionally left blank
 CHAPTER 1

Angles and Applications

1.1 Introduction
Trigonometry is the branch of mathematics concerned with the measurement of the parts, sides, and angles
of a triangle. Plane trigonometry, which is the topic of this book, is restricted to triangles lying in a plane.
Trigonometry is based on certain ratios, called trigonometric functions, to be defined in the next chapter.
The early applications of the trigonometric functions were to surveying, navigation, and engineering. These
functions also play an important role in the study of all sorts of vibratory phenomena—sound, light, electric-
ity, etc. As a consequence, a considerable portion of the subject matter is concerned with a study of the prop-
erties of and relations among the trigonometric functions.

1.2 Plane Angle

The plane angle XOP, Fig. 1.1, is formed by the two rays OX and OP. The point O is called the vertex and
the half lines are called the sides of the angle.

Fig. 1.1

More often, a plane angle is thought of as being generated by revolving

S
a ray (in a plane) from the initial
S
position OX to a terminal position OP. Then O is again the vertex, OX is called the initial side, and OP is
called the terminal side of the angle.
An angle generated in this manner is called positive if the direction of rotation (indicated by a curved arrow)
is counterclockwise and negative if the direction of rotation is clockwise. The angle is positive in Fig. 1.2(a)
and (c) and negative in Fig. 1.2(b).

Fig. 1.2

1
 2 CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications

1.3 Measures of Angles

When an arc of a circle is in the interior of an angle of the circle and the arc joins the points of intersection
of the sides of the angle and the circle, the arc is said to subtend the angle.
A degree () is defined as the measure of the central angle subtended by an arc of a circle equal to 1/360
of the circumference of the circle.
A minute () is 1/60 of a degree; a second () is 1/60 of a minute, or 1/3600 of a degree.
1
EXAMPLE 1.1 (a) 4s3624rd  96r
1 1
(b) 2s12724rd  2s12684rd  6342r
1 1
(c) 2s8115rd  2s8075rd  4037.5r or 4037r30s
1 1 1
(d) 4s7429r20sd  4s72149r20sd  4s72148r80sd  1837r20s

When changing angles in decimals to minutes and seconds, the general rule is that angles in tenths will
be changed to the nearest minute and all other angles will be rounded to the nearest hundredth and then
changed to the nearest second. When changing angles in minutes and seconds to decimals, the results in min-
utes are rounded to tenths and angles in seconds have the results rounded to hundredths.

EXAMPLE 1.2 (a) 62.4  62  0.4(60)  6224

(b) 23.9  23  0.9(60)  2354
(c) 29.23  29  0.23(60)  2913.8  2913  0.8(60)
 291348
(d) 37.47  37  0.47(60)  3728.2  3728  0.2(60)
 372812
(e) 7817  78  17/60  78.28333. . .  78.3 (rounded to tenths)
(f) 582216  58  22/60  16/3600  58.37111. . .  58.37 (rounded to hundredths)

A radian (rad) is defined as the measure of the central angle subtended by an arc of a circle equal to the
radius of the circle. (See Fig. 1.3.)

Fig. 1.3

The circumference of a circle  2(radius) and subtends an angle of 360. Then 2 radians  360; therefore

180
1 radian  p  57.296  5717r45s
p
and 1 degree  radian  0.017453 rad
180

where   3.14159.
CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications 3

7 7p # 180
EXAMPLE 1.3 (a) p rad  p  105
12 12
p 5p
(b) 50  50 # rad  rad
180 18
p p 180
(c)  rad   # p  30
6 6
p 7p
(d) 210  210 # rad   rad
180 6
(See Probs. 1.1 and 1.2.)

1.4 Arc Length

On a circle of radius r, a central angle of  radians, Fig. 1.4, intercepts an arc of length

s  ru

that is, arc length  radius  central angle in radians.

(NOTE: s and r may be measured in any convenient unit of length, but they must be expressed in the same unit.)

Fig. 1.4

1
EXAMPLE 1.4 (a) On a circle of radius 30 in, the length of the arc intercepted by a central angle of 3 rad is

s  r u  30 A 3 B  10 in
1

(b) On the same circle a central angle of 50 intercepts an arc of length

5p 25p
s  r u  30a b  in
18 3

(c) On the same circle an arc of length 112 ft subtends a central angle

s 18 3
ur  rad when s and r are expressed in inches
30 5

s 3>2 3
or ur  rad when s and r are expressed in feet
5>2 5
(See Probs. 1.3–1.8.)
 4 CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications

1.5 Lengths of Arcs on a Unit Circle

The correspondence between points on a real number line and the points on a unit circle, x2  y2  1, with
its center at the origin is shown in Fig. 1.5.

Fig. 1.5

The zero (0) on the number line is matched with the point (1, 0) as shown in Fig. 1.5(a). The positive real
numbers are wrapped around the circle in a counterclockwise direction, Fig. 1.5(b), and the negative real num-
bers are wrapped around the circle in a clockwise direction, Fig. 1.5(c). Every point on the unit circle is matched
with many real numbers, both positive and negative.
The radius of a unit circle has length 1. Therefore, the circumference of the circle, given by 2r, is
2. The distance halfway around is  and the distance 1/4 the way around is /2. Each positive num-
ber is paired with the length of an arc s, and since s  r  1 .   , each real number is paired with
an angle  in radian measure. Likewise, each negative real number is paired with the negative of the
length of an arc and, therefore, with a negative angle in radian measure. Figure 1.6(a) shows points cor-
responding to positive angles, and Fig. 1.6(b) shows points corresponding to negative angles.

Fig. 1.6
CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications 5

1.6 Area of a Sector

The area K of a sector of a circle (such as the shaded part of Fig. 1.7) with radius r and central angle 
radians is

K  12r2u
1
that is, the area of a sector  2  the radius  the radius  the central angle in radians.

(NOTE: K will be measured in the square unit of area that corresponds to the length unit used to measure r.)

Fig. 1.7

EXAMPLE 1.5 For a circle of radius 30 in, the area of a sector intercepted by a central angle of 13 rad is

K  2 r2u  2(30)2 A 3 B  150 in2

1 1 1

EXAMPLE 1.6 For a circle of radius 18 cm, the area of a sector intercepted by a central angle of 50 is

5p
K  12 r2u  12(18)2  45p cm2 or 141 cm2 (rounded)
18

(NOTE: 50  5/18 rad.)

(See Probs. 1.9 and 1.10.)

1.7 Linear and Angular Velocity

Consider an object traveling at a constant velocity along a circular arc of radius r. Let s be the length of the
arc traveled in time t. Let 2 be the angle (in radian measure) corresponding to arc length s.
Linear velocity measures how fast the object travels. The linear velocity, v, of an object is computed by
arc length s
n  time  t .
Angular velocity measures how fast the angle changes. The angular velocity,  (the lower-case Greek
central angle in radians u
letter omega) of the object, is computed by v  time  t.
The relationship between the linear velocity v and the angular velocity  for an object with radius r is

v  rv

where  is measured in radians per unit of time and v is distance per unit of time.
(NOTE: v and  use the same unit of time and r and v use the same linear unit.)
 6 CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications

EXAMPLE 1.7 A bicycle with 20-in wheels is traveling down a road at 15 mi/h. Find the angular velocity of the wheel
in revolutions per minute.
Because the radius is 10 in and the angular velocity is to be in revolutions per minute (r/min), change the linear
velocity 15 mi/h to units of in/min.
mi 15 mi # 5280 ft # 12 in # 1 h in
v  15   15,840
h 1 h 1 mi 1 ft 60 min min
v 15,840 rad rad
v r   1584
10 min min
To change  to r/min, we multiply by 1/2 revolution per radian (r/rad).

rad 1584 rad # 1 r 792 r

v  1584   p or 252 r/min
min 1 min 2p rad min

EXAMPLE 1.8 A wheel that is drawn by a belt is making 1 revolution per second (r/s). If the wheel is 18 cm in
diameter, what is the linear velocity of the belt in cm/s?
r 1 2p rad
1s  #  2p rad/s
1 1 r
v  rv  9(2p)  18p cm/s or 57 cm/s

(See Probs. 1.11 to 1.15.)

SOLVED PROBLEMS

Use the directions for rounding stated on page 2.

1.1 Express each of the following angles in radian measure:
(a) 30, (b) 135, (c) 2530, (d) 422435, (e) 165.7,
(f) 3.85, (g) 205, (h) 1830, (i) 0.21
(a) 30  30(/180) rad  /6 rad or 0.5236 rad
(b) 135  135(/180) rad  3/4 rad or 2.3562 rad
(c) 2530  25.5  25.5(/180) rad  0.4451 rad
(d) 422435  42.41  42.41(/180) rad  0.7402 rad
(e) 165.7  165.7(/180) rad  2.8920 rad
(f) 3.85  3.85(/180) rad  0.0672 rad
(g) 205  (205)(/180) rad  3.5779 rad
(h) 1830  18.01  (18.01)(/180) rad  0.3143 rad
(i) 0.21  (0.21)(/180) rad  0.0037 rad

1.2 Express each of the following angles in degree measure:

(a) /3 rad, (b) 5/9 rad, (c) 2/5 rad, (d) 4/3 rad, (e) /8 rad,
(f) 2 rad, (g) 1.53 rad, (h) 3/20 rad, (i) 7 rad
(a) /3 rad  (/3)(180/)  60
(b) 5/9 rad  (5/9)(180/)  100
(c) 2/5 rad  (2/5)(180/)  72/  22.92 or 2255.2 or 225512
(d) 4/3 rad  (4/3)(180/)  240/  76.39 or 7623.4 or 762324
(e) /8 rad  (/8)(180/)  22.5 or 2230
(f) 2 rad  (2)(180/)  114.59 or 11435.4 or 1143524
(g) 1.53 rad  (1.53)(180/)  87.66 or 8739.6 or 873936
(h) 3/20 rad  (3/20)(180/)  27
(i) 7 rad  (7)(180/)  1260
CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications 7

1.3 The minute hand of a clock is 12 cm long. How far does the tip of the hand move during 20 min?
During 20 min the hand moves through an angle   120  2/3 rad and the tip of the hand moves over a
distance s  r  12(2/3)  8 cm  25.1 cm.
1.4 A central angle of a circle of radius 30 cm intercepts an arc of 6 cm. Express the central angle  in
radians and in degrees.
s 6 1
ur  rad  11.46
30 5

1.5 A railroad curve is to be laid out on a circle. What radius should be used if the track is to change
direction by 25 in a distance of 120 m?
We are finding the radius of a circle on which a central angle   25  5/36 rad intercepts an arc of
120 m. Then
s 12 864
r   p m  275 m
u 5p>36

1.6 A train is moving at the rate of 8 mi/h along a piece of circular track of radius 2500 ft. Through what
angle does it turn in 1 min?
Since 8 mi/h  8(5280)/60 ft/min  704 ft/min, the train passes over an arc of length s  704 ft in
1 min. Then   s/r  704/2500  0.2816 rad or 16.13.
1.7 Assuming the earth to be a sphere of radius 3960 mi, find the distance of a point 36N latitude from
the equator.
Since 36  /5 rad, s  r  3960(/5)  2488 mi.
1.8 Two cities 270 mi apart lie on the same meridian. Find their difference in latitude.
s 270 3
ur  rad or 354.4r
3960 44

1.9 A sector of a circle has a central angle of 50 and an area of 605 cm2. Find the radius of the circle.
K  12r2u; therefore r  22K/u.

2K 2(605) 4356
r    21386.56
Bu B (5p>18) B p
 37.2 cm

1.10 A sector of a circle has a central angle of 80 and a radius of 5 m. What is the area of the sector?

1 1 4p 50p 2
K  2r2u  2(5)2 a b  m  17.5 m2
9 9

1.11 A wheel is turning at the rate of 48 r/min. Express this angular speed in (a) r/s, (b) rad/min, and
(c) rad/s.
r 48 r # 1 min 4r
(a) 48   s
min 1 min 60 s 5
r 48 r # 2p rad  96p rad or 301.6 rad
(b) 48 
min 1 min 1 r min min
r 48 r # 1 min # 2p rad  8p rad or 5.03 rad
(c) 48 
min 1 min 60 s 1 r 5 s s

1.12 A wheel 4 ft in diameter is rotating at 80 r/min. Find the distance (in ft) traveled by a point on the rim
in 1 s, that is, the linear velocity of the point (in ft/s).
r 2p rad 8p rad
80  80a b s 
min 60 3 s
 8 CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications

Then in 1 s the wheel turns through an angle   8/3 rad and a point on the wheel will travel a distance
s  r   2(8/3) ft  16.8 ft. The linear velocity is 16.8 ft/s.

1.13 Find the diameter of a pulley which is driven at 360 r/min by a belt moving at 40 ft/s.
r 2p rad rad
360  360a b s  12p s
min 60

Then in 1 s the pulley turns through an angle   12 rad and a point on the rim travels a
distance s  40 ft.

s 40 20
d  2r  2a b  2a bft  ft  2.12 ft
u 12p 3p

1.14 A point on the rim of a turbine wheel of diameter 10 ft moves with a linear speed of 45 ft/s. Find the
rate at which the wheel turns (angular speed) in rad/s and in r/s.
In 1 s a point on the rim travels a distance s  45 ft. Then in 1 s the wheel turns through an angle   s/r 
45/5  9 rad and its angular speed is 9 rad/s.
Since 1 r  2 rad or 1 rad  1/2 r, 9 rad/s  9(1/2) r/s  1.43 r/s.

1.15 Determine the speed of the earth (in mi/s) in its course around the sun. Assume the earth’s orbit to be
a circle of radius 93,000,000 mi and 1 year  365 days.
In 365 days the earth travels a distance of 2r  2(3.14)(93,000,000) mi.
2(3.14)(93,000,000)
In 1 s it will travel a distance s  mi  18.5 mi. Its speed is 18.5 mi/s.
365(24)(60)(60)

SUPPLEMENTARY PROBLEMS

Use the directions for rounding stated on page 2.

1.16 Express each of the following in radian measure:

(a) 25, (b) 160, (c) 7530, (d) 11240, (e) 121220, (f) 18.34
Ans. (a) 5/36 or 0.4363 rad (c) 151/360 or 1.3177 rad (e) 0.2130 rad
(b) 8/9 or 2.7925 rad (d) 169/270 or 1.9664 rad (f) 0.3201 rad

1.17 Express each of the following in degree measure:

(a) /4 rad, (b) 7/10 rad, (c) 5/6 rad, (d) 1/4 rad, (e) 7/5 rad
Ans. (a) 45, (b) 126, (c) 150, (d) 141912 or 14.32, (e) 801226 or 80.21

1.18 On a circle of radius 24 in, find the length of arc subtended by a central angle of (a) 2/3 rad,
(b) 3/5 rad, (c) 75, (d) 130.
Ans. (a) 16 in, (b) 14.4 or 45.2 in, (c) 10 or 31.4 in, (d) 52/3 or 54.4 in

1.19 A circle has a radius of 30 in. How many radians are there in an angle at the center subtended by an arc of
(a) 30 in, (b) 20 in, (c) 50 in?
2
Ans. (a) 1 rad, (b) 3 rad, (c) 53 rad
CHAPTER 1 Angles and Applications 9

2
1.20 Find the radius of the circle for which an arc 15 in long subtends an angle of (a) 1 rad, (b) 3 rad, (c) 3 rad,
(d) 20, (e) 50.
Ans. (a) 15 in, (b) 22.5 in, (c) 5 in, (d) 43.0 in, (e) 17.2 in

1.21 The end of a 40-in pendulum describes an arc of 5 in. Through what angle does the pendulum swing?
1
Ans. 8 rad or 7936 or 7.16

1.22 A train is traveling at the rate 12 mi/h on a curve of radius 3000 ft. Through what angle has it turned in 1 min?
Ans. 0.352 rad or 2010 or 20.17

1.23 A curve on a railroad track consists of two circular arcs that make an S shape. The central angle of one is 20 with
radius 2500 ft and the central angle of the other is 25 with radius 3000 ft. Find the total length of the
two arcs.
Ans. 6250/9 or 2182 ft

1.24 Find the area of the sector determined by a central angle of /3 rad in a circle of diameter 32 mm.
Ans. 128/3 or 134.04 mm2

1.25 Find the central angle necessary to form a sector of area 14.6 cm2 in a circle of radius 4.85 cm.
Ans. 1.24 rad or 71.05 or 713

1.26 Find the area of the sector determined by a central angle of 100 in a circle with radius 12 cm.
Ans. 40 or 125.7 cm2

1.27 If the area of a sector of a circle is 248 m2 and the central angle is 135, find the diameter of the circle.
Ans. diameter  29.0 m

1.28 A flywheel of radius 10 cm is turning at the rate 900 r/min. How fast does a point on the rim travel in m/s?
Ans. 3 or 9.4 m/s

1.29 An automobile tire has a diameter of 30 in. How fast (r/min) does the wheel turn on the axle when the automobile
maintains a speed of 45 mi/h?
Ans. 504 r/min

1.30 In grinding certain tools the linear velocity of the grinding surface should not exceed 6000 ft/s. Find the maximum
number of revolutions per second of (a) a 12-in (diameter) emery wheel and (b) an 8-in wheel.
Ans. (a) 6000/ r/s or 1910 r/s, (b) 9000/ r/s or 2865 r/s

1.31 If an automobile wheel 78 cm in diameter rotates at 600 r/min, what is the speed of the car in km/h?
Ans. 88.2 km/h
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 Vickery began to babble as the plot spilled down into his brain in
a cloudburst of ideas: “I might take Sheila for my theme. To disguise
her decently she could be—say—Let me see—I’ve got it!—a singer!
Her voice has thrilled Covent Garden and the Metropolitan and she
marries a nice man and has some children and sings ’em little
cradle-songs. She loves them and she loves her husband, but she is
bursting with bigger song—wild, glorious song. Shall she stick to the
nursery or shall she leave her babies every now and then and give
the world a chance to hear her? Her mother-in-law and the
neighbors say, ‘The opera is immoral, the singers are immoral, the
librettos are immoral, the managers are immoral; you stay in the
nursery, except on Sundays, and then you may sing in the choir.’
“But she remembers when she sang the death-love of Isolde in
the Metropolitan with an orchestra of a hundred trying in vain to
drown her; she remembers how she climbed and climbed till she
was in heaven, and how she took five thousand people there with
her, and—Oh, you can see it! It’s Trilby without Svengali; it’s Trilby
as a mother and a wife. It’s all womankind.”
His thoughts were stampeded with the new excitement. He
picked up the play he had loved so well and worked for so hard, and
would have tossed it into the fire if Eldon’s room had not been
heated by a steam-radiator. He flung it on the floor with contempt:
“That!” and he trampled it as the critics would have trampled it
had it been laid at their feet.
“What to call my play?” he pondered, aloud. “It’s always easier
for me to write the play than select the name.” As he screwed up his
face in thought a memory came to him. “My mother told me once
that when she was a little girl in the West her father wounded a wild
swan and brought it home. She cared for it till it got well, then he
clipped one of its wings so that it could not balance itself to fly. It
grew tame and stayed about the garden, but it was always trying to
fly.
“One day my grandfather noticed that the clipped wing was
growing out and he sent a farm-hand to trim it down again. The
fellow didn’t understand how birds fly, and he clipped the long wing
down to the length of the short one. The bird walked about, trying
its pinions. It found that, short as they were, they balanced each
other.
“She walked to a high place and suddenly leaped off into the air;
my mother saw her and thought she would fall. But her wings held
her up. They beat the air and she sailed away.”
“Did she ever come back?” Eldon asked.
“She never came back. But she was a bird and didn’t belong in a
garden. A woman would come back. We used to have pigeons at
home. We clipped their wings at first, too, till they learned the cote.
Then we let them free. You could see them circling about in the sky.
Pigeons come back. I’m going to call my play ‘Clipped Wings.’ How’s
that for a title?—‘Clipped Wings’!”
Eldon was growing incandescent, too, but he advised caution:
“Be easy on the allegory, boy, or you’ll have only allegorical
audiences. Stick to the real and the real people will come to see it.
Go on and write it, and don’t forget I play the husband; I saw him
first. Don’t write a lecture, now; promise me you won’t preach or
generalize. You stick to your story of those two people, and let the
audience generalize on the way home. And don’t let your dialogue
sparkle too much. Every-day people don’t talk epigrams. Give them
every-day talk. That’s as great and twice as difficult as blank verse.
“Don’t try to sweeten the husband. Let him roar like a bull, and
everybody will understand and forgive him. I tell you the new wife
has it all her own way. She’s venturing out into new fields. The new
husband is the one I’m sorry for.
“I hate Winfield for taking Sheila off the stage, and I hate him for
keeping her away. But if I were in his place I’d do the same. I’d hate
myself, but I’d keep her. The more you think of it, the harder the
husband job is.
“The new husband of the new woman is up against the biggest
problem of the present time and of the future: what are husbands
going to do about their wives’ ambitions? What are wives going to
do about their husbands’ rights to a home? Where do the children
come in? It doesn’t do the kids much good to have ’em brought up
in a home of discontent by a broken-hearted mother raising her
daughter to go through the same tragedy. But they ought to have a
chance.
“There’s a new triangle in the drama. It’s not a question of a
lover outside; the third member is the wife’s ambition. Go to it, my
boy—and give us the story.”
Vickery stumbled from the room like a sleep-walker. The whole
play was present in his brain, as a cathedral in the imagination of an
architect.
When he came to drawing the details of the cathedral, and
figuring out the ground-plan, stresses, and strains, the roof
supports, the flying buttresses, the cost of material, and all the
infernally irreconcilable details—that was quite another thing yet.
But he plunged into it as into a brier-patch and floundered about
with a desperate enthusiasm. His health ebbed from him like ink
from his pen. His doctor ordered him to rest and to travel, and he
sought the mountains of New York for a while. But he would not
stop work. His theme dragged him along and he hoped only that his
zest for writing would not give out before the play was finished. If
afterward his life also gave out, he would not much care.
He had lost Sheila, and Sheila had lost herself. If he could find his
work, that would be something at least.
 CHAPTER L
There was a certain birch-tree on the hill behind the old Winfield
homestead.
The house itself sat well back in its ample green lawn, left
fenceless after the manner of American village lawns. In the rear of
the house there were many acres of gardens and pasture where
cattle stood about, looking in the distance like toy cows out of a
Noah’s Ark.
Beyond the pasture was the steep hill they flattered with the
name of “the mountain.” To the children it furnished an unfailing
supply of Indians, replenished as fast as they were slaughtered.
Every now and then Sheila had to be captured and tied to a tree
and danced around by little Polly and young Bret and their friends,
bedecked with feathers from dismantled dusters, brandishing
“tommyhawks” and shooting with “bonarrers.”
Just as the terrified pale-face squaw was about to be given over
to the torture the Indians would disappear, take off their feathers,
rub the war mud off their noses, and lay aside their barbarous
weapons; then arming themselves with wooden guns, they would
charge to Sheila’s rescue, fearlessly annihilating the wraiths of their
late selves.
One day when Sheila was bound to the tree she saw Bret
stealing up to watch the game. He waved gaily to her and she
nodded to him. Then the whim came to her to cease burlesquing the
familiar rôle and play it for all it was worth. She imagined herself
really one of those countless women whom the Indians captured and
subjected to torment. Perhaps some woman, the wife of a pioneer,
had once met her hideous doom in this same forest. She fancied she
saw her house in flames and Bret shot dead as he fought toward
her. She writhed and tugged at the imaginary and unyielding thongs.
She pleaded for mercy in babbling hysteria, and for a climax sent
forth one sincere scream of awful terror. If Dorothy’s mother had
heard it she would have remembered the shriek of the little Ophelia.
 Sheila noted that the redskins were silent. She looked about her
through eyes streaming with fictional tears. She saw that Bret was
plunging toward her, ashen with alarm. The neighbors’ children were
aghast and her own boy and girl petrified. Then Polly and young
Bret flung themselves on her in a frenzy of weeping sympathy.
Sheila began to laugh and Bret looked foolish. He explained:
“I thought a snake was coiled round you. Don’t do that again, in
Heaven’s name.” That night he dreamed of her cry.
It was a long while before Sheila could comfort her children and
convince them that it was all “pretend.”
After that, when they were incorrigible, she could always cow
them by threatening, “If you don’t I’ll scream.”
The children would have been glad to make little canoes from the
bark of the birch, but Sheila would not let them peel off the delicate
human-like skin. The tree meant much to her, for she and Bret had
been wont to climb up to it before there were any amateur Indians.
Bret had carved their names on it in two linked hearts.
On the lawn in front of the house there was another birch-tree. It
amused Bret to name the tree on the hill “Sheila” and the tree on
the lawn “Bret.” And the nearest approach he ever made to poetry
was to pretend that they were longing for each other. He probably
absorbed that idea from the dimly remembered lyric of the pine-tree
and the palm.
Sheila suggested that the birch from the lawn should climb up
and dwell with the lonely tree on the heights. Bret objected that he
and Sheila would never see them then, for they made few such
excursions nowadays.
It struck him as a better idea to bring “Sheila” down to “Bret.” He
decided to surprise his wife with the view of them together. He
chose a day when Sheila was to take the children to a Sunday-school
picnic. On his way to the office he spoke to the old German gardener
he had inherited from his father. When Bret told him of his
inspiration the old man (Gottlieb Hauf, his name was) shook his head
and crinkled his thin lips with the superiority of learning for
ignorance. He drawled:
 “You shouldn’t do so,” and, as if the matter were ended, bent to
snip a shrub he was manicuring.
“But I want it,” Bret insisted.
“You shouldn’t vant it,” and snipped again.
Opposition always hardened Bret. He took the shears from the
old man and stood him up. “You do as I tell you—for once.”
Gottlieb could be stubborn, too. “Und I tell you die Birke don’t
vant it. She don’t like it down here.”
“The other birch-tree is flourishing down here.”
“Dot makes nuttink out. Die Birke up dere she like vere she is.
She like plenty sun.”
“This one grows in the shade.”
“Diese Birke don’t know nuttink about sun. She alvays grows im
Schatten.”
“Well, the other one would like the shade if it had a chance. You
bring it down here.”
The old man shook his head stubbornly and reached for the
shears.
Bret was determined to have his own way. “Is it my tree or
yours?”
“She is your tree—but she don’t like. You move her, she dies.”
“Bosh! You do as you’re told.”
“All right. I move her.”
“To-day?”
“Next vinter.”
“Now!”
“Um Gotteswillen! She dies sure. Next vinter or early sprink,
maybe she has a chence, but to move her in summer—no!”
“Yes!”
“Nein doch!”
Bret choked with rage. “You move that tree to-day or you move
yourself out of here.”
Gottlieb hesitated for a long while, but he felt that he was too old
to be transplanted. Besides, that tree up there was none of his own
children. He consented with as bad grace as possible. He moved the
tree, grumbling, and doing his best for the poor thing. He took as
large a ball of earth with the roots as he could manage, but he had
to sever unnumbered tiny shoots, and the voyage down the
mountain filled him with misgivings.
When Bret came home that night the two trees stood close
together like Adam and Eve whitely saluting the sunset. Over them a
great tulip-tree towered a hundred feet in air, and all aglow with its
flowers like a titanic bridal bouquet. When the bedraggled Sheila
came back with the played-out children she was immeasurably
pleased with the thoughtfulness of the surprise.
The next morning Bret called her to the window to see how her
namesake laughed with all her leaves in the early light. The two
trees seemed to laugh together. “It’s their honeymoon,” he said.
When he left the house old Gottlieb was shaking his head over the
spectacle. Bret triumphantly cuffed him on the shoulder. “You see! I
told you it would be all right.”
“Vait once,” said Gottlieb.

A few days before this Dorothy had called on Sheila to say that
the church was getting up an open-air festival, a farewell to the
congregation about to disperse for the summer. They wanted to
borrow the Winfield lawn.
Sheila consented freely. Also, they wanted to give a kind of
masque. Masques were coming back into fashion and Vickery had
consented to toss off a little fantasy, mainly about children and
fairies, with one or two grown-ups to hold them together.
Sheila thought it an excellent idea.
Also, they wanted Sheila to play the principal part, the mother of
the children.
Sheila declined with the greatest cordiality.
Dorothy pleaded. Sheila was adamant. She would work her head
off and direct the rehearsals, she said, but she was a reformed
actress who would not backslide even for the church.
Other members of the committee and even the old parson
begged Sheila to recant, but she beamed and refused. Rehearsals
began with Dorothy as the mother and Jim’s sister Mayme as the
fairy queen. Sheila’s children and Dorothy’s and a mob of others
made up the rest of the cast, human and elfin.
Sheila worked hard, but her material was unpromising—all except
her own daughter, whom she had named after Bret’s mother and
whom she called “Polly” after her own. Little Polly displayed a
strange sincerity, a trace of the Kemble genius for pretending.
When Vickery, who came down to see his work produced and
saw little Polly, it was like seeing again the little Sheila whom he still
remembered.
He told big Sheila of it, and her eyes grew humid with
tenderness.
He said, “I wrote my first play for you—and I’d be willing to write
my last for you now if you’d act in it.”
Sheila blessed him for it as if it were a beautiful obituary for her
dead self. He did not tell her that he was writing her into his
masterpiece, that she was posing for him even now.
On the morning of the performance Miss Mayme Greeley woke
up with an attack of hay-fever in full bloom. The June flowers had
filled her with a kind of powder that went off like intermittent
skyrockets. She began to pack her trunk for immediate flight to a
pollenless clime. It looked as if she were trying to sneeze her head
into her trunk. There was no possibility of her playing the fairy
queen when her every other word was ker-choo!
Sheila saw it coming. Before the committee approached her like a
press-gang she knew that she was drafted. She knew the rôle from
having rehearsed it. Mayme’s costume would fit her, and if she did
not jump into the gap the whole affair would have to be put off.
These were not the least of the sarcasms fate was lavishing on
her that her wicked past as an actress, which had kept her under
suspicion so long, should be the means of bringing the village to her
feet; that the church should drive her back on the stage; that the
stage should be a plot of grass, that her own children should play
the leading parts, and she be cast for a “bit” in their support.
Thus it was that Sheila returned to the drama, shanghaied as a
reluctant understudy. The news of the positive appearance of the
great Mrs. Winfield—“Sheila Kemble as was, the famous star, you
know”—drew the whole town to the Winfield lawn.
The stage was a level of sward in front of the two birches, with
rhododendron-bushes for wings. The audience filled the terraces,
the porches, and even the surrounding trees.
The masque was an unimportant improvisation that Vickery had
jingled off in hours of rest from the labor of his big play, “Clipped
Wings.”
But it gained a mysterious charm from the setting. People were
so used to seeing plays in artificial light among flat, hand-painted
trees with leaves pasted on visible fishnets, that actual sunlight,
genuine grass, and trees in three dimensions seemed poetically
unreal and unknown.
The plot of the masque was not revolutionary.
Dorothy played a mother who quieted her four clamoring children
with fairy-stories at bedtime; then they dreamed that a fairy queen
visited them and transported them magically in their beds to
fairyland.
At the height of the revel a rooster cock-a-doodle-did, the fairies
scampered home, the children woke up to find themselves out in the
woods in their nighties, and they skedaddled. Curtain.
The magic transformation scene did not work, of course. The
ropes caught in the trees and Bret’s chauffeur and Gottlieb Hauf had
to get a stepladder and fuss about, while the sleeping children sat
up and the premature fairies peeked and snickered. Then the play
went on.
Bret watched the performance with the indulgent contempt one
feels for his unprofessional friends when they try to act. It puzzled
him to see how bad Dorothy was.
All she had to do was to gather her family about her and talk
them to sleep. Sheila had reminded her of this and pleaded:
“Just play yourself, my dear.”
But Dorothy had been as awkward and incorrigible as an
overgrown girl.
To the layman it would seem the simplest task on earth—to play
oneself. The acting trade knows it to be the most complex, the last
height the actor attains, if he ever attains it at all.
Bret watched Dorothy in amazement. He was too polite to say
what he thought, since Jim Greeley was at his elbow. Jim was not so
polite. He spoke for Bret when he groaned:
“Gee whiz! What’s the matter with that wife of mine? She’s put
her kids to bed a thousand times and yet you’d swear she never saw
a child in her life before. You’d swear nobody else ever did. O Lord!
Whew! I’ll get a divorce in the morning.”
The neighbors hushed him and protested with compliments as
badly read and unconvincing as Dorothy’s own lines. At last Sheila
came on, in the fairy-queen robes. Everybody knew that she was
Mrs. Winfield, and that there were no fairies, at least in Blithevale,
nowadays.
Yet somehow for the nonce one fairy at least was altogether
undeniable and natural and real. The human mother putting her
chicks to bed was the unheard-of, the unbelievable fantasm. Sheila
was convincing beyond skepticism.
At the first slow circle of her wand, and the first sound of her
easy, colloquial, yet poetic speech, there was a hush and, in one
heart-throb, a sudden belief that such things must be true, because
they were too beautiful not to be; they were infinitely lovely beyond
the cruelty of denial or the folly of resistance.
Bret’s heart began to race with pride, then to thud heavily. First
was the response to her beauty, her charm, her triumph with the
neighbors who had whispered him down because he had married an
actress. Then came the strangling clutch of remorse: What right had
he to cabin and confine that bright spirit in the little cell of his life?
Would she not vanish from his home as she vanished from the
scene? Actually, she merely walked between the rhododendron-
bushes, but it had the effect of a mystic escape.
There was great laughter when the children woke up and
scooted across the lawn in their bed-gear, but the sensation was
Sheila’s. Her ovation was overwhelming. The women of the audience
fairly attacked Bret with congratulations. They groaned, shouted,
and squealed at him:
 “Oh, your wife was wonderful! wonderful! wonderful! You must be
so proud of her!”
He accepted her tributes with a guilty feeling of embezzlement, a
feeling that the prouder he was of her the more ashamed he should
be of himself.
He studied her from a distance as she took her homage in shy
simplicity. She was happy with a certain happiness he had not seen
on her face since he last saw her taking her last curtain calls in a
theater.
Sheila was so happy that she was afraid that her joy would
bubble out of her in disgraceful childishness. With her first entrance
on the grassy “boards” she had felt again the sense of an audience
in sympathy and in subjection, the strange clasp of hands across the
footlights, even though there were no footlights. It was a double
triumph because the audience was Philistine and little accustomed to
the theater. But she could feel the pulse of all those neighbors as if
they had but one wrist and she held that under her fingers, counting
the leap and check of their one heart and making it beat as she
willed.
The ecstasy of her power was closely akin, in so different a way,
to what Samson felt when the Philistines that had rendered him
helpless called him from the prison where he did grind, to make
them sport:
“He said unto the lad that held him by the hand, Suffer me that I
may feel the pillars whereupon the house standeth that I may lean
upon them.” As he felt his strength rejoicing again in his sinews, he
prayed, “Strengthen me only this once, O God, that I may be
avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes.”
Nobody could be less like Samson than Sheila, yet in her capacity
she knew what it was to have her early powers once more restored
to her. And she bowed herself with all her might—“And the house
fell.”
An almost inconceivable joy rewarded Sheila till the final
spectator had italicized the last compliment. Then, just as Samson
was caught under his own triumph, so Sheila went down suddenly
under the ruination of her brief victory.
 She was never to act again! She was never to act again!
When Bret came slowly to her, the last of her audience, she read
in his eyes just what he felt, and he read in her eyes just what she
felt. They wrung hands in mutual adoration and mutual torment. But
all they said was:
“You were never so beautiful! You never acted so well!” and “If
you liked me, that’s all I want.”

The next morning Bret woke to a new and busy day after a night
of perfect oblivion. Sheila did not get up, as her new habit was, but
she reverted to type. She said that she had not slept and Bret urged
her to stay where she was till she was rested.
Later, as he was knotting his tie, he glanced from the window as
usual at the birches whose wedding he was so proud of. His hands
paused at his throat and his fingers stiffened. He called, “Sheila!
Sheila! Come look!”
He forgot that she had not risen with him. She lifted herself
heavily from her pillow and came slowly to his side. She brushed
back her heavy hair from her heavy eyes and said, “What is it?”
“Look at the difference in the birches. ‘Bret’ is bright and fine and
every leaf is shining. But look at ‘Sheila’!”
The Sheila tree seemed to have died in the night. The leaves
drooped, shriveled, turning their dull sides outward on the black
branches. The wind, that made the other tree glisten like breeze-
shaken water, sent only a mournful shudder through her listless
foliage.
 CHAPTER LI
Bret turned with anxious, almost with superstitious query to
Sheila. He found her wan and tremulous and weirdly aged. He cried
out: “Sheila! What’s the matter? You’re ill!”
She tried to smile away his fears: “I had a bad night. I’m all
right.”
But she leaned on him, and when he led her back to bed she fell
into her place like a broken tree. She was stricken with a chill and he
bundled the covers about her, spread the extra blankets over her,
and held her in his arms, but the lips he kissed shivered and were
gray.
He was in a panic and begged her to let him send for the doctor,
but she reiterated through her chattering teeth that she was “all
right.” When he offered to stay home from the office she ridiculed
his fears and insisted that all she needed was sleep.
He left her anxiously, and came home to luncheon earlier than
usual. He did not find Sheila on the steps to greet him. She was not
in the hall. He asked little Polly where her mother was, and she said:
“Mamma’s sick. She’s been crying all day.”
“No, I haven’t,” said Sheila; “I’m all right.”
She was coming down the stairs; she was bravely dressed and
smiling bravely, but she depended on the banister, and she almost
toppled into Bret’s arms.
He kissed her with terror, demanding: “What’s the matter, honey?
Please, please tell me what’s the matter.”
But she repeated her old refrain: “Why, I’m all right, honey! I’m
perfectly all right!”
But she was not. She was broken in spirit and her nerves were in
shreds.
Though she sat in her place at table, Bret saw that she was only
pretending to eat. Dinner was the same story. And there was
another bad night and a haggard morning.
 Bret sent for the doctor in spite of her. He found only a general
constitutional depression, or, as Bret put it, “Nothing is wrong except
everything.”
A week or two of the usual efforts with tonics brought no
improvement. Meanwhile the doctor had asked a good many
questions. It struck him at last that Sheila was suffering from the
increasingly common malady of too much nervous energy with no
work to expend it on. She must get herself interested in something.
Perhaps a change would be good, a long voyage. Bret urged a trip
abroad. He would leave the factory and go with her. Sheila did not
want to travel, and she reminded him of the vital importance of his
business duties. He admitted the truth of this and offered to let her
go without him. She refused.
The doctor advised her to take up some active occupation. Bret
suggested water-colors, authorship, pottery, piano-playing, the harp,
vocal lessons—Sheila had an ear for music and sang very well, for
one who did not sing. Sheila waved the suggestions aside one by
one.
Bret and the doctor hinted at charity work. It is necessary to
confess that the idea did not fascinate Sheila. She had the actor’s
instinct and plenteous sympathy, and had always been ready to give
herself gratis to those benefit performances with which theatrical
people are so generous, and whose charity should cover a multitude
of their sins. But charity as a job! Sheila did not feel that going
about among the sick and poverty stricken people would cheer her
up especially.
The doctor as his last resort suggested a hobby of his own—he
suggested that Sheila take up the art of hammering brass. He had
found that it worked wonders with some of his patients.
Sheila, not knowing that it was the doctor’s favorite vice and that
his home was full of it, protested: “Hammered brass! But where
would I hide it when I finished it? No, thank you!”
She said the same to every other proposal. You can lead a
woman to an industry, but you cannot make her take it up. Still Bret
agreed with the doctor that idleness was Sheila’s chief ailment.
There was an abundance of things to do in the world, but Sheila did
not want to do them. They were not to her nature. Forcing them on
her was like offering a banquet to a fish. Sheila needed only to be
put back in the water; then she would provide her own banquet.
Bret gave up trying to find occupations for her. The summer did
not retrieve her strength as he hoped. She tired of beaches and
mountains and family visitations.
In Bret’s baffled anxiety he thought perhaps it was himself she
was so sick of; that love had decayed. But Sheila kept refuting this
theory by her tempests of devotion.
He knew better than the doctor did, better than he would admit
to himself, what was the matter with her. She wanted to go on the
stage, and he could not bear the thought of it. Neither could he bear
the thought of her melancholia.
If Sheila had stormed, complained, demanded her freedom he
could have put up a first-class battle. But he could not fight the poor,
meek sweetheart whose only defense was the terrible weapon of
reticence, any more than he could fight the birch-tree that he had
brought from its native soil.
The Sheila tree made a hard struggle for existence, but it grew
shabbier and sicker, while the Bret tree, flourishing and growing,
offered her every encouragement to prosper where she was. But she
could not prosper.
One evening when Bret came home, nagged out with factory
annoyances, he saw old Gottlieb patting the trunk of the Sheila tree
and shaking his head over it. Bret went to him and asked if there
were any hope.
There were tears in Gottlieb’s eyes. He scraped them off with his
wrist-bone and sighed:
“Die arme schöne Birke. Ain’t I told you she don’t like? She goink
die. She goink die.”
“Take her back to the sunlight, then,” said Bret.
But Gottlieb shook his head. “Jetzt ist’s all zu spät. She goink
die.”
Bret hurried on to the house, carrying a load of guilt. Sheila was
lying on a chair on the piazza. She did not rise and run to him. Just
to lift her hand to his seemed to be all that she could achieve. When
he dropped to his knee and embraced her she seemed uncannily
frail.
The servant announcing dinner found him there.
Bret said to Sheila, “Shall I carry you in?”
She declined the ride and the dinner.
Bret urged, “But you didn’t eat anything for lunch.”
“Didn’t I? Well, no matter.”
He stared at her, and Gottlieb’s words came back to him. The two
Sheilas would perish together. He had taken them both from the soil
where they had first taken root. Neither of them could adapt herself
to the new soil. It was too late to restore the birch to its old home.
Was it too late to save Sheila?
He would not trust the Blithevale fogies longer. She should have
the best physician on earth. If he were in New York, well and good;
if he lived in Europe, they would hunt him down. Craftily he said to
Sheila:
“How would you like to take a little jaunt to New York?”
“No, thanks.”
“With me. I’ve got to go.”
“I’m sorry I can’t; but it will be a change for you.”
“I’ll be lonely without you.”
“Not in New York,” she laughed.
“In heaven,” he said, and the extravagance pleased her. He took
courage from her smile and pleaded: “Come along. You can buy a
raft of new clothes.”
She shook her head even at that!
“You could see a lot of new plays.”
This seemed to waken the first hint of appetite. She whispered,
“All right; I’ll go.”
 CHAPTER LII
Paris fashions rarely get a good word from men or a bad word
from women. The satirists and the clergy and native dressmakers
who do not import have delivered tirades in all languages against
them for centuries. They are still giving delight and refreshment
from the harems on the Bosporus to the cottages on the Pacific and
the rest of the way around the world.
The doctors have not seemed to recognize their medicinal value.
They recommend equally or even more expensive changes of
occupation or of climate which work a gradual improvement at best
in the condition of a failing woman.
But for instant tonic and restorative virtue there is nothing to
match the external application of a fresh Paris gown. For mild
attacks a Paris hat may work, and where only domestic wares are
obtainable they sometimes help, if fresh. For desperate cases both
hat and gown are indicated.
Mustard plasters, electric shocks, strychnia, and other remedies
have nothing like the same potency. The effect is instantaneous, and
the patient is not only brought back to life, but stimulated to exert
herself to live up to the gown. Husbands or guardians should be
excluded during the treatment, as the reaction of Paris gowns on
male relatives is apt to cause prostration. There need be no fear,
however, of overdosing women patients.
As a final test of mortality, the Paris gown has been strangely
overlooked. Holding mirrors before the lips, lifting the hands to the
light, and like methods sometimes fail of certainty. If, however, a
Paris gown be held in front of the woman in question, and the words
“Here is the very newest thing from Paris just smuggled in” be
spoken in a loud voice, and no sign of an effort to sit up is made,
she is dead, and no doubt of it.
Bret had decoyed Sheila to New York with an elaborate story of
having to go on business and hating to go alone. When they arrived
she was so weak that Bret wanted to send a red-cap for a wheeled
chair to carry her from the train to the taxicab. Her pride refused,
but her strength barely sufficed the distance.
Bret chose the Plaza for their hotel, since it required a ride up
Fifth Avenue. His choice was justified by the interest Sheila displayed
in the shop windows. She tried to see both sides of the street at
once.
She was as excited as a child at Coney Island. She astounded
Bret by gifts of observation that would have appalled an Indian
scout.
After one fleeting glance at a window full of gowns she could
describe each of them with a wealth of detail that dazzled him and a
technical terminology that left him in perfect ignorance.
At the hotel she displayed unsuspected vigor. She needed little
persuasion to spend the afternoon shopping. He was afraid that she
might faint if she went alone, and he insisted that his own
appointments were for the next day.
He followed her on a long scout through a tropical jungle of
dressmakers’ shops more brilliant than an orchid forest. Sheila
clapped her hands in ecstasy after ecstasy. She insisted on trying
things on and did not waver when she had to stand for long periods
while the fitters fluttered about her. She promenaded and preened
like a bird-of-paradise at the mating season. She was again the
responsive, jocund Sheila of their own seaside mating period.
She found one audacious gown and a more audacious hat that
suited her and each other without alterations. And since Bret urged
it, she let him buy them for her to wear that night at the theater.
She made appointments for further fittings next day.
On the way to the hotel she tried to be sober long enough to
reproach herself for her various expenditures, but Bret said:
“I’d mortgage the factory to the hilt for anything that would bring
back that look to your face—and keep it there.”
At the hotel they discussed what play they should see. The ticket
agent advised the newest success, “Twilight,” but Sheila knew that
Floyd Eldon was featured in the cast and she did not want to cause
Bret any discomfort. She voted for “Breakers Ahead” at the Odeon,
though she knew that Dulcie Ormerod was in it. Dulcie was now
established on Broadway, to the delight of the large rural-minded
element that exists in every city.
Bret bought a box for the sake of the new gown. It took Sheila
an age to get into it after dinner, but Bret told her it was time well
spent. When they reached the theater the first act was well along,
and in the otherwise deserted lobby Reben was talking to Starr
Coleman concerning a learned interview he was writing for Dulcie.
Both stared at the sumptuous Delilah floating in at the side of
Bret Winfield. They did not recognize either Bret or Sheila till Sheila
was almost past them. Then they leaped to attention and called her
by name.
All four exchanged greetings with cordiality. Time had blurred the
old grudges. The admiration in the eyes of both Reben and Coleman
reassured Sheila more than all the compliments they lavished.
Reben ended a speech of Oriental floweriness with a gracious
implication: “You are coming in at the wrong door of the theater.
This is the entrance for the sheep. The artists—Ah, if we had you
back there now!”
Bret whitened and Sheila flushed. Then they moved on. Reben
called after her, laughingly:
“I’ve got that contract in the safe yet.”
It was a random shot, but the arrow struck. When the Winfields
had gone on Reben said to Coleman:
“She’s still beautiful—she is only now beautiful.”
Coleman, whose enthusiasms were exhausted on his typewriting
machine, agreed, cautiously: “Ye-es, but she’s aged a good deal.”
Reben frowned. “So you could say of a rosebud that has
bloomed. She was pretty then and clever and sweet, but only a
young thing that didn’t know half as much as she thought she did.
Now she has loved and suffered and she has had children and seen
death maybe, and she has cried a lot in the night. Now she is a
woman. She has the tragic mask, and I bet she could act—my God! I
know she could act—if that fellow didn’t prevent.”
“Fellow” was not the expression he used. Reben abhorred Bret
even more than Bret him.
 Once more Sheila was in the Odeon, but as one of the laity.
When she entered the dark auditorium her eyes rejoiced at the
huge, dusty, gold arch of the proscenium framing the deep brilliant
canvas where the figures moved and spoke. It was a finer sight to
her than any sunset or seascape or any of the works of mere nature,
for they just happened; these canvas rocks and cloth flowers were
made to fit a story. She preferred the human to the divine, and the
theatrical to the real.
The play was good, the company worthy of the Odeon traditions.
Even Dulcie was not bad, for Reben had subtly cast her as herself
without telling her so. She played the phases of her personality that
everybody recognized but Dulcie. The play was a comedy written by
a gentle satirist with a passion for making a portrait of his own
times. The character Dulcie enacted was that of a pretty and well-
meaning girl of a telephonic past married into a group of snobs,
through having fascinated a rich man with her cheerful voice. Dulcie
could play innocence and amiability, for she was not intelligent
enough to be anything but innocent, even in her vices, and she
usually meant well even when she did her worst.
The author had selected Dulcie as his ideal for the rôle, but he
had been at a loss how to tell her to play herself without hurting her
feelings. She saved him by asking:
“Say, listen, should I play this part plebean or real refined?”
He hastened to answer, “Play it real refined.”
And she did. She was delicious to those who understood; and to
those who didn’t she was admirable. Thus everybody was pleased.
Sheila would have enjoyed the rôle as a tour de force, or what
she called a stunt, of character-playing. But she was glad that she
was not playing it. She felt immortal longings in her for something
less trivial than this quaint social photograph; something more
earnest than any light satire.
She did not want to play that play, but she wanted to play—she
smoldered with ambition. Her eyes reveled in the splendor of the
theater, the well-groomed informality of the audience so eager to be
swayed, in the boundless opportunity to feed the hungry people with
the art of life. She felt at home. This was her native land. She
breathed it all in with an almost voluptuous sense of well-being.
Bret, eying her instead of the stage, caught that contentment in
her deep breathing, the alertness of her very nostrils relishing the
atmosphere, the vivacity of her eager eyes. And his heart told him
what her heart told her, that this was where she belonged.
He leaned close to her and whispered, “Don’t you wish you were
up there?”
She heard the little clang of jealousy in his mournful tone, and
for his sake she answered, “Not in the least.”
He knew that she lied, and why. He loved her for her love of him,
but he felt lonely.
Dulcie did not send for Sheila to come back after the play.
Broadway stars are busy people, with many suppliants for their time.
Dulcie had no time for ancient history.
Sheila was glad to be spared, but did not misunderstand the
reason. As she walked out with the audience she did not feel the
aristocracy of her wealth and her leisure. She wanted to be back
there in her dressing-room, smearing her features into a mess with
cold-cream and recovering her every-day face from her workaday
mask.
Bret and she supped in the grand manner, and Sheila had plenty
of stares for her beauty. But she could see that nobody knew her.
Nobody whispered: “That’s Sheila Kemble. Look! Did you see her in
her last play?” It was not a mere hunger for notoriety that made her
regret anonymity; it was the artist’s legitimate need of recognition
for his work.
She went back to the hotel and took off her fine plumage. It had
lost most of its warmth for her. She had not earned it with her own
success. It was the gift of a man who loved her body and soul, but
hated her mind.
Sheila was very woman, and one Paris gown and the prospect of
more had lifted her from the depths to the heights. But she was an
ambitious woman, and clothes alone were not enough to sustain her.
In her situation they were but gilding on her shackles. The more
gorgeously she was robed the more restless she was. She was in the
tragi-comic plight of the man in the doleful song, “All dressed up and
no place to go!”
Fatigue enveloped her, but it was the fag of idleness that has
seen another day go by empty, and views ahead an endless series of
empty days like a freight-train.
She tried to comfort Bret’s anxiety with boasts of how well she
was, but she fell back on the pitiful refrain, “I’m all right.” If she had
been all right she would not have said so; she would not have had to
say so.
Both lay awake and both pretended to be asleep. In the two
small heads lying as motionless on the pillows as melons their brains
were busy as ant-hills after a storm. Eventually both fell into that
mysterious state called sleep, yet neither brain ceased its civil war.
Bret was wakened from a bitter dream of a broken home by
Sheila’s stifled cry. He spoke to her and she mumbled in her
nightmare. He listened keenly and made out the words:
“Bret, Bret, don’t leave me. I’ll die if I don’t act. I love you, I love
my children. I’ll take them with me. I’ll come home to you. Don’t
hate me. I love you.”
Her voice sank into incoherence and then into silence, but he
could tell by the twitching of her body and the clutching of her
fingers that she was still battling against his prejudice.
He wrapped her in his arms and she woke a little, but only
enough to murmur a word of love; then she sank back into sleep like
a drowning woman who has slipped from her rescuer’s grasp.
He fell asleep again, too, but the daybreak wakened him. He
opened his eyes and saw Sheila standing at the window and gazing
at her beloved city, her Canaan which she could see but not possess.
She shook her head despairingly and it reminded him of the old
gardener’s farewell to the birch-tree that must die.
She looked so eery there in the mystic dawn; her gown was so
fleecy and her body so frail that she seemed almost translucent,
already more spirit than flesh. She seemed like the ghost, the soul of
herself departed from the flesh and about to take flight.
Bret thought of her as dead. It came to him suddenly with
terrifying clarity that she was very near to death; that she could not
live long in the prison of his love.
He was the typical American husband who hates tyranny so
much that he would rather yield to his wife’s tyranny than subject
her to his own. He took no pride in the thought of sacrificing any
one on the altar of his self, and least of all did he want Sheila’s
bleeding heart laid out there.
The morning seemed to have solved the perplexities of the night;
chill and gray, it gave the chill, gray counsel: “She will die if you do
not return her where you found her.” He vowed the high resolve that
Sheila should be replaced upon the stage.
The pain of this decision was so sharp that when she crept back
to bed he did not dare to announce it. He was afraid to speak, so he
let her think him asleep.
That morning Sheila was ill again, old again, and jaded with
discontent. He reminded her of her appointments with the
dressmakers, but she said that she would put them off—or, better
yet, she would cancel the orders.
He had their breakfast brought to the room, and he chose the
most tempting luxuries he could find on the bill of fare. Nothing
interested her. He suggested a drive in the Park. She was too tired to
get up.
Suddenly he looked at his watch, snapped it shut, rose, said that
he was late for his conference. She asked him what time it was, and
he did not know till he looked at his watch again. He kissed her and
left her, saying that he would lunch down-town.
 CHAPTER LIII
Though there was a telephone in their rooms, Bret went down to
the public booths. He remembered Eugene Vickery’s tirade about the
crime of Sheila’s idleness. He telephoned to Vickery’s apartments
and told Vickery that he must see him at once. Vickery answered:
“Sorry I can’t ask you up or come to where you are this morning,
but the fact is I’m at the last revision of my new play and I can’t
leave it while it’s on the fire. Meet me at the Vagabonds Club and
we’ll have lunch, eh?—say, at half past twelve.”
Bret reached the club a little before the hour. Vickery had not
come. The hall captain ushered Bret into the waiting-room. He sat
there feeling a hopeless outsider. “The Vagabonds” was made up
chiefly of actors. From where he sat he could see them coming and
going. He studied them as one looking down into a pool to see how
curious fish behave or misbehave. They hailed each other with a
simple cordiality that amazed him. The spirit was rather that of a
fraternity chapter-house than of a city club, where every man’s chair
is his castle. Everything was without pose; nearly everybody called
nearly everybody by his first name. There were evidences of
prosperity among them. Through the window he could see actors,
whose faces were familiar even to him, roll up in their own
automobiles.
At one o’clock Vickery had not come, and a friend of Bret’s,
named Crashaw, who had grown wealthy in the steel business,
caught sight of Bret and took him under his wing, registered him in
the guest-book and led him to the cocktail desk. Then Crashaw
urged him to wait for the uncertain Vickery no longer, but to lunch
with him. Bret declined, but sat with him while he ate.
Bret, still looking for proof that actors were not like other people,
asked Crashaw what the devil he was doing in that galley.
“It’s my pet club,” said Crashaw, “and I belong to a dozen of the
best. It’s the most prosperous and the most densely populated club
in town, and the only one where a man can always find somebody in
a cheerful humor at any hour of the day or night, and I like it best
because it’s the only club where people aren’t always acting.”
“What!” Bret exclaimed.
“I mean it,” said Crashaw. “In the other clubs the millionaire is
always playing rich, the society man always at his lah-de-dah, the
engineer or the painter or the athlete is always posing. But these
fellows know all about acting and they don’t permit it here. So that
forces them to be natural. It’s the warmest-hearted, gayest-hearted,
most human, clubbiest club in town, and you ought to belong.”
Bret gasped at the thought and rather suspected Crashaw than
absolved the club.
Bret was introduced to various members, and even his suspicious
mind could not tell which were actors and which business men, for
there are as many types of actor as there are types of mankind, and
as many grades of prosperity, industry, and virtue.
Some of the clubmen joined Bret’s group, and he was finally
persuaded to give Vickery up for lost and eat his luncheon with an
eminent tragedian who told uproarious stories, and the very buffoon
who had conquered him at the benefit in the Metropolitan Opera
House. The buffoon had an attack of the blues, but it yielded to the
hilarity of the tragedian, and he departed recharged with electricity
for his matinée, where he would coerce another mob into a state of
rapture.
It suddenly came over Bret that this club of actors was as
benevolent an institution in its own way as any monastery. Even the
triumphs of players, which they were not encouraged to recount in
this sanctuary, were triumphs of humanity. When an actor boasts
how he “killed ’em in Waco” it does not mean that he shot anybody,
took anybody’s money away, or robbed any one of his pride or
health; it means that he made a lot of people laugh or thrilled them
or persuaded them to salubrious tears. It is the conceit of a
benefactor bragging of his philanthropies. Surely as amiable an
egotism as could be!
Bret was now in the frame of mind that Sheila was born in. He
felt that the stage did a noble work and therefore conferred a
nobility upon its people.
All this he was mulling over in the back of his head while he was
listening to anecdotes that brought the tears of laughter to his eyes.
He needed the laughter; it washed his bitter heart clean as a
sheep’s. Most of the stories were strictly men’s stories, but those
abound wherever men gather together. The difference was that
these were better told.
Gradually the clatter decreased; the crowd thinned out. It was
Wednesday and many of the actors had matinées; the business men
went back to their offices. Still no Vickery.
By and by only a few members were left in the grill-room.
Bret had laughed himself solemn; now he was about to be
deserted. Vickery had failed him, and he must return to that doleful,
heartbroken Sheila with no word of help for her.
He had come forth to seek a way to compel her to return to the
stage as a refuge from the creeping paralysis that was extinguishing
her life. He hated the cure, but preferred it to Sheila’s destruction.
Now he was persuaded that the cure was honorable, but beyond his
reach. He had heard many stories of the hard times upon the stage,
and of the unusual army of idle actors and actresses, and he was
afraid that there would be no place for Sheila even though he was
himself ready to release her.
Crashaw rose at length and said: “Sorry, old man, but I’ve got to
run. Before I go, though, I’d like to show you the club. You can
choose your own spot and wait for Vickery.”
He led Bret from place to place, pointing out the portraits of
famous actors and authors, the landscapes contributed by artist
members, the trophies of war presented by members from the army
and navy, the cups put up for fearless combatants about the pool-
tables. He gave him a glimpse of the theater, where, as in a
laboratory, experiments in drama and farce and musical comedy
were made under ideal conditions before an expert audience.
Last he took him to the library. It was deserted save by
somebody in a great chair which hid all but his feet and the hand
that held a big volume of old plays. Crashaw went forward to see
who it was. He exclaimed:
 “What are you doing here, you loafer? Haven’t you a matinée to-
day?”
A voice that sounded familiar to Bret answered, “Ours is
Thursday.”
“Fine. Then you can take care of a friend of mine who’s waiting
for Vickery.”
The voice answered as the man rose: “Certainly. Any friend of
Vickery’s—” Crashaw said:
“Mr. Winfield, you ought to know Mr. Floyd Eldon. Famous
weighing-machine, shake hands with famous talking-machine.”
The two men shook hands because Crashaw asked them to. He
left them with a hasty “So long!” and hurried to the elevator.

It is a curious contact, the hand-clasp of two hostile men. It has

something of the ritual value of the grip that precedes a prize-fight
to the finish.
Once Bret’s and Eldon’s hands were joined, it was not easy to
sever them. There was a kind of insult in being the first to relinquish
the pressure. They looked at each other stupidly, like two school-
boys who have quarreled. Neither could say a harsh word or feel a
kind one. They had either to fight or to laugh.
Eldon was more used than Bret to speaking quickly in an
emergency. He ended what he would have called a “stage wait” by
lifting his left hand to his jaw, rubbing it, and smiling.
“It’s some time since we met.”
“Nearly five years, I guess,” said Bret, and returned the
compliment by rubbing his own jaw.
“We meet every few years,” said Eldon. “I believe it’s my turn to
slug now.”
“It is,” said Bret. “Go on. I’ve found that I didn’t owe you that last
one. I misunderstood. I apologize.” Bret said this not because of any
feeling of cordiality, but because he believed it especially important
not to be dishonest to an enemy.
Eldon, with equal punctilio and no more affection, answered: “I
imagine the offense was outlawed years ago. I never knew what the
cause of your anger was, but I’m glad if you know it wasn’t true.”
 Silence fell upon them. Bret was wondering whether he ought to
describe the injustice he had done Eldon. Eldon was debating
whether it would be more conspicuous to ask about Sheila or to
avoid asking about her. Finally he took a chance:
“And how is Mrs. Winfield?”
The question cleared the air magically. Bret said, “Oh, she’s well,
thank you, very well—that is, no, she’s not well at all.”
Bret had attempted a concealment of his cross, but the truth
leapt out of him. Eldon was politely solicitous:
“Oh, I am sorry! Very sorry! She’s not seriously ill, I hope.”
“She’s worse than ill. I’m worried to death!”
Eldon’s alarm was genuine. “What a pity! Have you been to see a
specialist? What seems to be the trouble?”
“She’s pining away. She—I think I made a mistake in taking her
off the stage. I think she ought to be at work again.”
Eldon was as astounded at hearing this from Winfield as Bret at
hearing himself say it. But Bret was in a panic of fear for Sheila’s
very life and he had to tell some one. Once he had betrayed himself
so far, he was driven on:
“She won’t admit it. She’s trying to fight off the longing. But the
battle is wearing her out. You see, we have two children. We have
no quarrel with each other. We’re happy—ideally happy together. She
feels that she ought to be contented. She insists that she is. But—
well, she isn’t, that’s all. I’ve tried everything, but I believe that the
only hope of saving her is to get her back where she belongs.
Idleness is killing her.”
Eldon hid in his heart any feeling that might have surged up of
disprized love finding itself vindicated. His thoughts were solemn and
he spoke with earnestness:
“I believe you are right. You must know. I can quite understand.
People laugh a good deal at actresses who come back after leaving
the stage. They think it is a kind of craze for excitement. But it is
better than that. The stage is still the only place where a woman’s
individuality is recognized and where she can be really herself.
“Sheila—er—Miss Kemble—pardon me—Mrs. Winfield has the
theater in her blood, of course. Almost all the Kemble women have
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