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diff --git a/old/60950-0.txt b/old/60950-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ac7fa6a..0000000 --- a/old/60950-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,11350 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Footlights, by Rita Weiman - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Footlights - - -Author: Rita Weiman - - - -Release Date: December 18, 2019 [eBook #60950] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOOTLIGHTS*** - - -E-text prepared by Tim Lindell, David Wilson, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/footlights00weim - - - - - -FOOTLIGHTS - -by - -RITA WEIMAN - - -[Publisher’s device] - - - - - - -New York -Dodd, Mead and Company -1923 - -Copyright, 1919, 1920, 1921, 1922 -by Rita Weiman - -Printed in U. S. A. - - - - - _To_ - MY MOTHER - _on whose love and influence - the curtain will never fall._ - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE - The Curtain Rises ix - - Footlights 3 - - Madame Peacock 67 - - Grease-Paint 127 - - The Back Drop 169 - - Two Masters 219 - - Up Stage 249 - - Curtain! 289 - - The Curtain Falls 341 - - - - -THE CURTAIN RISES - - -Arched like the dome of heaven, illumined with a glow not brilliant -but warm and intimate, carpeted with velvet that gives gently to the -tread of many feet, the air vaguely scented with a perfume that has no -name, row upon row of wide, soft-armed chairs facing a curtain that -falls in long, mysterious folds—silent, expectant, tantalizing, -inviting—a world all its own—THE THEATER. - -Behind that curtain—the same world bounded by brick walls. Scenery -with act numbers scrawled in charcoal across its back being shoved -into place, hustling property men, frantic stage manager, nervous -director giving last minute husky orders, anxiously repeated lines -and cues, the final touches of make-up, restive feet striding -dressing-room floors. There is the murmur of hushed voices, its -excited undercurrent like a rising chant, the tremulo of uncertainty, -the eager activity of that suspended moment of waiting for the curtain -to lift. - -Actors and audience—they must for a few brief hours change places if -this world made for forgetfulness, this house of dreams is to realize -its unwritten law:—“Abandon care, all ye who enter here:” The spirit -of the theater lays magic fingers over tired eyes. The audience steps -across the footlights and becomes the actor, throbs to his emotions, -sheds his tears, tingles with his laughter. The actor must step across -the footlights and become the audience, feel his pulse beat, sense his -pleasure or disapproval, know his reaction. - -And in proportion to the measure with which each becomes the other, -the enthusiasm with which the audience acts, the keenness with which -the actor observes, the play lives. The house of dreams is alight! -But if either should fail—and if one fail, it is because the other -does—then the play is phantom. A stalking ghost walks the boards. The -house of dreams goes dark! - - - - -FOOTLIGHTS - -_SATIRE_ - - -The Romance of yesterday is the Satire of to-morrow. Juliet to-day -would be a lovesick flapper. We’d regard with tongue in cheek her -moonings to the moon. There is such a fine line between the smile of -sympathy and the smile of sophistication, that the author confesses -she is still in doubt which the heroine of “Footlights” will call -forth—if either. - - - - -FOOTLIGHTS - -CHAPTER I - - -Have you ever been in a small town, small time vaudeville house? Well, -even if you have, and could live through it, you’ve probably never -seen that mysterious region known as “backstage.” You’ve never heard -warped boards creak under the lightest step. You’ve never stood in the -wings waiting for your turn, trying to escape the draught that is -everywhere, shivering but afraid to sneeze. You’ve never dodged -misdirected tobacco juice. You’ve never endured the composite odors -only a one time “opery-house,” sometime warehouse, another time -stable, can produce. You’ve never done your three a day, rain, shine -or blizzard, then rushed to catch a local with oil lamps swinging -weirdly overhead and a jerky halt at every peach tree. But most of -all, if you’re a woman, you’ve never known what it is to sit weeping -in a pea-green walled dressing-room because you chose to do the darn -thing yourself and won’t go back home and admit you’re beaten. - -If any one of these experiences had been yours, you’d probably walk -straight into the pea-green dressing-room referred to, pat Elizabeth -Parsons on the shoulder and say, “I’m with you, old girl! It’s a -black, black world. No sunshine anywhere! Never was, never will be!” - -As it happened, those in her world at the moment were not of her -world. They were a hardened lot, with hands ready to dig down and -share a copper with a pal, with glib greeting in their own peculiar -patois as they swung through the stage entrance, but inured to -creaking boards, to combined odors, to oaths and tobacco juice and icy -currents that gripped more sensitive shoulders like the hand of death. -Life had handed them a deal that wasn’t exactly square, perhaps. -Almost any of them would have been a knock-out on Broadway! But they -had reached the point where emotion, as well as indignation, expressed -itself in shrugs. - -They could snore peacefully in a swaying day-coach, dreaming of the -hour when the flower of success would spring up by the wayside. So -Elizabeth Parsons wept alone. Her make-up boxes reeled in every -direction as her head went down in their midst. Her hands, pressed -against her lips, tried to still the sobs she knew were cowardly. Her -body shook with that least beautiful of human emotions, self-pity, and -she wished she were dead. - -A gale of sleet and snow tore against her little alley window. It -rattled the single pane furiously. It forced its way through cracks -and dripped into pools of water on the stone floor. It blurred the -already dull electric globes round her dressing-table with a dank mist -and soaked a chill into her bones. But it had nothing whatever to do -with her tears. They were the result of an accumulation of misery and -loneliness, and finally the receipt of a wire from her booking agent -advising her that her route had been changed. For the next three days -she must play her own home town. - -It was the crowning humiliation! She had endured the disappointment of -all the rest of it; but to go back to the barnlike old theater in Main -Street, wedged between movies and tinsel acrobats, was too much. To -hear the wagging tongues and see the wagging heads of those who had -warned her two years ago that New York was a pit of the devil; to let -them see that even his satanic majesty had let her sink into oblivion, -was more than she could bear. - -From the stage at the foot of the iron stairs came a crashing chord -and the voice of Jack Halloran, “The Funniest Man in the World,” -singing a nasal travesty:— - - “Oh, Rigoletto—give me a stiletto!” - -Elizabeth raised her head, mopped away the tears, and rearranged her -make-up. Her turn was next but one. - - “BETTY PARSONS—FAMOUS IMITATOR OF - FAMOUS STARS - STRAIGHT FROM BROADWAY.” - -So proclaimed the announcements that accompanied her pictures outside -the theater. They always made Elizabeth smile. She had certainly come -from Broadway—straight. - -She brushed back her soft brown hair, pinned a towel round it, laid on -a layer of grease-paint. A supply was needed to blot out traces of the -last bad half hour. She beaded the lashes, penciled black shadows -under them that made her gray eyes look green, and carmined her lips -so that the slightly austere New England lines of them softened into -luscious curves. - -In the midst of transforming a primrose into an orchid, and with -thoughts still fastened on the dreaded to-morrow, she did not hear the -knock on her door. It was repeated. Turning, she saw a white square -of paper shoved through the crack. She picked it up wonderingly. -Communications from any one but her agent were almost unknown -quantities. - - Dear Lizzie Parsons (she read), - - I’m outside of the door waiting to come in and say hello. - - Your old friend, - Lou Seabury. - -In spite of her dread, in spite of her determination to die rather -than face home folks, she dropped her powder puff, made one bound for -the door, flung it wide. - -“Oh, Rigoletti—give me a yard of spaghetti,” warbled Halloran from -below. - -With a little checked cry, Elizabeth reached out both hands. A plump, -pink cheeked young man took them and somewhat diffidently stepped into -the little square of room. But Elizabeth clung to him shamelessly and -her voice caught when she tried to speak. He was the first link -between two years of loneliness and the yesterdays of happy childhood. - -“Lou,” came at last, “Lou Seabury!” - -“I got a nerve, haven’t I,—walkin’ in on you like this?” - -His pink face flushed a deeper pink as she pulled the chair from the -dressing-table, thrust him into it, and stood looking down. “You’re -just an angel from heaven, that’s what you are! How ever in the world -did you find me?” - -“I came over here yesterday to look at some threshin’ machines. Scott -Brothers are sellin’ out and Dad got word they’re lettin’ their stuff -go dirt cheap, so he sent me to take a squint. By Jiminy, I almost -dropped dead when I went past the theater this afternoon and saw your -picture. Maybe I didn’t go right up to the girl in the ticket box and -tell her I was an old friend of yours!” - -Elizabeth’s tongue went into her cheek. “And what did she say?” - -“Asked why I didn’t come in to see you perform to-night and I said I -would. But first I made up my mind I’d let you know I was here. -Say—what is it you do?” - -“Imitations.” - -“Who do you imitate?” - -“Oh, Ethel Barrymore and Elsie Janis and Eddie Foy and George Cohan -and Nazimova—” She reeled off a list, most of them strange to him. - -“I’ll bet you’re great. Gee—Lizzie—but you’re pretty.” His round face -went scarlet as the words popped out and he shifted uneasily under the -loose ill-fitting coat that hung from his broad shoulders. - -She met his wide-eyed admiration with a smile. “It’s the paint, Lou.” - -“No, sirree! You always were pretty. I used to watch you sittin’ -beside me in the choir, and when you threw back your head and sort of -closed your eyes to sing, I didn’t wonder Sam Goodwin was crazy about -you.” - -“Is he still organist at the First Presbyterian?” - -“Yep.” - -“And are you still in the choir?” - -“Yep.” His boyish brown eyes dropped. His plump hands twisted the brim -of his wide slouch hat. “Guess that’s the most I’ll ever amount to.” - -“But that beautiful voice of yours—it’s a sin!” - -“My Dad don’t think so. Gimcracks, he calls it. I asked him once to -give me enough to get it trained,” the eyes lifted with a twinkle, -“and I never asked him again.” - -She patted his arm sympathetically. “He wouldn’t understand—of -course.” - -“Gee, I wish I had your sand, Lizzie! To break away—and make good.” - -She turned swiftly to the mirror, picked up the discarded puff, dabbed -some powder on her nose, then carefully rouged her nostrils. And if a -tear smudged into the shadow under her eye, he didn’t notice it. - -He watched her fascinated, every move, every practiced touch to her -make-up. She had unpinned the towel and her hair fluffed like a golden -brown halo round her small, mobile face. And catching his rapt -expression in the mirror, it flashed over her that to him she did -represent success. The mere fact that she had broken the chains of New -England tradition, that she had crossed the rubicon of the footlights, -put her on a plane apart. - -Somehow the look in his nice eyes, of wonder, of envy, of homage—the -look she had so often worn when from a fifty cent seat in the gallery -she had studied the methods of the stars she impersonated—gave her new -courage. To-night she would not go through her ten minutes listlessly -with just one idea uppermost—to get her theater trunk packed in a rush -so that she might snatch a few hours’ sleep before making the train in -the dull gray dawn. To-night she would be sure at least of an audience -of one, of interest and enthusiasm and a thrill of excitement—and -these she would merit. She would do her turn for Lou Seabury in a way -he’d never forget. - -She drew a stool from under the dressing-table, sat down and plied him -with hurried questions about the folks at home. He gave her the latest -news, little intimate bits that mean nothing but are so dear to one -who knows no fireside but the battered washstand and cracked basin of -a third-rate hotel room. - -Grand’pa Terwilliger, seventy-nine, was keeping company with the widow -Bonser but was scared to marry her for fear folks would talk. Grace -Perkins had a new baby. Stanley Perkins had married a stenographer in -Boston and bought a flivver. He, Lou, had bought a victrola for -fifteen dollars second-hand and had some crackerjack opera records for -it. She ought to hear them! - -When finally she sent him round to the front of the house and hurried -down the ugly iron steps, her low-heeled white slippers touched them -with an eager lightness they had not known for months. - -The curtain was rung down on a one-act sketch. A placard announced -“Miss Betty Parsons—in her Famous Imitations.” - -With a dazzling smile, Elizabeth sallied forth, cane in hand singing, -“I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy.” - -Through her repertoire she went, changing like a chameleon from the -bland grin and strut of Eddie Foy to the crumpled pleading and -out-flung hands of Nazimova in “The Doll’s House.” She plunged into -Nora’s final scene with her husband: - - ... “When your terror was over—not for what threatened me, but for - yourself ... then it seemed to me—as though nothing had happened. - I was your lark again, your doll just as before—whom you would - take twice as much care of in future, because she was so weak and - fragile. Torwald—in that moment it burst upon me that I had been - living here these eight years with a strange man.... Oh, I can’t - bear to think of it! I could _tear_ myself to pieces!” - -The greater part of the audience had never heard of the Russian -actress, knew less of the Scandinavian author. But the sob in the -voice of the frail little girl on the stage, the anguish in her face -got them by the throat. - -There was a spontaneous burst of applause that held for a moment while -Betty bowed, glance straying into the misty auditorium, heart -fluttering with a gratification it had not known since the Grand -Central spilled her into the bewildering maze that is New York. - -She swung quickly into ragtime after that, the drawling syncopation -and rolling step of a black-face comedian, and as a conclusion gave -them Elsie Janis in one of the songs from her latest Broadway success. - -They brought her back several times. She threw them a final kiss, -disappeared into the wings and whisked up the stairs. Lou was going to -see the show to its finish, then call for her. He was sure they could -persuade the proprietor of the hotel where she was staying to fix up a -little supper of sandwiches and milk. - -She slipped out of her white dress and into a dark one, folded the -former in layers of tissue paper and laid it in the top trunk tray, -stuffing stockings into the corners to keep it in place. She gathered -together her make-up, packed it into a tin box. To-morrow another -pea-green dressing-room, or perhaps, saffron-yellow. The week -following, one of chalk-blue. And so on, ad infinitum. Of such her -infinite variety! - -A knock came at the door. She glanced at the gold watch which had been -her grandmother’s. Ten-fifteen. Lou had probably tired of the show. - -Pulling on her black velvet tarn, she called gaily—“Come in!” - -A mellow voice answered interrogatively, “Miss Parsons?” - -It was then she wheeled about. Standing framed in the doorway was a -tall man with a cloud of black hair sweeping from a white forehead and -a pair of intense dark eyes. Elizabeth knew him instantly. - -No mistaking that face and long, lean figure. - -She drew a bewildered hand across a bewildered brow. In the doorway of -her dressing-room stood Oswald Kane, famous New York theatrical -producer! - -She made no attempt at speech, just stared at him. - -He smiled. “You expected some one else, I see. May I come in?” And as -she nodded, “You know me?” - -She nodded again, indicated the chair and sank onto the low stool. She -couldn’t have stood another instant. - -“You’re wondering, of course, why I am here,” the low musical voice -went on. - -“Y-yes.” - -“I’m very much interested in your work, Miss Parsons. I have come to -see it three times—last night and twice to-day. Until to-night, -however, I was not quite sure of you. There was a listless quality. -Had any one, perhaps, informed you that I was in front to-night?” - -“If any one had, I’d probably have died of nervousness.” - -He smiled again, ran a hand through his heavy hair, pushing it back -from his forehead, and leaned forward. “You seem to be a very talented -little girl. No technique, of course. You have the A B C’s of that to -learn. But you have a flexible voice and expressive face, and you -showed in that Nazimova bit emotional possibilities. Your reproduction -of her tone and accent were really excellent.” - -“Th—thank you,” came with difficulty. - -“Of course, I have no proof that you can act. Even if you can, it will -require infinite patience and training to make an actress of you. But -I could do it, I believe.” - -Elizabeth gulped. - -He shook back his shock of hair. His burrowing eyes narrowed. His -fingers hesitatingly played with the thin watch chain that spanned his -high waistcoat. “The majority of actresses on the American stage are -mere mummers. Those I have made are artistes. But in order to -accomplish this, they have given themselves into my hands—absolutely. -I have taken girls out of the chorus and made stars of them in the -drama—not because they were lovely to look at, or quick or clever, but -because I have worked hard with them, with infinite patience developed -their personalities, injected into them the inspiration that is Oswald -Kane.” - -“Yes,” said Elizabeth. - -“Of course there must be ability or I would not waste my time. I must -be sure the seed is there to be nursed into a beautiful flower. But -first and foremost, the actress I train must obliterate self. She must -become so much clay for me to model. She must accept my direction -without question. She must obey as a soldier obeys his commanding -officer.” - -“Yes,” sighed Elizabeth. - -“I see you now not as you are, but as what I can make of you. No two -of my stars are alike. Each has distinct and startling personality. -That is why the American public looks to me for sensations. Not one is -the actress she was when I discovered her. They are, one and all, -Oswald Kane creations.” He leaned back, still studying her. - -Elizabeth felt a sea of eyes upon her in a gaze of hypnosis. She -stared back like one in a trance. - -He sat for a long moment silent. Then the low, quiet voice went on, -richly vibrant as the tones of a cello. - -“Yes, I think I might do something with you. That Nazimova bit showed -promise. But it will require training and patience—infinite patience. -You will have to work hard without complaint, hours over one line, -weeks over one short scene. And no recognition, perhaps, for some -years to come. You must not consider mundane things. Money must count -for nothing. I cannot think of money in connection with my art. You -must never grow tired or disgruntled. Above all, you must not -question. And in the end, a great artiste, my child,—a great artiste.” - -Elizabeth nodded mechanically. She felt like screaming. - -He got up slowly as if still uncertain, moved into a corner of the -little room, eyes still upon her. “Will you take off your hat and -smooth down your hair. I must see your features at close range.” - -With fingers that trembled and stiffened, she pulled off her tam, -combed back her fluffy brown hair and breathlessly lifted her profile -to the light. It was, as he had said, a face not beautiful, but -malleable to mood as wax, with gray eyes set wide apart, a short nose, -full sensitive red lips, deep-cleft chin and swift change of -expression that was almost a change of feature. And there was in her -slim figure with its soft suggestion of curve, the magnetism of youth, -the flame of enduring energy. - -He moved finally toward the door. - -“You will take the 11:18 to-night to New York, cancel all bookings, -and I shall expect you at my theater to-morrow at noon.” - -Elizabeth found her voice at last. “If you knew how many, many times -I’ve gone to your office, Mr. Kane, and begged on my knees for just -one little word with you!” - -He smiled once more, that charming, somewhat deprecatory smile of his. -“That is not my way of engaging artistes. I must seek them, not they -me. I never see those who come to my office, unless I have sent for -them. No, my way is to haunt out-of-the-way places. Railroad stations, -unknown stock theaters, cheap theatrical hotels, vaudeville houses -like this. There, occasionally, I find my flower among the weeds. And -when I do, I pluck it to transplant in my own garden. If I discover -one a year, I ask no more.” - -A sob broke in Elizabeth’s throat. “Oh, Mr. Kane—I—I’m so proud—and -so—so grateful.” - -He took her trembling hand, patted it with his own rather soft, -artistic one. “You must prove a good pupil, that is all. Remember—no -mention of this when you go to cancel your booking—no mention of my -name to any one. For a time we must keep the agreement to ourselves. -Until you have my permission, the fact that you have come under my -management is to remain absolutely unknown to any but ourselves.” - -She looked up at him wonderingly, “Anything you wish, of course.” - -He dropped her hand, ran his fingers once more through the dark thatch -that persistently fell over his eyes. “I must have absolute faith in -you, little girl,—and you in Oswald Kane.” - -“I—I have.” - -“That is as it should be. To-morrow, then, at noon.” - -He was gone. - -In less than twenty minutes, after the manner of such happenings, a -miracle had been wrought. - -Elizabeth stood dazed an instant. Then she stumbled to the window, -flung up the sash and leaned out to drink in the gale-slashed air with -deep convulsive breaths. - -“Oh God,” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks, “help me to make -good. Help me—help me!” - -And so it happened that on a biting day in January, 1917, at the -stroke of twelve, Elizabeth Parsons, aged twenty-three, entered the -sanctum sanctorum of Oswald Kane, was handed a pen by his business -manager and forthwith signed away five years of her life with an -option on the next five, at the rate of fifty dollars per week for the -first two years, one hundred for the third, and one hundred and fifty -for each year following. - -But just then Elizabeth would have signed away her whole life for -nothing. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -On a brilliant night in January, 1920, under the sponsorship of Oswald -Kane, Mme. Lisa Parsinova made her bow to an expectant New York -public. - -For a long time, almost a year to be exact, Mr. Kane had been letting -fall gentle hints of his discovery of a rare Russian genius, driven by -the war to these shores. He was having her instructed in English, the -story went, and once equal to the exigencies of emotional acting in a -strange tongue, she would be presented by him to an American public -which could not fail to be entranced by her great art. All this had -been revealed in various interviews, bit by bit—a word here, a phrase -there, a subtle suggestion elsewhere. At first he had not given out -her name, had been gradually prevailed upon to do so, and by the time -he announced the date of her première, “Mme. Lisa Parsinova” was on -the lips of all that eager theater-going throng alert for a new -sensation. - -Stories of a cloudy past had already gone the rounds, vaguely -suggested by Mr. Kane’s press representative, not through the medium -of the press. There were tales of her startling beauty, her lovers, -her temper. But so far no one had been permitted even a glimpse of -her. - -So that when she made her appearance the opening night, the gasp of -thrilled admiration that met her was very genuine. The play was “The -Temptress”—Oriental in atmosphere, written for her by Kane and a young -collaborator whose name didn’t particularly matter. The plot was not -by any means unconventional, that of a slave of early Egypt wreaking -revenge through the ages upon the descendants of the master, who, -because she refused to yield to him, threw her to the crocodiles. - -The first act, a prologue, took place on a flagged terrace of a palace -by the slow-flowing Nile. As the curtain rose, faint zephyrs of -incense wafted outward, a misty aroma. The terrace glistened under a -golden moon with still stars piercing a sky of emerald. The tinkle of -some far-off languorous instrument sounded soft against the night. And -waiting, his lustful gaze on the marble steps, sat the master. - -Slowly, the slave descended. Sullen and silent, she slunk forward, -like some halting panther in the night. - -Her body gleamed, golden as the moon, sinuous and satiny under the -transparent cestus. Her bare feet moved noiselessly, every step one -of infinite grace. She came forward, eyes brooding, and stood half -shrinking, half defiant before the long stone bench where sat her -master. Suddenly she raised her head, tossed back her short black hair -and faced him. - -As by a signal, opera-glasses went up, a sigh of pleasure went through -the house. The audience waited. She opened her lips and her voice, -low and liquid, flowed out, thrilling through their veins. The thick -contralto of it, the fascinating foreign accent, completely captivated -them. - -He reached out, drew her toward him. One felt the wave of terror -seizing her. His big hands grasped her shoulders. She gave a smothered -cry and he laughed. - -She pleaded, then resisted, and finally, voice rising like a viol with -strings drawn taut, defied him, calling upon the gods to save her for -the man she loved. - -And all the while he laughed, a chuckling laugh full of anticipation. - -At last his arms closed round the golden body, his lips bent to hers. -The sudden gleam of a tiny dagger, its clatter as he caught her -upraised arm,—and he flung her from him, clapping his hands for the -eunuchs who waited. - -With one swift word he condemned her. - -She crumpled at his feet. The black men lifted her. She cried out in -horror, a curse upon him and his through all the ages. - -A long moan as they bore her away, a pause, a splash against the -silence, and the curtain descended. - -For a breath the house sat motionless. Then came a surge of applause. -But the curtain did not rise. - -Buzz of conversation met the upgoing lights. Only a few, however, -moved from their seats. Those who did came together in the lobby and -discussed the new star with a wonder close to awe. - -“They sure can turn them out over there,” avowed one seasoned first -nighter. “Temperament, that’s the answer, Slav temperament. No little -cut and dried two-by-four conventions to tie them down. They’ve got -something the American woman don’t know the first thing about.” - -“Well, they know how to let go, for one thing!” - -The curtain rose on Act II, a modern drawing-room in the London home -of an English peer, member of Parliament, on the occasion of his -thirty-ninth birthday. He entered, big, handsome, with his little, -clinging English wife. - -There was revealed the fact that for generations the oldest male of -his line died before the age of forty, a violent death. They married, -there were children, and always reaching the prime of manhood, they -were cut down. A curse upon his family it seemed to be and the little -wife trembled. - -Guests dropped in to tea. With them came the announcement that a -prominent barrister was bringing a French authoress who had asked to -meet their host. She had heard him in the House of Lords. They spoke -of her beauty, her extraordinary personality. - -Then Mme. Parsinova appeared. In the brilliantly lighted set, the -audience had its first good look at her. Slim, with a slenderness that -made her seem tall, a mass of pitch-black hair piled high on her small -head, a pair of burning eyes, dark and shadowed, creamy skin, a short -nose, deep-cleft chin, and scarlet lips full and mobile, she seemed a -living flame. She moved forward with gliding step, her lizard-green -velvet gown clinging about her limbs, her sable cloak drooping from -her shoulders. And one felt at once, as her white hand, weighted with -a cabochon emerald, rested in his, the spell she would weave about the -insular and very British member of Parliament. - -Not so insular at that, for it developed that in his veins ran a -strain, a very thin strain, of the blood of Egypt. - -There followed the love story, obvious if you like, but with the -everlasting thrill and appeal of a great passion, magnificently -portrayed. For as the drama moved to its climax, the spirit of the -slave which through the ages had visited its will upon the family of -its master, found itself captive. The French woman fell madly in love -with her victim and in the end gave her life that the curse might be -lifted and his saved. - -In the climactic love scene at the end of Act III when passion tore -from her lips, an onrushing tide, the beautiful voice ran a crescendo -of emotion that was almost song. Its strange accent stirred and -fascinated. Its abandon was that of a soul giving all, sweeping aside -like an avalanche law, thought, ultimate penalty. - -And still at the curtain, when the house rang with demands for her, -Parsinova did not appear. Oswald Kane made his accustomed speech, -coming before the purple velvet curtain to tell his audience in his -usual reticent manner how deeply he appreciated their reception of the -genius he had discovered. He thanked them—he thanked them—he thanked -them. He raised a graceful hand, pushed back his weight of hair and -slipped into the wings while the house resounded once more with -clapping hands and stamping feet, and a full fifteen minutes elapsed -before the play could go on. - -All through the final act sounded the low note of tragedy, the -realization that she who for centuries had ruthlessly taken toll must -now once more be sacrificed that the one who had become dearer than -life might endure. - -When the audience finally rose after another futile attempt to bring -her out, the women’s eyes were red, the men’s faces white. New York -was undoubtedly taken by storm. It had been more than a typical Kane -first night. It had been a Kane ovation. - -In the first row a man got to his feet as if shaking off a spell. He -was tall, very erect, almost rawboned, with hair turning gray about -the temples, a demanding jaw, sharp straight nose and eyes that -somehow seemed younger than the rest of his face, younger than the -bushy black brows that mounted over them. They had caught Parsinova’s -gaze, those eyes, as it swept once or twice over the audience. They -had held it longer than was fair to her. - -“Great, isn’t she, Rand?” His companion tapped his arm as he stood -gazing at the fallen curtain. - -“Paralyzing,” was the laconic reply. He wheeled about and made his way -up the aisle, followed by the other man. - -Outside, close to the shadowy stage entrance, Oswald Kane’s car, a -royal blue limousine, and a curious throng of bystanders waited. - -Inside, Oswald Kane himself begged the circle of those privileged -by wealth, position, influence, who clustered round the door of the -star’s dressing-room, to excuse her for to-night. Madame was -completely exhausted. - -When both crowds, tired of waiting, had dispersed two figures hurried -down the little alley that led to the stage door and entered the -limousine. - -The door slammed. - -The car rolled out and east toward Fifth Avenue. - -The man switched off the light that illumined the woman’s white face. -Her dark-shadowed eyes were burning with excitement. She leaned back, -closing them, and heaved a great sigh. He leaned forward, hair falling -over his eyes, echoed the sigh, and his hand shut tightly round her -ungloved one. With a tense, almost nervous movement she drew it away, -shrank imperceptibly into her corner. - -“They are at your feet,” he whispered. “I have made you.” - -She did not answer—merely opened her eyes and looked at him and -through the darkness, something like tears glistened on the lashes. - -They drove on in silence. He recaptured her hand, held it to his lips. -She looked away. - -The car drew up before a modest apartment building in a side street. -He helped her out, entered with her, and the elevator swung them -upward. He made a movement for the key she took from her bag but she -unlocked the door and led the way into the foyer. - -Slowly he reached up, lifted the fur toque from her black hair and the -wrap from her shoulders, and his touch lingered caressingly as he -turned her toward him. - -“You are my creation!” he told her. “Parsinova cannot exist without -me.” - -Into the throat of the great Russian actress with the questionable -past came a flutter of fear. Her lips quivered. She gave a convulsive -choking sound. Her eyes raced the length of the hall as though she -wanted to run away, then went pleading up to his. He smiled down into -them, drew her firmly to him. - -With a swift, hysterical laugh, a twist of her body, she was out of -his arms and across the foyer. - -“Come,” she called. - -She opened a door at the other side. The gold flames of a log fire -played upon the face of the little gray-haired woman in dusky silk who -rose to greet her. - -“Mother,” said Parsinova, “kiss your child and thank Mr. Kane. I think -I’ve made a hit.” - -Oswald Kane watched with a frown as she held out her arms adoringly to -the little old woman. - -For over a year the little mother had had a way of appearing in the -background whenever he claimed the few sentimental hours which should -have been but small acknowledgment of his new pupil’s debt to him. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -Parsinova instantly became the rage. - -She gave delicious interviews in which she misapplied American slang -in a way that made the press chuckle. She spoke of the tragedy of -Russia. She told of her struggles there. She gave her impressions of -the American theater; American art; American fashions; the energy of -the American man; the vitality of the American woman. - -“They do not give as we foreign women,” she said. “They take. And so -it is that they grow rich—in beauty—and are forever young.” - -“But emotionally?” prompted the interviewer. - -“I have said—they are forever young. Emotionally—they are children -always.” - -This statement was followed by indignant protest from American -actresses and the sort of heated dramatic controversy that delighted -the soul of Oswald Kane. - -She received all reporters in her dressing-room at the theater. If any -one save Kane knew where she lived, no one had ever crossed the sacred -threshold. - -“I live two lives quite a-part,” she said. “One in my home which is -for me a-lone. And one in the theater which is for my dear public.” - -Mr. Kane amplified this by stating that her hours at home were spent -in study. Others intimated that her hours at home were given to some -mysterious romance. - -In spite of which she was not a hermit. Society, with a capital S, -sought the privilege of entertaining her. Occasionally she accepted a -dinner invitation—never on any day but Sunday, however—or permitted a -tea to be given in her honor. She went nowhere during the week. - -Her dressing-room was always fragrant with flowers. Kane had had it -done over when she took possession. An alcove had been cut off for her -make-up table, and the orchid silken drapes, black rug, suspended -lights and carved chairs of the outer room gave it more the impression -of a salon. Here she held court. Here she read the hysterical notes of -matinée girls, the pleas of dilletanti youth that she dine or sup with -them, the tributes of actors, the encomium of the world in general. -Here, every week or so, she went into tantrums, threatening to kill -her maid in a voice that caused the stage hands to tremble, until Kane -himself had to be called to calm her. Here she smoked Russian -cigarettes and looked over the urgent invitations that piled mountain -high upon the bronze tray. - -It was only at home in a cretonne hung bedroom, furnished with a rigid -fourposter and dotted swiss curtains through which sunlight flowed, -that she wept and sometimes felt lonely. - -She played of course to packed houses. The S. R. O. sign was a common -occurrence. More than once in that same place in the front row, the -footlights illumined the face of the man whose intent gaze had -fastened on hers the opening night. He seemed never to tire of her -art. - -Early in March Mrs. Collingwood Martin gave a reception for her. -Mrs. Julian van Ness Collingwood Martin flattered herself, with -justification, that in her wide old house facing Washington Square she -maintained the nearest approach to a salon that could be found this -side of Paris. - -Her high drawing-room brought together leading spirits of the -professional, business and diplomatic worlds, and her gracefully -tinted head was never troubled with fear that the wrong ones might -meet. All those on her selected list were the right ones, each -interested in what the other represented. Many a little coup between -the artiste and the financier is consummated under the guise of -drinking a cup of tea or punch. And more than one professional has -amassed a neat little fortune by making wide-eyed queries of the Wall -Street man about his end of the game. - -On the afternoon in question the rooms on the lower floor were crowded -with laughter, perfume, silks, jewels, furs and the hum of animated -voices. - -Bowls of early spring bloom, azaleas, jonquils, mammoth daisies, stood -on tables and at either side of the arched doorway. A faint blue haze -of cigarette smoke hung overhead. Twilight had sifted through sunlight -before Parsinova appeared. She always came late. - -As she stood, a silhouette within the white arch between the shining -bowls of jonquils, there was a general hush, then a forward movement. -She was gowned entirely in black—black lace trailing from her feet, a -black hat shadowing her face, and drooping from it to curl against her -shoulder, a black paradise. Black pearls dangled from her ears and a -strand of them about her neck emphasized its whiteness. - -“Isn’t she wonderful? What personality—what atmosphere!” - -“There’s no one like her.” - -“She fairly oozes temperament.” - -“Absolutely startling!” - -“By Jove—these foreigners! Naughty but—er—so promising, don’t you -know!” - -Mrs. Collingwood Martin bore her triumphantly to a thronelike chair -and presented the guests in turn. - -Parsinova’s manner was charming, a bit weary but gracious, and her -efforts to carry on a conversation in colloquial English were -excruciating. - -“That lit-tle French gentleman by the punch bowl,—I fear he has on a -biscuit,” she told the group of adorers. - -They looked puzzled. Then one of them flung back his head with a -laugh. “You mean he has a bun on.” - -“I shall never be right,” she sighed in the chorus of laughter that -followed. - -From the music-room came a clear tenor singing the “Ave Maria.” -Silence met the lifted voice and at the final sobbing note, gentle -applause. - -Mrs. Collingwood Martin swept toward her guest of honor. - -“Darling,” she smiled with that touch of privileged intimacy she loved -to assume, “here is some one most anxious to meet you. Let me present -Signor Luigi Rogero of the Metropolitan.” - -Parsinova looked up and out from under dropped lids. Then she wondered -whether any one saw the start she gave. Facing her with lips bent to -her outstretched hand stood Lou Seabury. - -No mistaking him in spite of the close-fitting coat, carefully waxed -little mustache and black-ribboned monocle! Due to a New York tailor’s -art, his plump figure had grown slimmer. In place of the loose -disjointed shamble of old home days, he bore himself with consummate -_savoir faire_. But the pink cheeks and kind brown eyes were the same. - -Parsinova waited breathlessly for some sign of recognition. None came. -In perfect English he merely voiced his satisfaction at the meeting -and joined the group about her chair. It was not until she rose to -leave and he craved the honor of escorting her to her car that she met -his gaze with curious question in her own. But his eyes were blank so -far as any subtle meaning was concerned. - -He followed down the steps, helped her into the perfectly appointed -limousine. An impulse she made no attempt to curb prompted her to ask -if she could drive him uptown. They had gone several blocks before -either spoke. Then very low came the words:— - -“Lizzie Parsons,—you’re a wonder!” - -Instinctively she looked about to make sure his whisper had not been -overheard. Then she gave a long, smothered laugh and clutched his hand -just as she had that night in the three-a-day vaudeville theater. - -“Lou,” she breathed, “I’m so glad, so glad!” - -“Were you surprised to see me?” - -“Surprised? I almost died.” She gave a little gasp. “Were you -surprised to see me?” - -“Not a bit.” - -“You knew me then—at once?” - -“I’ve known who you were ever since your opening. I was there. Matter -of fact, I have you to thank for the brilliant idea that made me an -Italian.” - -“Me?” - -“Yep.” He lapsed into the old lingo and she closed her eyes with a -beatific smile. “You don’t think my brains would ever be equal to such -an inspiration.” - -“Mine weren’t either. It was Oswald Kane’s.” - -“Nobody would ever guess that you’re anything but Russian from the -word go.” - -“You did.” - -“That was only because I’d known you. And even then I mightn’t have -been on if I hadn’t heard your imitations. Do you remember that -night?” - -“Do I remember it! That was the night that ‘made me what I am -to-day.’” - -He laughed. - -“I did my best to please you,” she went on, “and Oswald Kane was in -front and liked my act. He came back afterward and arranged to sign -me.” - -“So that was why you left me cold. I dated you for supper and went -round after the show, to find my bird had flown. Believe me, I was the -most disappointed rube in town.” - -“I wouldn’t have remembered my own name after Kane saw me.” - -“Is that why you canned it?” - -She laughed then, her low, rich contralto. “That was all his plan. I -was as amazed when he told me about it as if he’d asked me to change -my skin. He’s never told me why he did it—he doesn’t trouble to -tell you why. But I suppose he thought the public needed a thrill, -something new, something different. And my impersonations gave him the -idea. I think I might have made good if he had let me go on as just -plain Parsons. But of course, not half the hit that Parsinova has -made.” - -“They sure are crazy about you. I wondered often how you were getting -on.” - -“You didn’t guess that somebody was making a new woman of me, did -you?” - -His gaze, as it traveled from her dark-rimmed eyes shadowed by the -drooping hat, to the long white hands and slim black-swathed body, -held the same look of awe it had worn the night he had seen her make -up. - -“Lordy, girl!” he gasped. “How you must have worked to accomplish it!” - -“Work!” came in a breath. “I worked like a galley slave—never -stopping, except for sleep. Even while I ate I studied—Russian and -French, and gesture and movement. I even learned to eat herring. And -all the time he was teaching me to act. In four years—almost—I’ve seen -no one, talked to no one but him. I’ve had to obliterate self -completely. He has in reality created Lisa Parsinova.” - -“He had to have the material to do it. The stuff was there.” - -“But he is a genius, Lou. He knows his public just as a magician knows -his bag of tricks.” - -The traffic at Thirty-fourth Street halted them. They spoke in -whispers, and every now and then her eyes rested with a look of -caution on the inexpressive back of her chauffeur. - -“Do you think he can hear?” she asked. - -“’Course not.” - -“I have to be so careful.” - -She turned to him, eyes alight with interest as they started on up the -Avenue. “Tell me about yourself. You’re another man, too.” - -“Dad died shortly after I saw you,” he explained. “Apoplexy. And I -thought of you, the break you had made, the gamble you took. So I -gathered together what he left me, sold out to my brother Jim, and -came to New York to stake everything on that voice you took such stock -in. I went to Fernald and he thought he could do something with it. -I’ve been in training so to speak ever since. And this season he got -me the job with the Metropolitan.” - -“If only I could hear you!” - -“Oh, I haven’t done much—not yet. A few matinées and one or two -Saturday nights. Next year, though, they’ve promised me a go at -leads.” - -“I knew if ever you had the chance you’d prove yourself.” - -“I owe a great part of that chance to Randolph,—you know, Hubert -Randolph. He’s one of the directors of the Metropolitan. I met him at -Fernald’s studio last winter and it was through him that Fernald -pushed me. He’s interested in you, by the way,—thinks you’re the -greatest actress of the century.” - -“The century is very young,” she smiled. - -“Well, Rand’s seen them all in the last fifteen or twenty years and -knows what he’s talking about. We were at your opening together and he -said then you were paralyzing.” - -“Did I do that to you, too?” - -“Paralyze me? Bet your life you did! When you walked out on that stage -and raised your head, a ramrod went up my back. ‘That’s Lizzie -Parsons,’ I said to myself, ‘or I’ll be shot.’ Then I thought I must -be loony, that when I’d see you in a better light without the short -wig, I’d laugh at my mistake. But in the second act I knew I was -right, in spite of the black hair—” - -“It’s dyed, Lou.” She made the confession haltingly. “At first I -didn’t want to. My hair seemed sort of part of me—the color, I mean. -But that’s just why he made me do it; it was a question of -personality, he said. I begged him to let me wear a wig but he was -afraid it would be detected. And he was right, I dare say. He’s always -right.” - -“Don’t you worry about the way it looks, either. You used to be just -pretty. Now you’re a beauty!” - -“Am I—really?” There was a childish earnestness in the query. - -“Should have heard Randolph rave! Say, I’m dining with him to-night. -Why not come along? He’s crazy to meet you and he won’t go to any of -those society fandangles to do it.” - -“Meet a stranger—with you around? Oh—I couldn’t! I’d burst into -straight English as naturally as you burst into song. And that would -ruin me.” - -He patted her hand and his kind brown eyes beamed. “Nonsense! You’re -too clever an actress for that.” - -There was something pathetic in the way she clung to his handclasp. -“It’s so good finding you this way. I haven’t any friends—no one to -whom I can actually talk. With me it isn’t a case of acting behind the -footlights. I’m acting all the time, except when I’m alone.” - -“But it’s not acting any more—this Russian business, is it?” - -“No—it’s myself, the greater part of self, I dare say. But Lizzie -Parsons isn’t all dead yet and I don’t want her to die—” She blinked -up at him. “Don’t make me cry, please,—or the shadows will all come -off my eyes.” - -His eyes took in the luxurious appointment of the car, mauve enameled -vanity apparatus on one side, smoking outfit on the other, gilt vase -with its spray of fresh orchids, soft tan cushions and robe of fur. He -gave her a warming look of satisfaction. - -“I should say the exchange was all for the better. You must be making -a mint.” - -“One hundred and fifty a week.” - -“One hundred and fifty—?” - -“That’s my contract.” - -“But good Lord—” - -“Oh, I made it with my eyes open. It extends over the first five -years—with an option on the next five.” - -“But all this—” He waved his arm, bewildered, through the air. - -“All this he gives me—my clothes, my car and its upkeep, my jewels, -though they’re mostly paste, everything except my home. I wouldn’t let -him give me that.” - -He made an attempt to conceal the swift suspicion that would have -clouded any man’s eyes. Instantly she saw and answered it. - -“Oh, don’t misunderstand! It’s purely a matter of business. I’ve got -to be equipped to play my part off the stage and I don’t earn enough -to do it on my own.” - -“Then why doesn’t he give you enough?” - -“I should probably grow too independent. This way he holds the reins. -That’s only supposition, of course. I’ve never discussed it. One can’t -discuss money with Oswald Kane.” - -“It’s a damned outrage!” - -“Oh, no it isn’t. He took a sporting chance. He staked time and effort -and money on a venture that might have proved a hopeless failure. I -had everything to gain. And now that I’ve made good under his -guidance, it’s only fair that he should reap the harvest.” - -“Indefinitely?” - -“For six years to come, at any rate,—until my contract expires.” She -leaned back, eyes closed, and an intensely weary look dropped the -corners of her red, mobile mouth. - -They drew near the park. She urged him to ride with her a bit and they -drove into the blue velvet dusk, past the shimmer of lake curled among -the bushes. The car glided on swiftly through cool dark silence. - -“You haven’t told me yet how I inspired you to become an Italian,” she -prompted. - -“Oh, that—simple enough! Randolph remarked the night of your première -that there was an aura of romance about artistes from the other side, -particularly when they hailed from Southern Europe; sort of Oriental, -you understand. The next day I went to Fernald. ‘Can’t you change me -to something Italian?’ I said. ‘Seabury’s a rotten name for an opera -singer.’ Well, he did it. Of course, I make no attempt at accent—I -couldn’t handle that job in conversation. But the people I’ve met -don’t look for it; they understand the fact that I was brought up in -England. All I have to be careful of is my grammar.” - -They laughed together. As her laugh bubbled girlishly into the quiet -night, she halted it with a swift movement of hand to lips and once -more sent that look of caution at her chauffeur’s back. - -He reminded her of his dinner engagement with Randolph. “He’s made up -his mind to know you informally. And that’s all he has to do to get -what he wants. He’s a human dynamo, that man. Never knew anybody with -his finger in so many pies and able to put over whatever he tackles. -Sooner or later you’re bound to meet him in his own way. Might as well -be to-night.” - -“What good would it do? He’ll never know me—the real me.” - -“He’ll know a fascinating woman, any way you look at it.” - -But she dropped him at the bachelor apartment on Park Avenue in spite -of his pleas. - -“Come and see me, Lou, often,” she murmured, giving him her address as -he stepped out of the car. “You don’t know what a joy it is to play at -being myself.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -It was inevitable that Parsinova should meet Hubert Randolph, as Lou -Seabury had prophesied. It was not inevitable that he should prove to -be the man whose intent gaze had held hers from the first row. But -when one considers that Randolph had determined from the moment he saw -her to know her in an unprofessional capacity, his accomplishment of -that end was in the natural order of things. - -Hubert Randolph was not a self-made man. He had succeeded, made his -name stand firm in the humming world of finance, in spite of the -handicap of having been born to the purple. Early in his boyhood he -had started out to forget that he was a Hamilton Randolph and he had -been forgetting it satisfactorily ever since. At Harvard he had become -the pal of men who tutored in their leisure hours, thereby improving -his mind. Also, he had never taken the trouble to inform them to which -particular Randolph family he belonged. It was unimportant. He had -spent a winter in a shack in Arizona, partly for his health, but -largely to familiarize himself with the workings of a matrix mine in -which the Randolphs had an interest. He had chummed with the miners, -chewed tobacco and acquired a red-bronze that had never quite worn -off. - -He had climbed Pike’s Peak, had shot big game in the Andes. And then -he had come back to civilization and taken a clerkship in the -brokerage offices of Parker, Gaines and McCaffery, to study banking -methods from the bottom up. - -At thirty-eight, or it may have been thirty-nine, he was an authority -on banking, stood ace high in Washington, and was known as a patron of -the arts. The Randolph family never understood why he had gone to all -that bother. It was so old, so distinguished, that to have a member -attempt to distinguish it further was almost an insult. However, Rand, -as he was known among intimates, never troubled to consult the family -as to his movements. He saw as little of them as possible. - -“Don’t concern yourself about me,” he was in the habit of telling his -sister when she tried to propel him in the direction of one of her -parties. “I’m a hopeless sort of devil who likes to choose his own -friends.” - -Once she persuaded him to attend a tea and he appeared with a youth in -a shiny coat and cuffs that separated from his shirt. - -“He’s a coming violinist,” he whispered. “I thought you’d like him to -play. But he’s hungry—give him something to eat first.” - -She never attempted to persuade him after that. - -Parsinova met Hubert Randolph in a funny little restaurant which years -back had been a stable. It was conducted by a group of painters for -the benefit of a Disabled Veteran’s Relief Fund all their own. He had -arranged the party for the Sunday following her meeting with Seabury -but it took her old friend another week to convince her that she could -carry it through. - -The occasion was not propitious. She had had a bad half hour that -afternoon with Kane when he resented the omnipresence of her mother. - -“She annoys me. She seems to be behind you like a shadow. You must -send her away! Some one is bound to discover her.” - -“That is impossible. She goes nowhere, sees no one. I shall keep her -here.” Parsinova’s eyes glittered and for a moment it seemed likely -that a backstage tantrum would be duplicated in fact. - -So that when she fastened the short black satin dress up the front -into a high collar under her ears and pulled the brim of her black -satin hat in a shading dip, it was in a mood that omened no -particularly cordial reception of Mr. Hubert Randolph. - -Seabury called for her and Randolph met them in the cobbled courtyard -that led to their unique dining place. In the dark she did not -recognize him. But as they stood in the doorway where an old lantern -swung, she stopped and peered at him. - -“I have seen you be-fore!” - -“Have you?” - -“Many times—in the firs’ row. And you look’ as if—you like me.” - -“I do,” came promptly with a smile. - -“No—no,” her eyes gave him a piquant uptilt, “my art, I mean to say. -Me—you do not know.” - -“I’m going to.” - -He led the way indoors. She glanced about and her mood dissolved into -a new interest. First the man, then the charm of this quaint place. -The stalls had been left standing and in each a table was set. Over -each from the beamed ceiling swung a lantern similar to the one -outside. There were no brilliant lights, no noises of clinking glass -and silver. - -She slid along the upholstered seat that lined the stall to the place -he indicated at the table’s head. The men seated themselves at either -side. - -“This is great, Rand,” remarked Seabury. “How is it you never brought -me here?” - -“I saved it for Madame. What does she think of it?” - -“Fas-scinating. I feel quite like a thorough-bred horse.” Then she -looked at him gratefully. “And one is not—on ex-hibition.” - -“I don’t want to exhibit you,” rejoined her host. “You’ll find that -out.” - -She did find it out in the weeks that followed. They dined frequently -at “The Mews,” sometimes with Seabury, more often alone. - -At first she protested. She could not! But in the end Randolph won -out. They arrived always at six when the place was practically empty -and by seven-thirty she was at the theater. - -As the weather turned warmer they drove occasionally to the country -and back in time for the performance. She never permitted him to call -for her but arranged to meet him at the theater. They never went to -conspicuous hotels or restaurants. He seemed to enjoy being with her -away from the stare of the world. One Sunday in April when they had -planned to lunch at an inn that dots the shore of the Hudson, he -appeared with two hampers and announced that they were going to -picnic. They left the car at the top of a slope, scrambled down and -unpacked the baskets with the anticipation of boy and girl off for a -holiday. She pulled off her hat with its floating veil and sat -cross-legged on the rug he had spread under a willow tree. - -Sitting there watching him, this man so intensely real, so intensely -himself, a sense of infinite sadness swept over her. She wanted just -for to-day to drop all sham. Not that her pose was ever difficult. -Like all affectation used incessantly, she was no longer conscious of -it. It was herself. But in these rare days spent with Randolph in the -brimming sunlight, soft with young green things, she wanted with a -ridiculously hopeless yearning to let him glimpse Elizabeth Parsons, -the girl who would have let her hair fly in the wind for sheer joy of -springtime, the girl who lived only in hidden moments. - -Sometimes she compromised by letting Parsinova express Elizabeth’s -thoughts, her ideals, separating the two women only by the breadth of -an accent. Often she caught him looking at her curiously, as if trying -to link some simply expressed idea of living with the reputation of -the woman sitting opposite him. But more frequently they were content -to enjoy the moment, tramping through the woods, discovering new -sun-flecked trails, drinking in the sweetness of April and -companionship. - -He had suggested that he stop for her at her home but she put him off -with excuses, obvious and sometimes lame. - -Once he reproached her. - -“Why don’t you let me come to see you?” - -“You can—at any time you wish.” - -“Not at the theater. When I worship you, I like it to be from the -other side of the footlights.” - -“Oh! Then what is it you wish to do on this side?” - -“Adore you! And you haven’t even told me what street you live in.” - -“Then it should be quite ea-sy. One adores that which one knows least -a-bout.” - -“In other words a man loves what he doesn’t understand and likes what -he does?” - -“That is ex-actly what I wish to say. Is it not strange?—when a man -wish’ to make a woman love him, he say:—‘_Mon adorée_, you are such a -my-stery to me.’ And when a woman wish’ to make a man love her, she -tell him:—‘_Mon amour_, I understan’ you per-fec’ly.’” - -He gave a ringing laugh, then leaned across the table. - -“Your foreign men have a dozen ways of telling a woman they want her -love. We Americans, when we care—the real thing—are awkward as boys -and a little afraid.” - -“A-fraid?” Parsinova’s eyes were wondering, while Elizabeth Parsons’ -soul cried out that she, too, could know such fear. “But why?” - -“Less experience.” - -Her eyes laughed into his then. “The Latin in love is an art-iste,—the -American an art-i-san. Is that what you wish to say?” - - * * * * * - -“Have you ever heard that Ade classic?— - - ‘I never run from the man behind the gun, - Tho’ other chaps are cowards, - As for me—not! - But my courage fades away, - And I don’t know what to say, - When I meet the little girl - Behind the tea-pot.’” - -“Me-not. Tea-pot,” she repeated with a frown of concentration in which -lurked a smile. “How ver-y droll your classics are.” - -His rather severe mouth lifted with a whimsical twist. “After all, it -resolves itself into this—a man fears, not what a woman is, but what -she seems to be.” - -Parsinova met the steady gaze with a quick startled look and bit her -lip to keep it from quivering. But his next words answered the -unspoken question that for a second shook her perfect poise. - -“I wonder—” he said slowly, “I wonder if you’re as simple as you seem -complex.” - -She did not reply at once, did not lift her eyes. They wandered out -through the wide window to the sheen of river and hazy Palisades in -the distance. Randolph had driven her out to Longue Vue at the hour -when the sun slides lazily into soft spring shadows. - -“Why do you think me—as you say—com-plex?” She lifted her eyes and the -sun slanted across them. Perhaps that was why he failed to give her a -direct answer. - -“Odd,” he observed, “I didn’t guess you had gray eyes. They look so -dark from the stage. They’re wonderful eyes at close inspection, by -the way.” - -“Are they, too,—com-plex?” - -“Full of secrets.” - -“Ah, but there you are wrong—quite wrong, my friend. Most of their -life they ’ave given to study. What secret’ could they possess?” - -She hated herself while she said it, hated Kane and the stage and the -success she had made. But most of all she hated Elizabeth Parsons for -allowing Parsinova to dominate her. To this one man she wanted so -devoutly to reveal herself as she was. Ridiculous, of course, the -desire—for it was Parsinova who charmed him. That was all too evident. - -The hours she loved best were those in which he told her of his -travels, his life in the West. In that she could evince an interest -that was sincere. She could picture him in rough flannel shirt and -corduroy trousers, hobnobbing with the miners, one of them. He was the -true democrat, eager to learn first-hand instead of living by proxy. - -She would draw him out, welcoming the opportunity to be for the moment -Elizabeth Parsons, if only as a listener. - -When he left her at the theater that evening, he startled her by -saying abruptly: - -“I’m coming to dine with you next Sunday.” - -It was just as he helped her out of the car and she stopped short, -hand still in his. “You—are coming—?” - -“That’s it, in your home. Oh, I’ve found out where you live. But I had -a notion that I’d like you to tell me.” - -“How—did you find out?” - -“Had you followed, perhaps. At any rate, you can’t keep me away any -longer.” - -“You—you must not come.” - -He regarded her closely, his thick brows coming together. “Is there -any particular reason why you shut me out?” - -She remembered suddenly that her hand was still in his. His tense grip -was hurting her. - -“Please!” She made a futile effort to draw it away. - -“Is there?” - -“Many—reasons.” Her lips hesitated over the words. - -“Any one reason, I should say.” - -In spite of herself, she looked up at him. “No—one.” - -“Right, then. Sunday next.” - -He dropped her hand quickly, stepped back into the car. - -The next three days she spent buying high-backed cathedral chairs -and carved tables and tabourets for her living-room. Down came the -cretonne hangings and up went heavy purple velvet ones that shut out -the blessed light of day. She selected a black rug that made the room -look hideously somber and for the divan, gold cushions weighted with -tassels. When she finished, she had consumed several months’ salary. -But the transformation was complete. Once more Elizabeth Parsons was -wiped off this mortal sphere. Soon no shadow would be left of her, not -even in the sacred nook she had saved to call “home.” - -With an anxiety close to terror she waited for Hubert Randolph. She -was wearing white, soft, creamy, floating. There ought, at least, be -some spot of light in the mysteriously shadowed room. - -He came at seven. She went to the door herself and let him into the -little foyer. His eyes were alight with eagerness. They had the look -of a small boy’s bound for a fishing trip on Sunday. - -He caught her hand. “You know how glad I am to be here.” - -“You know,” she rejoined to her own surprise, “how I am glad—for you -to be here.” - -He followed into the living-room. “Odd,” he observed almost to -himself, “I’ve pictured it often—but not like this. I’d an idea of -light things—woman things about you.” - -She could have laughed with sardonic glee at the thought of how she -had dragged down those light, woman things and spent a small fortune -to create another atmosphere. - -“But on the whole,” he proceeded speculatively, “these are you, aren’t -they?” - -“A woman is so man-y things—so man-y moods, I wish to say—that there -is no one room can express her.” - -Her apartment was in one of those modern houses where dinner is cooked -by a chef downstairs and sent up via the dumbwaiter. To Parsinova this -had proved a convenience, saving as it did the necessity of curious -servants. To-night she had arranged for one of the waiters from the -restaurant below to serve them. But in spite of him, noiselessly in -the background, it was a cozy, intimate little party that somehow -brought them closer than all their former dinners. The small table -set in a corner of the living-room, its glistening silver and lacy -feminine damask, the dishes she had herself ordered, created a sense -of home dangerous to the peace of mind of an actress wedded to her -art. - -To crown the illusion, when the _café noir_ had been served and the -waiter disappeared, Randolph pulled a pipe from his pocket and asked -if he might light it. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to -smoke a pipe with you.” - -“But I do not—smoke a pipe.” - -“Don’t interpret me so literally. A pipe means fireside, something -intimate and real. I’ve always thought it would be nice, one of these -days, to see your face through pipe smoke. May I?” - -She nodded, curled on a cushion by the fire. It was a rainy night. The -logs whirred merrily. “Now—tell me more about your won-der-ful West.” -She lighted a cigarette and listened, eyes partly closed, and a sweet -tranquillity bathed her soul. - -He pulled his chair closer. Unconsciously, perhaps, her head dropped -against the arm. If a moment later she felt a hand lightly caress her -hair, she gave no sign. Parsinova fans would undoubtedly have been -amazed at the scene—the Russian actress curled like a kitten at the -foot of a man’s chair while he painted with broad strokes pictures of -prairie life. - -It was what he did just as he was leaving that shattered her serenity -like an explosion. They were standing in the foyer and she had given -him her hand with her “Good-night,” when suddenly she was in his arms. -They closed round her, swept her to him and his lips were on hers. For -a long moment they stood so. Then, without a word, he put her at arm’s -length, held her eyes with a look whose intensity she found impossible -to read. An instant later she was alone. - -But those few moments brought her up sharp. Hours afterward she felt -the vice of his arms gripping her, the thrill of his kiss, and knew -that she loved him. Subconsciously she had known it a long time. But -she had never faced the issue. Content with a comradeship dear to both -Elizabeth Parsons and Lisa Parsinova, she had drifted without any -forward look, without taking count of what payment the future might -exact. And now the hour had come. Elizabeth Parsons, who had never -loved before, loved Hubert Randolph. Hubert Randolph loved Parsinova -who, according to all report, had loved many times and with not too -much reserve. Long hours she lay staring into the blank darkness of -her room. Out of it she could draw nothing but misery. - -Heretofore she had accepted Parsinova’s manufactured past without -question. Now it was a lurid flame, flaring through the smoke of all -reasoning, torturing her—more real because it was unreal. Had it been -fact, there would be no problem. As things were, it was the ghost at -the banquet, a ghost of that which had never been. And there was no -solution! There never would be! - -Elizabeth Parsons was New England. It was part of her plan of life to -marry when she loved. That was as fundamental as the blood in her -veins. The very intensity of emotion of which she was capable was -reëxpressed in her intensity of adherence to the moral conduct -generations of upright-living ancestors had laid down for her. From -that there could be no swerving. It was part of her. - -Throughout the dragging hours of that night she tried desperately -to read into the embrace of the man who had taken her love, some -interpretation other than the obvious. And suddenly it came to her -that even granted he might possibly be willing to give her his name, -it was impossible for her to accept it. He did not know Elizabeth -Parsons—would not, if he did, evince the slightest interest in her. It -was the Russian actress he adored, the woman she was not. If he wanted -her and she dared to marry him, she would have to live day and night a -lie she could not—and what was more, would not—carry through. In love -she would have to be herself. Brilliant as was her Slav rendering of -it on the stage, in life she was just an American girl who wanted to -live it with all her soul. When he took Parsinova in his arms, he -would be holding Lizzie Parsons. The sophisticated Russian lips -against his would be giving him New England kisses. Well—not quite -that! But one certainty she must face. To the man who had fallen in -love with the Russian actress, the American girl would mean less than -nothing. She hated her! In the confusion of her soul she did not know -which hated the other more. - -Had there been any doubt in her mind as to the hopelessness of her -situation, Oswald Kane himself pounded the last nail in the coffin a -few days later. A chatty little sheet given to imparting information -about important people had got wind of Randolph’s devotion. It -announced subtly that the walls the Russian actress had built up -between herself and American men had evidently been shattered by one -who heretofore had evinced but slight interest in the beauties of his -own set. It hinted at their runs in his car out of New York and -wondered amiably whether he intended converting his bungalow up -Westchester way into a dovecote. - -The day it appeared on the news-stands Oswald Kane paid her an early -visit. For the first time she saw him with his smooth exterior -ruffled. It was a matinée day and she was having an eleven o’clock -breakfast when he arrived. A note from Randolph asking why she had -refused to see him the day before lay on the table beside her plate. -She looked tired and her eyes needed no artificial shadows. - -Kane came into the room, then turned and stared at the new -furnishings. - -“Do you like it?” she asked. “I’ve had it done over.” - -“Why?” - -“I thought it safe—in case any one should find me out and drop in.” - -“Some one has found you out.” He handed her the society sheet, open at -the pointed paragraph that concerned her. - -“I should like to know,” he began, his mellow voice going sharp, “who -the man is.” - -She hastily slipped Randolph’s note into the pocket of her dress. “I -should like to be able to tell you.” - -“You mean he does not exist.” - -“I mean that if he did, it would be quite my own affair, wouldn’t it?” - -“No. If you play a dangerous game and lose, Oswald Kane loses with -you. If any man discovers the truth about you, it means your -professional death as well as mine.” - -“You need never worry—about that.” - -Whether it was the hopeless note in her voice or the look in her eyes, -his voice softened. He went close to her. - -“There is just one,” he whispered, “who knows you as you are. Lisa -Parsinova has the right to no man’s love but Oswald Kane’s. Forget -those New England prejudices!” - -She dropped quickly into a chair. “Lisa Parsinova has the right to no -man’s love _at all_.” - -Her eyes closed. Her voice went on monotonously. - -“You see, I’ve thought it all out. I’ve swamped the girl I was and -it’s as final as if I’d killed her. One of these days, perhaps—when my -contract with you has been filled—Parsinova will sail back to Russia -or be drowned or something, and out of her ashes will rise a spinster -named Lizzie Parsons who doesn’t really matter, who’ll just pass -out—alone. But until then you are quite safe. Only—please—never speak -again of—of loving me.” - -Kane bowed. “You are a great artiste, in spite of that. And at least -you cannot deny me the joy of the creator.” - -“I shall never forget what you’ve done for me. I shall never betray -you in any way.” - -She kept her word to the letter. Had she followed inclination she -would have gone through her performances mechanically. A numbness had -taken hold of her, of utter misery, utter futility. But her work did -not fall off in brilliance. Particularly in the love scenes and in the -final tragic sacrifice, did her beautiful voice shake with a suffering -so intense that it was real. - -Randolph she saw several times a week in his accustomed place in the -first row. But his efforts to see her she ignored. A scene with him -would be unbearable, leading as it must nowhere. So she left his notes -unanswered, knowing he would eventually conclude that his passion the -night of their last meeting had been unwelcome, that she was choosing -the simplest means of telling him so. He wrote at first anxiously, -then demandingly, and when she failed to answer—stopped. When the -notes ceased to come she felt more miserably alone than ever in her -life, reaching back into the past for their hours together as groping -thoughts reach for memories of the dead. - -She grew thin as a rail and her pallor was no longer creamy. It was -dead white, with unbecoming lines traced from nose to mouth. Seabury -remarked the change and suggested that she needed a change of air. - -“You’ve been working too hard and you show it. When does your season -close?” - -“Sometime in June.” - -“Why don’t you get Kane to let you off the end of this month?” - -“I don’t want to be let off. I’d like to play all summer.” - -“Good Lord, it would kill you!” - -“It will kill me if I don’t work.” - -“Look here!” He went over to her chair, looked at her closely. “What’s -the matter?” - -He had dropped in to tea at her apartment. She was seated behind the -copper samovar, white face emphasized against the dark hangings, -fingers moving restlessly among the tea things. - -“Something’s wrong,” he persisted as she did not answer. “What is it?” - -“Oh, a million things,—a million little things that don’t count.” - -“Looks to me if it was one big thing that does.” He drew her out of -the chair—toward the window. “Come on—’fess up to papa!” - -“Well, for one thing—” she bit her lip, woman-wise trying in her own -soul to veer away from the big issue by concentrating on a lesser. “My -mother’s blackmailing me.” - -“Your—what?” - -She looked up, met his stare of dismay. “The little old lady you see -around here sometimes.” - -“I thought she was a maid. Look here—I don’t understand. You—why, -Lizzie Parsons, you’ve been an orphan for years!” - -“I know I have. But I had to have some one—mother preferred—to protect -me.” - -“I see—” A light dawned. - -“So I engaged her. She looked the part and seemed a gentle, pathetic -soul—and now she’s blackmailing me.” - -He grinned in spite of the seriousness of it. “Is she likely ever to -squeal?” - -“Not as long as I give her all the money she wants. But it’s getting -on my nerves. She makes my life miserable by threatening to take my -story to the newspapers.” - -“Next time she does it, send for me and I’ll bully her into keeping -quiet.” He made a move toward the door. “Is she here? I’ll do it now.” - -“No—no!” She stopped him. “Let well enough alone.” - -He took her hand. “Poor kid, you are in a mess!” - -“I’ve committed suicide, Lou,” she said abruptly. - -He looked at her silently, then shook his head. “What else is -bothering you?” - -“What—what makes you ask that?” - -“A blackmailing mama might make you look tired and worried but she -wouldn’t put all that sorrow into your eyes. Why, you look like -Isolde—by Jove, that’s it! Love stuff!” - -“How absurd!” She looked away. “Whom could I be in love with?” - -“Not with me, that’s a sure thing. Though, of course you know I’m in -love with you.” - -“Lou—!” - -“Oh, don’t worry. I know I haven’t a chance. But I care enough to be -darned upset by your condition. Now, come along, let papa fix things -for you.” - -“They can’t be fixed, Lou, ever. When you’ve chosen to be two people -in one, you’ve got to stand up and take the consequences if God -ordains that two’s company and three’s a crowd.” She gave him a smile, -whimsical but without mirth. “Have you ever heard that saying: ‘_Je -suis ce que je suis, mais je ne suis pas ce que je suis?_’” - -Seabury’s brow wrinkled. “I sing French. I don’t speak it.” - -“It’s a play on verbs: ‘I am what I am, but I am not what I follow,’” -she translated. “Well, that’s me!” - -He tried to persuade her to give him her confidence but she smiled and -told him there was nothing further to confide. - -A few weeks later just before her season closed, he asked what plans -she had made for the summer. Kane was arranging to send her on tour -with “The Temptress” before opening in New York in a play being -written for her. She would have July and part of August to rest. - -“I shall stay in town,” she told him, “and study.” - -He protested vehemently. - -“No use, Lou! I couldn’t bear being among people and this is the best -place to hide away. Besides, there’s my mother to consider. I can’t -risk having her run loose in New York without me.” - -“But you must rest!” - -“I must keep going, with as much work as I can manage.” - -He bent over her, his kind brown eyes troubled. - -“You’ll kill yourself.” - -“On the contrary, I wish that I weren’t so intensely alive.” Then she -smiled and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about Lisa Parsinova. -She’s in fine shape.” - -“But Lizzie Parsons?” he put in. - -“She doesn’t count.” - -“Seen Rand lately?” he asked casually as he got up to go. - -“A number of times.” She had seen him only too frequently from the far -side of the footlights. “Have you?” - -“No. He’s busy. Getting ready to go to Arizona. But of course you know -about that.” - -“Y—yes. Has he told you when he leaves?” - -“Tuesday of next week. May be gone a year. Don’t know why.” - -She turned her back to the light so that her face was blurred and -misty and he could not read its expression. “Do you—do you think he -looks quite well?” she prompted, eager for some news, any news of him. - -“Well, it struck me he looked a bit seedy last time I saw him—not just -up to the mark, that is. Probably spring fever. How does he impress -you?” - -“I—I hadn’t noticed any change.” - -When he had gone, she picked up the calendar on her desk and stared at -the day and date. Friday! By this time next week, a stretch of -continent would rush between her and Hubert Randolph. She shrugged her -shoulders with a short laugh. What mattered miles when worlds -stretched between them now! - -She went into her bedroom, locked the door. Lizzie Parsons leaned -close to her mirror, stared into it. The white face and black-rimmed -eyes of Lisa Parsinova stared back. A frenzy seized her. She caught -hold of the first object her hand touched—a hair brush—and flung it -full force at the reflected face. The glass splintered. Then she -stepped back in trembling terror. Good heavens! Was she actually -becoming that Russian fiend? - -On Monday night her gaze wandered instinctively toward Hubert’s -accustomed place in the orchestra. He was not there. Of course she -had expected that, but she would have liked just one more look at him. -Women have a strange way of wanting that which tortures them. - -After the final curtain Kane appeared in her dressing-room and -suggested that they take a drive up Riverside and a bite of supper -somewhere along the road. He wanted to talk to her about the new play, -about her route for the coming season and a date for her New York -opening. His attitude had become thoroughly friendly and businesslike. -He was too much the artist to allow failure in a lesser game to -interfere with success in a greater. - -It was nearing one when they drove back through the soft summer night. -The air touched her face like velvet but brought no drowsiness to her -eyes, no balm to the realization of blankness ahead—not of weeks or -months, but of years. - -With the passing of those years it was inevitable that she become -Parsinova—with nothing left of poor, defunct Lizzie Parsons but the -recollection of a love that had touched her life like the moon on a -summer sea. - -The Drive was still dotted with strolling couples oblivious of -passers-by. Cars sped past them, wheels expertly manipulated by one -hand. Mingled young laughter rang out like bells. - -Kane’s rich voice flowed on, dwelling now on this, now on that scene -of the play. She listened absently, eyes straying in a way that was -absurd toward the magic of a June night, the enviable good fortune of -those who could become part of it. - -“I shall give you even greater opportunities than you have had. I -shall produce a piece of work that will be epoch-making,” he told her. - -She told him how pleased she was. - -When they arrived at her apartment she asked him not to trouble -getting out of the car, and stood and watched it swing round the -corner. Then slowly she turned and went indoors. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Parsinova unlocked her door, stepped into the little foyer and after -an instant’s pause to take off hat and dustcoat, crossed the hall to -her living-room. Once more cretonne hung in the doorway and slips of -it covered the furniture. Summer had served as sufficient excuse to -convert the place to its former simplicity. The sight of cathedral -chairs and gold cushions had for the past few weeks depressed her to -the point of mania. More than once she wanted to tear them to bits. - -The dim light from the foyer sifted weirdly into the dark, playing -here and there like ghost hands lifting the shadows. She felt her way -toward the fireplace, dropped to the floor, her head touching the -chair arm, and stared at the spot where in the flames she had -visualized the scenes he painted. It was blank now, just a vague -square full of darkness, but it gave her back his voice, the sense of -his strength, the caress of his arms. It sent once more sifting upward -the aroma of cloudy pipe smoke through which he had wanted to see her -face. Her eyes closed. Almost she sensed him there in the magic of one -of those long silences that needed no words. Almost she could feel his -touch upon her hair, her longing made it so real. - -Tears came hot under her lids, the first she had shed since that -night. They streamed shamelessly down her cheeks and onto the sheer -clinging dress. All pose—and she had grown used to posing even to -herself—slid from her. Her poise slipped with it. The great Parsinova -became just a lonely, huddled heap of a girl. - -She lay so, whispering his name shamelessly into the darkness when -suddenly it seemed that she was being lifted and drawn into the big -chair. It was like embarking into some dreamland of her own making. -She held her breath, choked with the fear that she might shatter it. -The caress upon her hair, arms closing round her, lips seeking hers! -It was not until she had the actual sense of a rough coat against her -cheek that, galvanized with terror, she started up and backed toward -the floor lamp that stood at one side of the fireplace. - -The soft light went up. Hubert Randolph was sitting there! It was -impossible of course! Slowly she went toward him, reached out a hand, -touched his arm. - -He laughed. “Oh, I’m real enough!” - -She forgot her accent. At that moment she could not have assumed it -even though the future, though life itself, depended on it. “But -how—how—” - -“I’ve been waiting for you since eleven-thirty,” he put in, apparently -not noticing the difference. “I concluded I was entitled at least to a -‘good-by’ from the woman I love.” - -She gazed at him silently a moment and then because her heart and -throat were full, she voiced a triviality. “How did you get in?” - -“Your little old woman! I bribed her. I’d had an idea I could go away -without seeing you. Well, I couldn’t, that’s all.” - -Her nerves were quivering like live things. She moved toward the -couch, dropped on it. “I—” she said at last haltingly—“I am not the -woman you love.” - -He looked across at her. - -She went on without meeting his eyes. After the unconscious revelation -she had given him during those moments when she thought herself alone, -she could no more have stopped the confession that came now than she -could have stopped her breath. - -“I am not any of the things you think me—not one of them. I am not -Russian—not foreign at all. I was born in Vermont of American parents. -Up to the time I met Kane, my struggle for existence was in cheap -vaudeville houses, not in Moscow. I’ve never had any lovers—” - -“Well,” came with a low chuckle, “no man could object to that.” - -She looked up. Her eyes met his, amazed. “You don’t understand. I am -not Lisa Parsinova—there is no such person. I am Lizzie Parsons and -I’ve imposed on you just as I’m imposing on the American public.” - -“The American public asks chiefly to be charmed and interested. If -you’re doing that for them, they don’t care whether you’re Yankee or -Hindustani.” - -She continued to stare at him, in bewildered fashion striving to -interpret his nonchalance. “You—you can’t possibly understand,” she -breathed at last. “Aren’t you surprised?” - -“Not in the least. You see, I’ve been Kane’s backer for years. I was -with him in the vaudeville house the night he first saw you. As a -matter of fact, I was the one who suggested to him that you’d be a -winner on Broadway. Of course the foreign stuff was his. Any number of -times I’ve watched him work with you from an adjoining room. You don’t -know what pride I’ve felt in your success.” - -“Then why, all these months, have you let me believe you were being -fooled?” - -“Well, I hadn’t exactly taken count of the fact that I was going to -love you. And when the blow came I realized that if I’d been lucky -enough to make you care anything for me, you couldn’t go on acting to -me. You’d have to tell me—and I wanted you to, because you couldn’t -help it. That night when I had you in my arms, I thought some sort of -admission would come. When it didn’t and you ignored all my attempts -to see you, I could only conclude I’d lost out.” - -“You didn’t guess—” - -“Not until to-night.” - -She still groped uncertainly, not able to fasten on any one fact. “It -was Kane, then, who told you where I lived.” - -“No. Your little old woman here.” - -“My little old woman?” - -“She’s a canny soul. Must have found one of my notes that you brought -home from the theater or something like that, because she looked me up -one day and offered to sell me some interesting information about you. -I paid her _not_ to sell it and threatened her with jail if she went -to anybody else. Told her she was guilty of a criminal offense that -could send her up for twenty years. I think I made it strong enough -to shut her up for the rest of her days.” - -“She’s been collecting from me just the same straight along.” - -He flung back his head. “I said she was canny. Before I go West I’ll -have another talk with her.” - -“You—you’re going to-morrow?” - -“No, I’m waiting over. You close Saturday night. We’ll leave Sunday.” - -With the last words, he leaned forward. She took a quick step toward -the wide chair, then stopped abruptly. - -“But what am I to do with Parsinova?” - -He pulled out his pipe, reflectively examined it. - -“Think of the novelty—I’ll have two wives in one.” - -Her lips tightened. - -“No, you won’t! I’m going to take that woman out on a lake this summer -and capsize the boat—drown her! And the body will never be found. Then -I’m going to let my hair go back to its own color! Which one of us is -it,” she added suddenly, “that you love?” - -He laid his pipe on the chair arm. - -“The little girl who called to me in the dark. Now come back here, -Lizzie Parsons, where you belong!” - -“I’ll always be jealous of that Russian devil!” she warned him. - - - - -MADAME PEACOCK - -_CHARACTER DRAMA_ - - -The battle royal of all time is between character and circumstance. -The way we meet the experience that waits for us round the corner is -the eternal Comédie Humaine. Success is the hole in the ground—the -banana peel—the stumbling block that may trip us up. It is as -uncertain as to-morrow. - - - - -MADAME PEACOCK - -CHAPTER I - - -Of course that was not her name. No one knew just how she had been -christened—if at all. To a worshipful public she was known as Jane -Goring, which, as names go, answered all purposes and was quite as -simple as she was ornate. But “Peacock” was the title of the play in -which she had made the season’s hit and a wave of fads in honor of it -had typhooned over New York in consequence. - -There were perfumes with bottles far more valuable than their contents -on which strutted the iridescent bird of beauty. There were soaps and -powders and sachets sold in green satin boxes similarly decorated and -similarly priced. Peacock feather fans swayed at dances and the opera -despite the age-old hoodoo. Beaded bags were worked in the popular -design. Dressmakers dictated the spreading train. Blues and greens in -every conceivably odd shade were introduced as the new color. The -peacock coiffure, originated by Goring, was imitated by dowager and -débutante, by movie star and chorus queen, by the girl behind the -counter even unto the cash girl—hair drawn flat over the top of the -head and puffed out stiffly at the ears, the whole being completed by -a comb that jutted at right angles. In Goring’s mahogany swirl, -framing as it did a face rather broad at the cheek-bones and tapering -heart-shaped to the chin, an impertinent nose and sleepy green-gray -eyes that lifted at the corners, the effect was startling. But the -variegated types it crowned north, south and east of Broadway would -scarcely have inspired an artist to his best work. - -At the moment we make our bow to Jane Goring—for Goring bowed to no -one—she was on the top rung of the ladder of success. Her head had -reached the clouds and was held accordingly. So that when she looked -at you, she always looked _down_ at you. Which made those whom she -addressed feel infinitely small even when they were tall, always -excepting representatives of the press. They found her always -gracious, always smiling with corners of eyes and lips lifted and a -look of wonder at their great kindness to her. Each time she received -them it was in some new and amazing costume in one of the shades she -had made popular, with jangling jade or emeralds in her ears and green -lights darting from the comb in her hair. She spoke at length of the -arts and collected immense royalties from candy boxes, silk -advertisements and cold creams bearing her name and endorsement. - -Somewhere in the dim and distant past her flaming head and Jap-like -eyes had graced the chorus. She had lived in a hall bedroom; had been -caught frying chops over an alcohol stove; had been lectured by the -landlady; had found the milk frozen to her window sill on winter -mornings; had known the exquisite thrill of being raised to a few -lines of persiflage with the musical comedy’s comedian. In those days -a young newspaper man, Bob McNaughton, had found her out, proclaimed -her a genius, and married her—not because of her genius, however, but -because he adored her. They had spent their honeymoon one Sunday on -the Palisades, and he had kissed her finger tips one by one and told -her how he was going to make her. - -“There’s Jefferson who has our dramatic column—I’ll get him to give -you a boost every now and then. He stands in with a bunch of critics. -He’ll drop a word about you and they’re bound to take notice. You’ll -see, darling, what I’m going to do for you!” - -And she had put her vivid head on his shoulder and gazed down at the -shining river and murmured that she didn’t care whether he did -anything for her or not. She loved him—she didn’t want anything in the -world but him. - -The hall bedroom had given place to the third-story back, the frying -chops to a French table d’hôte that boasted a bottle of red ink with a -sixty-cent dinner, and Jane Goring was happy in the possession of a -broad shoulder to weep on when the latest step came hard or the -director asked casually if her legs were made of leather. - -In the years that followed, the ardent young husband had made good his -promises. He had systematically press-agented Goring with a sincerity -and enthusiasm born of love. Untiringly he had worked to bring her -first to managerial, then to public notice. And his efforts, added to -natural talent and a bizarre personality, had hoisted her to the top -rung heretofore mentioned. “Peacock” marked the fourth season of her -success. - -But long before that Bob McNaughton had awakened one morning to find -gray hairs threading his brown, and himself still a reporter—by no -means a star one. He had been so busy making her career that he had -forgotten to make his own. - -It was about this time that his wife left him. Not actually left him, -of course, for at that particular moment Goring would not have stooped -to anything so disturbing as divorce. Waves of popular favor had begun -to roll smoothly up the beach of her ambition. But her temperament -demanded a home all her own. So they maintained separate -apartments—had done so for several years—his a room and bath in a -downtown bachelor hotel, hers a nine room and three-bath duplex in an -uptown studio building. - -In the beginning they had seen each other occasionally. But each time -they met, Bob seemed to have grown grayer. Whether this fact was a -reminder that her own hair, left to itself, might show the same -tendency, or whether it was just the look in his eyes—the same look -they had worn that Sunday on the Palisades—seeing him began to tell on -her nerves. - -More and more she denied herself to him until he became more of a -stranger in her beautiful rooms than the flock of tame robins who -pecked out of her hand at afternoon tea. - -As a matter of fact, few of Goring’s vast throng of admirers even -guessed there was a husband in the offing. Women persistently married -her off to her handsome leading man, and more than one young -millionaire about town ecstatically visualized her presiding at his -dinner table. - -So far as Jane Goring was concerned, Bob McNaughton belonged to -another life. Thus it was rather a shock to come home from the theater -one night when “Peacock” was at the height of its run and find her -husband waiting for her. It was fully five months since she had seen -him; over a year since she had been at home to him after the theater. - -He was striding up and down her drawing-room, hands thrust deep into -his pockets, head bent. But when one considers that her drawing-room -consisted of three thrown into one, it was not surprising that at -first she was not conscious of another’s presence. She came in, -switched on the sidelights, dropped her furs and sank on the -davenport, hand hovering toward the table back of her, when from the -other end of the room, her name was spoken. - -She sat up, startled, and saw Bob coming into the range of bluish -light from a Chinese temple lamp at the side of the piano. Jane Goring -looked her amazement. He drew nearer, stopped abruptly and faced her. - -“My apologies,” he said with a slight, rather twisted smile, “for -calling so late.” - -She dropped back, the look of amazement still lighting her long sleepy -eyes. “You did rather—startle me.” - -For a moment neither spoke. Then he indicated the other corner of the -deep-cushioned couch, “May I sit down?” - -“Certainly.” It was accompanied by a slight shrug. - -His hand dove into his vest pocket and brought out a silver cigarette -case. He clicked it open, held it out to her. She may or may not have -noticed that his movements were tense and jerky, that the case was -held not quite steadily. She gave a faint gesture of dissent, -reaching once more to the table at her back, and opened a gold lacquer -box. - -“I have a new special brand—imported for me from Egypt.” - -He took one of his own, pocketing the case, and she waited for some -explanation of his visit. - -“You’re looking well,” he began after a moment without looking at her. - -“Feeling very fit,” she returned, and waited once more. - -He did not speak, just sat staring down at his rather tightly clenched -hands. - -She did notice then that he was looking old—years older than when she -had last seen him. Bob was forty-two,—to-night he looked fifty. Jane -was,—well, not even “Who’s Who” knew exactly how old Jane Goring -was—any woman who will tell her right age will tell anything!—but she -looked well under thirty. - -The silence seemed to demand something of her. - -“And you?” she queried politely. - -He wheeled round in his corner. “That’s just what I’ve come to see you -about,” he brought out. “Matter of fact, I waited until the last -minute—didn’t want to bother you with it.” - -“The last minute?” - -“Yes. I’m pulling up stakes—beating it for Colorado to-morrow.” - -At the back of Jane Goring’s brain, though even to herself she did not -acknowledge it, flared a sudden flash of relief. Like a jagged streak -of lightning across a summer sky it was there—and gone. - -“Where—in Colorado?” - -“Denver.” - -“With what paper?” - -“None, for a time. It’s like this.” He paused, seemed to be searching -for words, his hands clenched and unclenched nervously. “I’ve -been seeing Frothingham, the specialist, you know. Oh, it’s -nothing—contraction in the chest now and then and bit of a cough in -bad weather. Beastly uncomfortable, though. He tells me if I go now I -can get rid of it in six months or so.” - -Goring gazed at the breadth of shoulder on which her head had snuggled -so peacefully in the old days. Not that that phase of it occurred to -her just then, but she stared at the big frame and could scarcely -credit what he told her. - -“But how in the world did you get such a thing?” - -“It got me, my dear,—before I knew it. Fellow living alone’s apt to -grow careless. Anyway, there it is, and it’s up to me to light out.” - -Silence again for a moment, then—“I’m sorry, old boy,” she murmured. - -“That’s good to know.” He slid nearer to her along the couch. Her face -through the pungent smoke from the Egyptian cigarette was an -indefinite white blur, vague as a dream, impossible to read. “I was -hoping, in a way, that you would be. Makes it easier for me to put up -the proposition I have in mind.” - -“Yes?” she questioned as he paused again. - -“But first I want to outline something of my plans once I knock this -bug on the head.” - -“Yes?” - -“The Graystone has made me an offer. I’ve been interested in the movie -game for the past few years; been studying it from the inside. And -recently Crosby Stone—he’s vice-president of the Graystone—asked me to -go to the Coast and take charge of the editorial department at their -Western studio. I told him that for the present I couldn’t consider -it—health needed jogging up. He said the job would be there for me -whenever I wanted it.” - -“Seems to me an excellent idea,” she observed. - -“Now what I wanted to ask you is this.” He fumbled for his case once -more. Against the light from the table lamp, his features formed a -sharp tense silhouette. He bent forward, struck a match. It flared -upward, emphasized the lines that were almost ridges in his face. -Suddenly he turned, and his next words came thick. “Janey, I want you -to do this much. Will you—when you close—take a run out to Colorado -and spend part of the summer with me?” - -The tapering white hand that held the cigarette to her lips dropped as -if stricken. She straightened and her drowsy green eyes looked down on -him from the immense height of the top rung. - -“My dear boy!” she ejaculated. - -“Of course,” he put in quickly, “I wouldn’t expect you to stay in -Denver. Must be any number of mountain resorts we could go to—I’ll ask -Frothingham.” - -“But, my dear boy, I couldn’t possibly. To begin with, I’m taking -‘Peacock’ on the road early in August, playing Philadelphia, Boston, -Chicago—all the big cities. Cleeburg wants to keep me out in it until -February when we begin work on a new production. That leaves me only a -few weeks’ vacation—” - -“Spend them with me. Janey—” He leaned over with a swift, impulsive -movement, lifted her left hand, the little finger of which was -completely covered by a big beetle-green scarab, and kissed the tips -one by one. “Janey, there’s just you—no one else! These last years -have been hell. I’ve missed you—I’ve wanted you! A few weeks—is that -too much to ask?” - -She drew her hand away—gently enough. But a little shudder of disgust -ran down her spine. “But I can’t, don’t you see?” she began -conversationally. “Those few weeks I must have to myself. I need the -rest.” - -“Can’t we take it together? Can’t we go up into the mountains—away -from the muck of the world—and get to know each other all over again? -Remember our honeymoon, dear, the afternoon by the river? What a happy -pair of kids we were! Let’s have a taste of that, just a taste again.” - -A slight flicker of amusement—oh, very slight—raised the corners of -her upslanted eyes. “Afraid we’ve passed the honeymoon age, dear boy.” - -“It’s your love I want, Janey,” came from him desperately. “Just to -feel that you’ll come to me for a time when I need you.” - -She got up, crushed the spark from her cigarette, tossed it with a -gesture of distaste into the tray and moved toward the piano. In her -trailing green gown with its fanlike train—Goring never wore short -skirts—and her dangling scarab earrings, she looked very exotic, very -tall and altogether unapproachable. She trailed the length of the room -and stopped under the Chinese temple lamp. Its blue light shed an aura -about her, giving her skin the moon-glow that Henner’s brush has made -immortal. - -Her husband gazed after her. Mercifully she stopped with her back -toward him, and he failed to get the expression that pressed close her -lips. His eyes had followed her with dog-like pleading. Without -meeting them she knew—felt it. Neither could she escape the urge in -his voice. In the old days, that deep tender note had thrilled her, -made her yearn for him, given her the assurance that whatever -happened, Bob would be there to make things right. To-night it merely -annoyed her, rendered her position more difficult. Seeing Bob at all -had become trying and the very thought of the thing he now suggested -irritated her beyond measure. She had so completely done with -him—finished! Taking advantage of this sudden illness was taking -advantage of her. With all her being she resented it. - -She stood for a moment turned from him, fingering the blue and gold -tassel that hung from a bit of Chinese embroidery flung across the -piano. Finally she turned back, face as void of light or shade as the -old idol enshrined in a corner. - -“Suppose we have a snack of supper and talk things over,” she -suggested. - -He was sitting bent almost double, elbows on knees, head in hands. A -wave of contempt for his attitude of dejection swept over her. She was -so palpitant with life, vibrating with the thrill—ever new, ever -sweet—that the laurel wreath brings. - -Without waiting for a reply she rang. A tired-eyed maid appeared. -Goring gave her directions and when the girl had gone out, proceeded -to chat casually about affairs of the theater—a new firm of managers -recently bobbed up on the horizon with a new play by a new author; the -outlook for next season; the trend toward satirical comedy. - -Bob sat without moving, knuckles pressing white against his forehead, -the veins on his hands standing out like blue welts. - -Presently he looked up. - -“I take it you are _not_ coming out to me.” - -Goring in the depths of a chair some distance from him stirred -uneasily. “My dear boy, I’ve told you. It’s not only impractical—it’s -impossible.” - -“Of course! I was an ass to think you might.” - -“Can’t you see? I’m not my own mistress. I belong to my public. I’ve -got to conserve my strength for them—and my work.” - -“Yes,—I see.” - -“If I consulted my own desires—but I haven’t the moral right. I must -sacrifice what you want—what I want—to what my public expects of me.” - -He might have reminded her of the years he had given to creating that -public for her. He might have dwelt at length on his Machiavellian -boosting of a red-haired show girl through the columns of his own -paper and gradually with insertions here and there in periodicals of -the theater, until managers began to ask who this Jane Goring was. He -might have made mention of the evenings he had spent round the Lambs -and the Friars adding to his list of acquaintances, as men can only at -men’s clubs, those who would eventually be of service to her. - -He merely smiled with his lips, lighted another cigarette and tried to -cover the fact that the flame flickered. - -“You must understand how I’m placed,” she persisted. - -“I understand.” - -His laconic reply, followed by flat silence, instead of alleviating, -somehow increased her discomfort. - -After a moment he spoke. “Ever read ‘Frankenstein,’ Janey?” - -“No.” - -“Queer tale of a chap who tried to create a superman.” - -“Well?” Her brows contracted, puzzled. - -“Well—his superman rose up and destroyed him.” - -“I fail to see—” The frown deepened. - -“Oh, just a flight of fancy. Don’t mind me.” Again his hand struck a -flickering match. - -“Ought you to smoke so much?” she asked, to fill in the gap. “I -shouldn’t think it would be good for—for—” - -“My lungs? Oh, nothing wrong with them—actually. Dare say they’ll pull -up O.K. once I pull out of this town. Y’know what Paul Bourget said -about New York. Fellow asked him how he liked our climate, and he -answered, ‘But my dear man,—you do not have climate. You have samples -of weather!’” - -She laughed and the weight of the air lifted somewhat. The maid -brought in a steaming chafing dish, set it on a nest of tables and -drew out the smaller two, placing them in front of the couch. - -Goring moved over, once more took the corner opposite her husband. His -eyes traveled the length of her. - -“You grow more beautiful every time I see you, Janey. Success is a -first rate old alchemist, isn’t it?” - -She smiled down, her whole face softening. - -The maid laid an embroidered doily of finest linen on each of the two -small tables and brought silver platters of creamed mushrooms with a -faint aroma of sherry. From a dusty bottle marked Amontillado she -poured into slim-necked glasses the same wine, glistening and amber. - -When she had finished serving them, she asked tentatively if madame -wished her to wait up. - -Goring wondered why the question brought from Bob a look of curiosity, -why he turned and watched her, waiting; why he smiled—with his eyes -this time—when she told the girl to go to bed. - -She moved nearer—the tables were placed side by side—and sipped the -sherry. A few moments passed during which she noticed uncomfortably -that he had not touched the dainty, tempting dish before him. - -“You’re not eating?” - -“Not particularly hungry.” He lifted his glass, twirling it between -thumb and forefinger, his gaze never leaving her. “I want to fill my -eyes with you, Janey. May be a long time before I see you again.” - -Her eyes warmed to the tense adulation in his. After all, he did look -beastly ill, and the least she could do would be to give him the -memory of a little kindness to carry away. - -“And I want you to know, Bob, that I’ll be thinking of you, hoping and -praying that before long you’ll be quite fit again.” She leaned over, -touching his hand lightly with hers. Instantly his closed over -it—feverishly, as a man clings to hope when his ship of life has been -broken into wreckage. - -“Will you, Janey?” - -“Of course.” - -“That will help—some.” He put down the glass and caught her other -hand, drawing her nearer. “I’d like to feel there’s still a corner for -me. No other fellow taking my place, I mean.” - -“How absurd! You know I haven’t time even to think of men.” - -“They have plenty of time to think of you.” Again that quizzical -smile. “I’ve got that much over them, haven’t I? You’re _my_ wife.” - -She smiled back and tried to draw away but he held her with the grip -of hot iron. - -“That’s what I’ve got over them, Janey—all of them. You may belong to -your public now but you’ve been mine. We’ve had our youth together, -haven’t we?” - -“Yes.” - -“We’ve had the best of life together.” - -“Yes.” - -“Nobody can take that from me.” He spoke breathlessly. - -Suddenly his arm went round her, crushed her to him and his lips were -against hers. “My love!” he whispered. - -Jane Goring’s body went rigid. She drew herself erect and the warmth -died out of her eyes as swiftly as a flame extinguished. Sharply her -slim white hands thrust out in defense. She pulled backward. Their -gaze met—locked. In his was hurt question. In hers a flash of fury. He -sat staring at her a moment and he did not look _up_. It was a look -direct, straight, boring to the heart of her. - -And then he got to his feet. “I beg your pardon,” he began. “I—I -thought—” He paused, jaws coming together as though clamped. Without -another look at her he walked the length of the room. - -At the door he turned. “Damn me for my humility!” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Exceeding the most exalted expectations, “Peacock” ran two full -seasons. It might even have packed houses during the hot spell, save -that the star decided to give herself a rest, well-earned, and, of -course without her, the theater had to remain dark. At the end of four -weeks spent at a fashionable Adirondack hotel where she was fêted like -visiting royalty and her gowns created a sensation, she reopened and -the continued success of the play warranted Cleeburg’s decision to -give it another season on Broadway. - -During all that time Goring had not a word from her husband. Even of -his Denver address she was unaware. But the fact that he did not write -failed to disturb her. It was a relief rather. The first few months of -his absence she dreaded another plea from him. In case his health had -grown no better, or—as was quite possible—had grown worse, further -excuses would be difficult. As the weeks rolled into months and the -months accumulated into a year and still not a line, the thought of -him lapsed into merely perfunctory curiosity. He must be alive or -she’d have been informed. Hence, if ever she needed to get in touch -with him it would be easy enough to do so through his former paper or -his clubs. Thus she blotted even the thought of him from her books. - -Another season of acclaim on the road and she was back in New York -ready for rehearsals. Her new play, made to order for her by a -prominent dramatist, was read by him in her apartment the day of her -arrival. - -Cleeburg met her at the Grand Central, full of enthusiasm, chewing the -butt of a cigar while his hands outlined the plot as an artist smudges -in with charcoal the foundations of his picture. - -Goring’s manager had started life as a newsboy somewhere east of -Broadway and a few of the habits of childhood had become the habits of -a lifetime. His manners were not Chesterfieldian. Frequently he forgot -to take off his hat when a lady entered the room. His cigar was -removed from the right-hand corner of his mouth only to be shifted to -the left. But more than one actress out of a job could borrow a -hundred or two from him with no surer guarantee than her I.O.U. And -those of the chorus whose eyes had not grown hard from seeing too much -of the Rialto when lights are brightest, affectionately called him -“Papa.” - -Rudolph Cleeburg or ’Dolph as he was familiarly named—was short and -stocky; heavily built, in fact, but with a lightness of foot that -enabled him to prance about the stage while directing, and an Oriental -imagination that carried him into any rôle he wanted to assume without -making him appear ridiculous. One of the ablest directors in the -country, in spite of English that sometimes tobogganed, he always took -his productions personally in hand once the first rough edges were -smoothed down. With Goring, of course, he assumed charge from the -beginning. She would have no one else. - -The manager’s admiration for his star had at the start been of the -proverbial cat-and-queen variety. But as their association stretched -over the years, it was shorn of the awe in which he had first held her -and once he had even reached the point of proposing. It was when she -informed him that she and Bob had separated. - -“Divorce?” he had asked quickly. And with her shake of the head, -“Well, if ever you do, there’s little ’Dolph waiting to step into his -shoes. Don’t forget that, Jane. It’s straight goods.” - -The proposal had vastly amused her. - -They drove up town through the fresh sweetness of a May morning. -Cleeburg’s panama dropped to the floor of the car as he excitedly -sketched the story in the air, one idea tumbling after the other as -fast as words would come. His bald head shone as did his eyes. All his -features were prominent—nose, eyes, teeth—but most prominent of all -was his smile which seemed to light like an arc his round commonplace -face. This he flashed delightedly as Goring listened with a calmness -unbroken. - -“It’s sure fire, Jane! Sure fire! We got a bigger go than ‘Peacock’ -and that’s going some.” - -Jane Goring said little until the apartment was reached. Then she -shook hands with the author who was waiting for them, left the two men -together while she changed from her traveling clothes, and an hour -later glided in cool and revived in a peacock-blue house-gown whose -sleeves floated outward like wings. Cleeburg’s watch was in his hand, -but he pocketed it without a word as she entered, and settled back in -his chair. - -The author opened his script and began to read. His voice filled the -silent room, chorused occasionally by the gay trill of birds from the -park across the way or city sounds from the street below. - -The manager’s smile broadened with satisfaction as he progressed. The -cigar moved back and forth, propelled by emotion. But Goring listened -without comment, eyes half closed, gazing down at the playwright’s -head bowed over his manuscript. - -Presently a new sound broke upon the stillness. It was from neither -bird nor branch, neither the clang of bells nor the rush of traffic. -It was light and regular, and it came from within—the steady tapping -of a slippered foot. Toward the end of Act II it became noticeable and -Cleeburg looked round interrogatively. - -Tap—tap! Tap—tap! More swift, more impatient,—until the author’s voice -proclaimed “Curtain.” - -Then Jane Goring spoke—and the tapping was explained. “But, my dear -Mr. Thorne, you don’t expect me to play the lead in _that_?” - -Cleeburg wheeled about in his chair. “What’s the matter with it?” - -“Why, there’s nothing for me—not a thing!” - -“Nothing for you?” - -“Nothing! Not a single opportunity in those first two acts.” - -Cleeburg sprang up. His cigar rotaried excitedly. “No opportunities? -My God, Jane, what do you want? As the play stands, you’re the whole -show!” - -“As the play stands, you might as well hand it to Harrison -Burke”—Burke was her leading man—“and let me retire,” came coolly. - -The playwright’s eyes began to smoulder. “I don’t get you, Miss -Goring. This character has been absolutely built round you.” - -She turned on him, still cool, still aloof. - -“Then why is your man allowed to dominate every scene?” - -“He isn’t,” the author protested. “The sympathy is yours, even when -I’ve been compelled to give him the long speeches.” - -“I don’t see it—not at all. You don’t even give me an opportunity to -wear decent clothes.” - -“That comes in your last act,” Cleeburg burst out. - -“Well, I don’t want to wait until the last act.” - -“I can’t very well put a factory girl in satins,” the playwright -observed. - -“Why make her a factory girl?” - -He threw up his hands and subsided. - -Cleeburg took to pacing the floor. “Look here, Jane,” he said finally, -“let’s get a line on this. You’ve given ’em a fashion plate for three -solid years. Show ’em you can do something else. Otherwise they’ll get -sick and tired of you. This part’s great—just what you need. You act -through the first two acts and in the last you splurge. What more do -you want?” - -“I want it understood that I’m the star of the production!” - -“Well, it is. Nobody else has a chance. Good Lord, Burke’s speeches -are just feeders! You’ve got—everything.” - -“I don’t see it.” - -The dramatist, who was sufficiently famous to be independent of -stars, rose. “Under the circumstances, there’s no need to read -further.” - -“Hold on! Hold on!” Cleeburg clutched his arm. “Don’t take it like -that, old man. Let’s go into the thing and see what can be done to -please all parties.” - -They did go into it for three long hours, at the end of which Jane -Goring insisted that she must have luncheon. She was as unruffled as -when she had entered—and as firm. Cleeburg was mopping his brow. -Through his glasses the playwright’s eyes were blazing. It was then -two forty-five. By that hour they had compromised to the extent of -cutting some of the hero’s long speeches and giving her a chance to -change her costume in the last act. - -At luncheon Cleeburg consumed little more than whiskey and soda, and -wondered why he got no cooler. Likewise he swore at the twittering of -the birds and the distant clang of street cars. - -When Jane Goring had finished the last morsel of her chicken salad and -leisurely emptied her cup of Chinese tea, they adjourned once more to -the drawing-room and the discussion was resumed. - -A lantern of golden fire was hanging in the Western sky by the time -the play had been revamped to the star’s satisfaction. More than once -its author took hat in hand and made for the door. But Cleeburg’s -persuasive clutch and the whisper that an additional advance would be -paid for his trouble detained him. And finally an agreement was -reached. - -Her objection to the drama as it stood, however, necessitated a -postponement of rehearsals and it was late July before the company -assembled on the stage of a playhouse just off Broadway. It annoyed -Goring to forego her usual few weeks of rest but since she wished to -have a New York opening in October, there was nothing else to be done. - -The day the company was called was dank and humid, a breathless day -thick with summer dust, ominous with thunderclouds. - -At ten Goring emerged from a cold bath, was dressed by her maid’s -moist fingers, and at eleven crossed the soggy pavement from her car -to the stage entrance. The drive downtown had been stifling. It -dizzied her. To enter the dark passageway and look out into the space -of auditorium, linen-covered, was a relief. - -What is there about an empty theater that fascinates? The bare boards -of the stage, the heaps of scenery piled against bare brick walls, the -bare table and chairs ranged to form a semicircle within which the -actors move back and forth, the single electric light, bare of shade, -jutting up in the center like a giant eye in the cool darkness—surely -there is no illusion about them, no suggestion of the world of -make-believe into which they evolve. Yet the very odor of the place -redolent of grease-paint—those who love it sniff it as a thoroughbred -sniffs tanbark. - -Manager, actors, author—they are about to conjure from those bare -boards all the elements of life. Conflict, laughter, tears, love, -hate, happiness—death! Theirs to build, theirs to take the written -page and make of it a tingling human thing. Theirs to people empty -chairs. Theirs to clothe with flesh and blood a skeleton. A wave of -the wand and into emptiness springs a home with soft rugs and -rich-colored hangings, deep divans, the ring of voices, the flooding -of moonlight or warm glow of the sun. And best of all, out in that -empty auditorium when the lights go up will throng a crowd whose -hearts will be theirs to thrill, to wring, to charm. Theirs the -blessed privilege, the joy of creation. That’s why they love it in -spite of the ache of disappointment, the discouragement of failure. -That’s why they cling to it. - -Those assembled on the stage that throttling day of July had risen -tired from their beds, dragged wearily in from the street, noticed -that the management had electric fans going and laughed at the idea of -getting any relief from them. Yet the instant Goring appeared, -followed a few minutes later by Cleeburg, a light sprang into their -eyes, the spontaneous light of anticipation, and they promptly forgot -the weather. The play had been read to them the day before and their -parts assigned, so that they were ready to plunge into work. - -Goring shook hands with her leading man and nodded to the rest, all of -whom were known to her—she had practically the same support from year -to year—except a slight girl whose face was so thin that her eyes -looked abnormally big and hungry. It made their expression almost -frightened. - -The company ran quickly through the first act, parts in hand, while -Cleeburg sat under an electric fan and listened. Then, after a few -words with the author who was hunched in a seat somewhere in the -ghostlike auditorium, he ripped off pongee coat, his collar and -necktie, and real work began. - -Goring did little but read at the first rehearsals. She liked to -conserve her energy for the long sessions Cleeburg put her through -during the last weeks. - -When they left the theater at five everybody looked wilted but the -star. The hour for lunch had been consumed largely with liquid -refreshment and most of them again made for soda fountains. - -Goring dined with her manager on the Astor Roof. The storm, -threatening all day, had not yet broken and a black hood of clouds -bore down on the city like the shadow of death. Cleeburg, full of -plans, ordered a near-champagne cup and substantial dinner and -appeared not to notice the depression above and around them. But -Goring it affected unpleasantly. She felt irritable, annoyed by the -fact that he could eat a heavy dinner on such a night, prone to find -fault with the service, rubbed the wrong way by the strum of the -summer orchestra. - -“Did you notice how much older Burke looks?” - -“Looks good to me,” Cleeburg lifted a cup of steaming bullion while -she played with a jellied one before her. - -“He’s losing his figure, I think.” - -“We ain’t any of us chickens, Jane.” - -She pushed the cup away. - -“Not that you ain’t a pippin,” he added hastily. “You’ve got the -lines—you’ll always have ’em.” - -“Don’t talk as if I were a hundred.” Her voice was so sharp that it -cut. - -“Good Lord, no! Not one on Broadway to-day can touch you.” - -She softened a bit. “Who’s the new girl?” - -“Who?” - -“The one who plays my sister.” - -“Oh, that one! Forget her name. Lewis has it.” - -“Where did you get her?” - -“She’s been hanging round the office, Lewis says, and couple of weeks -ago she held me up on my way out. Poor little thing looked as if she -needed a job so I gave her that sister bit. Hair’s something the color -of yours—that decided me.” - -“She has a funny hysterical catch in her voice. Did you notice it?” - -“Probably she’s hungry. Looks it—poor kid! Must have Lewis slip her an -advance on her salary.” - -With gusto he cut into the _filet mignon_ and helped himself to some -new peas. The sight of the red blood oozing from the meat made Goring -feel ill. She turned her attention to the _halibut parisienne_ the -waiter placed before her. But even the slices of tomato and crisp -garnishing of lettuce could not tempt her appetite. - -“I can’t see why you gave her the part—she’s so homely.” - -“That needn’t hurt you any.” - -“But she has a scene with me, even though it is only a bit.” - -“Maybe when she gets a square meal in her she won’t look so much like -a ghost.” - -He lit a cigar, rolling it between his lips with the joy of an -epicure. - -Goring cooled her hot throat with an ice, frowning at his complacent -finality. It increased her own irritation, made her want to grip him -by the shoulders and shake him. - -The girl _was_ homely. Why did he argue about it? - -A zigzag of lightning cut through the sky. With a crash it tore open -and the deluge descended like the wrath of God sent to cleanse a -heathen city. Crash after crash, fire upon fire, barrages of rain -hurled against the buildings, shaking their very walls. - -Goring shivered. In spite of the stewing heat a chill went through -her. - -“Let’s get out of this,” she said. - -“Better wait till it’s over.” - -“I want to go home now.” - -Cleeburg signed the check. - -Like the lightning his car zigzagged through the storm. Water sprang -from the streets against the windshield. The noise about them was -deafening. Goring clung to the window strap at her side. For some -unknown reason her nerves were keyed to the nth degree. She felt -choked, as if shrieking alone would clear her throat. The first day of -work and this beastly weather, she told herself, were responsible. - -Throughout the long night the storm raged. And tossing between soft -linen sheets she did not close her eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -They opened in Washington the end of August. Cleeburg tried to get -Atlantic City but the theater had been booked weeks before his bid for -it. Hence, in spite of the star’s popularity, they did not play to -capacity. The season in the Capital was at low ebb. Most of the homes -were closed and the usual Goring audiences were out of the city. Which -after all was an advantage, for the play was still very rough. - -All things considered, both Goring and her manager were rather pleased -than otherwise. The four weeks of rehearsal had been torrid, -record-breaking heat rising from the pavements, the city consumed by -fever. The effect upon the company had been in ratio thereto. They -were limp by the date of opening, unequal to their best in spite of -the utmost effort. - -And Goring’s rôle was difficult. She did not like it as well as -“Peacock.” There was more drama, more opportunity for emotional -acting, but less for the display of gowns and the bizarre beauty that -had made both men and women flock to the other play. However, as -Cleeburg had said, she couldn’t afford to stamp herself a one-part -actress. And there was no denying the interest of the story. - -As never before, Cleeburg had put her through her paces. At the -theater after the company had dispersed, at her apartment in the -evenings, he had gone over her part again and again coaching her scene -by scene, speech by speech, until the rest, knowing nothing of those -extra sessions, judged her a miracle at quick study. - -“Unbend, Jane!” he would say, prancing up and down her long -drawing-room. “Come off your perch! You love him, Jane! You love him! -D’you know what that means? You’d die for him. He ain’t your kind and -you’d go through hell to get to him. Ever felt that way? Well, think -about it—concentrate on it—and you’ll get it over.” - -Vaguely, like a curtain lifted on another life, memory drifted before -her eyes the vision of an afternoon on the Palisades when a -vivid-haired girl clung to a brown-haired boy, whispering over and -over that she loved him—didn’t want anything ever in the whole wide -world but him. - -For purposes of the drama she concentrated on it. - -Quite like the actress she was, she flung herself into the passion of -those first months as if she had lived them yesterday. Fortunately for -her the Goring of to-day, the actress, was a shell into which emotion -could be poured as one pours burning fluid into an empty vessel. - -Little ’Dolph, with cigar twirling, eyes popping, perspiration -dripping from his forehead, and a silk handkerchief tied round his -short neck, kept her keyed to the highest pitch—no let-down, no time -to think of self or the weather or rest; no time for anything but the -part in hand. Though he would not have known whence the quotation -sprang, with him “The play’s the thing” was a litany. - -Critics in the Capital and in Baltimore were almost unanimous in the -opinion that it was a vital thing, sure of ultimate success when -placed on view for the thumbs-up, thumbs-down decision of that -capricious goddess—Broadway. - -As a rule Goring and her leading man were the only two mentioned in -the reviews, but this time almost every member of the company came in -for a quota of praise. The old mother, the character man, the juvenile -comedian, even the homely little sister with her wide hungry eyes and -the queer catch in her voice, each had a word or two. - -Gloria Cromwell was the girl’s name. It was quite as ornate as she was -plain. Goring laughed the first time she heard it. - -“Sounds as though she found it in a dime novel,” she told Cleeburg. -“Why don’t you make her change it?” - -“Says it’s her own. Anyhow, it don’t matter.” - -“No—I dare say it doesn’t. She’s entitled to something to make her -conspicuous.” - -Often she noticed the girl at rehearsal sitting in the theater after -her bit was done, leaning forward, chin in her cupped hands, mop of -reddish hair falling over eyes that devoured every move the star made. -Once they met at the stage entrance on their way out. - -“Why don’t you go home earlier?” Goring asked. “I’m sure Mr. Cleeburg -will excuse you when you’re through.” - -“I’d rather stay,” the girl answered in her peculiar breathless tone. -“I can learn so much from you, Miss Goring. Besides,” she paused, -hesitated, “I—live in a furnished room. It isn’t much to go home to.” - -“Have you been in New York long?” Goring put the question as they -moved toward the street side by side. - -“A year and a half—that is, this time. I used to come whenever I could -scrape together the fare while I was doing stock in the West. But -there never seemed to be an opening for me. Then I decided I’d best -just come and wait around or I’d never get a chance. And I waited, all -right.” - -Another pause while the wide wistful eyes filled with the same look of -fright they had worn that first day at the theater—only this time it -was the fright of memory. - -“Mr. Cleeburg has been wonderful to me. I’ll never be able to thank -him enough.” - -They had reached the curb. Goring smiled. “I shall tell him that,” she -said, and with a nod stepped into her car and drove off. - -In Washington she noticed that Miss Cromwell was looking better, -though the eyes were as hungry as ever and the figure as slight. -Undoubtedly Cleeburg was right. What she had needed was a few square -meals. Her strength seemed to increase as work increased and in their -scene together Goring remarked a give and take that made her own work -mount to greater intensity. It was a short scene in which the younger -sister who had hovered like a silent brooding shadow in the background -pleaded with the older not to break away from her own class, not to -try to go into a world she did not understand—and was met by the -defiance of one molded to make a place for herself in any world. The -scene went so well, in fact, that the author, at Cleeburg’s request, -lengthened it. At the end when Goring held out her arms and folded -the weeping girl in them, a gratifying sniffle and the flutter of -white went through the house. Which is the most either star or manager -can ask. - -The company rehearsed the greater part of the night preceding the New -York première, though Goring left the theater early to allow herself -plenty of time for rest and the customary massage. She liked to relax -thoroughly before the strenuous demands on the nerves which an opening -always made. In her sea-blue silk draped bed she would lie for hours -while the magic hands of the Swedish woman who attended her each day -sent tingling through her veins an injection of new life. And finally -a delicious drowsiness would creep over her like a thin veil drawn -between her and the turmoil of the outside world. She would find -herself presently floating on the waters of Lethe, arms outstretched, -a smile upon her lips, a gentle undulation as of waves rising and -falling beneath her. Small wonder that when she drifted back to -reality some hours later she felt rejuvenated, with a calm and control -equal to any emergency. - -She reached the theater a little after seven. On the way in she met -Miss Cromwell. The girl’s eyes were burning. Their hungry look had -gone completely and in its place had come a glow like a great light -from within. - -“Oh, Miss Goring,” she breathed in passing, “I’m so thrilled. I’ve -lived and lived for this—New York! And now it’s come! It’s actually -come!” - -Goring nodded, voiced a perfunctory “Good luck,” and wondered in her -soul what it would be like to feel once more that closing of the -throat, that turmoil of beating heart, that utter abandon of joy in -opportunity realized. It thrust her back to the day when she had -signed her first contract with Cleeburg. She and Bob had sat facing -each other a long space without a word, his two hands gripping hers -until they ached. And then— - -“I’m so glad, little girl—so damn glad!” had come from him huskily. - -Then his hands had loosed and swept round her and he had held her -close and she had cried into the lapel of his blue serge coat, tears -of sheer happiness. - -Cleeburg came to her dressing-room shortly before the rise of the -curtain to tell her the house was packed. They were standing three -rows deep—he was sure of a knock-out. He brought her a pile of -telegrams from members of the profession and friends in the social -world. She read them leisurely. It was her first opening on which -there was not a long one from her husband. Not that she really missed -it, but the lack gave her a curious feeling of wonder as to what had -become of him. - -Her maid gave her hair a final pat and she stepped back to survey. It -was an odd Jane Goring who gazed critically out of the mirror. No -jangling jade, no spreading tail, no sensuous color of plumage. Just a -blue serge dress of last year’s cut, a little shabby, open at the -throat. It had been selected by the author, not without some protest -from the star. She had wanted at least to go to a good tailor, but he -had dragged her into a department store and made her buy one from -stock at twenty-nine forty-nine. She had to admit that the effect, -while not beautiful, was absolutely in character. Her shoes she had -insisted upon getting at a Fifth Avenue boot shop. Feet are more -conspicuous on the stage than anywhere else in life and she must be -well shod to do herself justice. Her hair, too, was groomed. The -Goring coiffure was abandoned until the last act but the faint wave -necessary to it could not have passed unnoticed in the coils clustered -about the factory girl’s ears. - -She went out, followed by her maid, and waited in the wings for her -cue. Then came the inevitable tightening of the heart cords, the tense -straining of muscles to achieve the best, the twinge of fear, all the -tearing thrill of embarkation on a new venture. It lasted only an -instant, however, an instant that ended in her entrance, followed by a -crashing burst of applause. She bowed again and again, and the -sweetness of it flowed like wine in her blood. The play halted, action -suspended in mid-air, while the actress took the tribute she had known -would greet her. - -After which the audience settled back to be entertained. From the -beginning interest was evident, the heroine’s fight to make her own -life apart from the prejudice which is as rampant in the lower as in -the upper classes holding them. The struggle of evolution is the most -human, most vital problem in the world. - -All through the first act the conflict endured, the girl’s discontent -striking like flint on steel until the final scene when the little -sister, matted hair falling over her eyes, dropped on her knees, -crying: “All I know is—you’re goin’. You’re leavin’ me! An’ you -can’t—you mustn’t! You’re gonna get hurt with them people you don’t -know. They’re gonna step on you an’ make fun of you an’ beat you down -until you ain’t got no fight left. You don’t belong there—you don’t -belong! Stay here with me! I’m your sister, your own blood—an’ I love -you, I love you! Nobody couldn’t love you no more’n I do!” - -Gloria Cromwell’s slight figure shook with the words, her eyes burned -into Goring’s. That queer hysterical note lifted her voice into a -throb that was heartrending, and as the star drew her close she seemed -to crumple like a broken flower. - -The applause that met the curtain’s descent was interspersed with the -same gratifying sniffle they had encountered all along the route. A -number of times it swung upward, members of the company taking it -according to a schedule posted backstage. - - CURTAIN—ACT I - - First Curtain Tableau. - Second 〃 Miss Goring and company - Third 〃 Miss Goring and principals - Fourth 〃 Miss Goring and principals - Fifth 〃 Miss Goring and Mr. Burke - Sixth 〃 Miss Goring - -The manner and order of taking the curtains had been carefully -rehearsed the night before, but as it rose the fifth time with the -star and leading man alone on the stage, an incident unanticipated -occurred. Someone in the gallery shouted “Cromwell!” And the applause -seemed to swell in answer. - -Goring at first paid no heed. The curtain fell—rose again and again. -The call was repeated insistently. Goring went graciously to the wings -and drew the girl onto the stage. She came, trembling so that she -could scarcely walk, eyes wide and terrified but shining somehow -behind it all. She made an awkward bow, clinging like a child to -Goring’s hand. - -When several curtains had been taken alone and preparations were -finally under way for Act II, Jane Goring picked her way past property -men and scene shifters toward the dressing-room with a five-pointed -star painted on the door—to an actress the gate of heaven. Miss -Cromwell was waiting there. - -“Oh, Miss Goring,” she breathed, “that was so—so sweet of you!” - -Jane Goring looked down at her. “I take it you have friends in the -gallery?” she said. - -“No, I have no friends in New York.” - -Goring continued to gaze down and her look was not altogether -pleasant. But the girl did not see it. With an impulsive gesture, half -apologetic, half worshipful, she lifted the star’s hand to her lips. - -“God bless you!” she murmured with that queer catch in her voice. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -At 5.00 a. m. ’Dolph Cleeburg was seated in the living-room-library -den of his apartment completely surrounded by early editions and the -butts of cigars. One of the latter circled joyously in his mouth as he -and the author read over the various expressions of approval. - -“Here’s a fellow says Jane’s hair was too Fifth Avenue in the first -act. By godfrey, ain’t that just like ’em? Can’t find fault with -anything else, so have to pick on her hair.” - -“I told her to let it go,” the playwright remarked. - -“Well, that’s Jane. She’s got to look right or she can’t act. And, by -gad, I’ve seen lots of Third Avenue girls got up like Fifth. Ain’t any -law against it, is there?” He let the sheet rustle to the floor and -picked up another. His collar and tie were open, his coat was off, his -eyes held a blaze of excitement. A whiskey and soda stood on the -tabouret beside him, untouched. - -“Listen to this, Ted!” He plunged into a eulogy that made his eyes -snap and the cigar roll with a velocity impossible to estimate. “By -godfrey,” came at the finish, “ain’t one of ’em don’t give some notice -to that Cromwell kid”—and went on reading—“‘Managers—keep your eye on -Miss Gloria Cromwell.’” Then he gave a long chuckle. “And to think I -engaged her because she looked starved!” - -“She has something that gets you.” The author paused meditatively. -“Wonder if it’s her voice?” - -“Nope,” came crisply from Cleeburg. “It’s her heart. Probably suffered -like hell and that’s what puts her over.” - -In Jane Goring’s boudoir some five hours later, the actress sat -propped up, also like an isle in a sea of newspapers. She had read -them in the small hours as had her manager. Only differently. One of -the society satellites who circle round a popular star even as the -moon circles round the earth and just as inconstantly, now silvering -her sky, now leaving it black, had at the play’s finish carried her -off to a supper party and dance. In the midst of gayeties a flunky had -been dispatched for the morning papers and, in a flurry of excitement -like the froth of champagne, the notices had been consumed, gushed -over, forgotten. - -Not so by Goring, of course. Alone in the white light of a new day, -she reread them slowly, digesting each word. One watching her would -have found in her eyes no glow of satisfaction, no thrill that once -more she had scored. Rather was there the ghost of a frown on her -brow. A frown somewhat difficult to interpret. - -At eleven Cleeburg had her on the phone. He had been ringing the -apartment at regular intervals since eight but her maid had refused to -disturb her. His voice ran the gamut of explosive enthusiasm. - -“Great, Jane, great! We’ve got ’em again! We’ve got ’em! Didn’t I tell -you this one had it all over ‘Peacock’?” - -He wanted to come up and lunch with her but she told him she was -tired, would see him later at the theater. - -The greater part of the day she spent resting, going over her notices -and dictating letters to her secretary. Toward five she dressed and -sent for her car. It was a crisp, clear blue October day. A run in the -park or up Riverside—there were a number of things she had to think -about—would fill in time until dinner. - -A restlessness unusual and unexplained made her pace the floor while -she waited. So unusual was it, in fact, that it caused a vague wonder. -By all previous portents she should have been exalted, lifted to the -zenith of content through the knowledge that the star of her success -still sailed high in the heavens. She was not. She felt nervous, -distressed, with a weight on her chest that even the buoyant breezes -from the river could not dissipate. - -Rolling up Riverside Drive with the ease of floating in ether, she had -the sense of a great hand clutching her. The sensation was the same as -that which she had experienced the first day of rehearsal—only -intensified. It made breathing difficult, annoyed her to the point of -exasperation. - -She ate no dinner, just swallowed a mouthful of tea and drove -downtown. Little ’Dolph came to her dressing-room a few minutes later. -He was jubilant. They were sold out weeks ahead. The play had hit the -jaded metropolis in the eye—to quote him, with variations. It was good -for another three seasons’ run. He rambled on at random, eyes popping, -infectious smile lighting his round face like the smile of the sun at -high noon. Presently he stopped, shifted his cigar and stared at her. - -“What’s the matter with you, Jane?” - -She looked down questioningly. - -“Ain’t said a word,” he continued. “What’s got you?” - -“Nothing. I’m tired, I dare say.” - -“Sure! Morning-after stuff! Don’t let down, though. We don’t want ’em -saying second night’s off—the way it always is.” - -“You don’t have to tell me that.” Indignation was in her voice. - -“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he apologized quickly. “And, Jane—” - -“Yes?” - -“Might let your hair go a bit in that first act—what?” - -Her eyes were like two rapier thrusts. He made for the door. “They’ll -accept my hair just as it is,” was her verdict. - -Their little chat did not tend to lift in any degree the mood that -held her. She gave up trying to shake it off. - -Fortunately it had no perceptible effect on her work. She was too -clever for that. Many years on the stage had trained her to the -difficult task of obliterating personal worries the instant the glow -of the footlights would have revealed them to public gaze. In fact, -she had almost succeeded in stamping them from consciousness when -Gloria Cromwell made her entrance. At that moment there came a sudden -burst of applause. Miss Cromwell tried to go on with her lines. They -could not be heard. It was unprecedented, staggering. A girl, unknown, -unheralded, was holding up the play! Of course, action had been -suspended an instant when Goring came on, but this,—_this_ was -unheard of. - -Faintness seized the star, blinded her,—then fury. She knew now the -nature of the weight that had stifled her all day. In a way, she had -known it from the beginning. It was this girl! The lengthening of the -part on tour, last night’s acclaim, her notices this morning, all had -formed a cumulative irritant that now expressed itself in a surge of -throttling hatred. - -She jumped in on the girl’s lines, killing almost every speech. She -changed her own so that cues would be missed. No move, no turn that -would make the little sister’s performance fall flat was allowed to -pass. Even the final speech, ending with the beautiful tableau that -last night had brought down the house, was cut short. Like a red -tongue of flame her rage swept over its object consuming every -opportunity the part gave. - -Still she did not kill the applause that greeted the curtain. - -Storming to her dressing-room came Cleeburg. - -“What’s the matter? You cut the act a minute and a half!” - -“I was ill,” she told him. And barred the door, stripping off her -dress while the maid prepared a dose of aromatics and bathed her head -with eau de cologne. - -Since Gloria Cromwell appeared only in the first act, dying for -exigencies of plot off-stage—the remainder of the performance went as -usual. - -But that night, as once before, Goring tossed between sheets of finest -linen and did not close her eyes. - -In the morning she sent for Cleeburg. - -He came, solicitous for her health, relieved by the fact that her -aberration of the night before had not in any way affected the play’s -reception. - -She met him, cool and smiling and looking very beautiful in a purple -mandarin suit, the skirt of which was weighted with wicked Chinese -embroidery. Her tapering white hands were ringless and low-heeled -Chinese slippers made her look less tall. Greeting him, her hand clung -to his. - -She led the way into the drawing-room. - -“’Dolph,” she began, and for the first time a rather plaintive note -crept into her voice. “’Dolph, I’m unhappy.” - -In the act of lighting the omnipresent cigar, he looked up, -astonished. “Why—what’s wrong?” - -“I’m unhappy—and for a reason you may not quite understand. But you -can help make things right. You can make them _all_ right, if you -will.” - -“Sure, Jane, you know me! Anything I can do—” - -“It has to do with the play.” - -“Fire ahead!” He resumed the operation of lighting. - -“’Dolph, that Cromwell girl, I simply can’t work with her.” - -Again the process of lighting was arrested. “Can’t work with her? Good -God!” - -She went to him, struck a match and, bending over, held it to the -weed. He laughed comfortably, settled back—patted her hand. - -“Sort of took the wind out of my sails, that did. Guess I didn’t get -you straight, eh?” - -She sat down in a chair close to his, her back to the light. - -“Please _do_ get me right. I’ve nothing against her work, if _you_ -like it. It’s her personality that irritates me. There’s -something—something snaky about her. She makes me nervous, makes me go -off in my lines. You know, I told you in the beginning I didn’t like -her.” - -“You said she was too homely.” - -“Well, she is.” - -“Not any more. Why, she’s got a face like—like Fiske. One of those -faces you don’t get at first, but with so much behind it that you come -to like it better than the kind that’s just easy to look at.” - -“I’ve never been able to like her, ’Dolph. I’ve tried to because you -seemed to, and you know how absolutely I depend on your judgment. But -I can’t, that’s all.” She looked away and the suggestion of a sob -sounded in the words. - -Cleeburg’s cigar revolved silently for a few moments, then he leaned -forward. “What are we going to do about it?” - -She turned to him, rested her white tapering hand pleadingly on his -arm. “Get rid of her, ’Dolph.” - -“Get rid of her? Chuck her—just like that?” He snapped his fingers. - -“You can find some way that won’t hurt her feelings.” - -“Any way would be treating her rough.” - -“She’ll have no difficulty getting another engagement.” - -Cleeburg had been watching her over his cigar, round eyes studying her -as they were in the habit of doing at rehearsal. Now he snapped the -weed into the other corner of his mouth and smiled benignly. “That’s -exactly why I ain’t letting her go.” - -Jane Goring’s eyes met his with a delicate film of tears veiling them. -“Don’t you want to please me?” - -“I want to please the public,” said Cleeburg curtly, “and they like -her. Say—what’s got into you, Jane, anyhow?” - -“I don’t know! I don’t know!” A few tears, well chosen, rolled over -onto her white cheeks. She brushed them away. “I’m just miserable, -that’s all. Last night made me so nervous that I gave a perfectly -rotten performance. Just playing opposite her gives me goose-flesh. -Something about her chokes me and she seems to feel it—to revel in it. -She’s a snake, ’Dolph, and I simply can’t stand her.” - -“Seems to me a pretty nice kid.” - -The hand resting on his arm traveled its length. “’Dolph,—isn’t it -important that I should be happy in my work?” - -“Sure!” - -“And if _she_ makes me unhappy?” - -He gave her hand an understanding squeeze and a slow twinkle appeared -in his round eyes. “Ah, come on, Jane! Talk straight to yourself! -She’s made too big a hit to suit you. That’s what’s eating you.” - -For an instant Jane Goring said nothing. A hard line tightened her -mouth, but quickly she dissipated it, replacing it with a deprecatory -smile. - -“How absurd, ’Dolph!” - -“’Course it’s absurd. Don’t try to hog it, Jane! Give the kid a -chance!” He dropped back, regarding his cigar contemplatively. - -“But I tell you that’s not the reason. I simply can’t do anything if -she’s in the company. She makes me bristle!” - -“Because she gets a big hand,” he put in. “Because she holds up the -show!” He leaned forward once more. “And you honestly think I’d let a -find like that get away from me?” - -Jane Goring got to her feet. She had attempted a new rôle. She had -pleaded. Now she would play in character. She would demand. - -“Either she goes—or I do,” came succinctly. - -“Nonsense, Jane!” He, too, was on his feet. - -“I mean it. You can take your choice.” - -“Why, listen to me, old girl! You’ve got the public in the palm of -your hand! You can afford to give the kid a square deal.” - -“I’ve told you—” - -Cleeburg’s round eyes narrowed. “What’re you trying to do—bully me?” - -“No. I want you to be fair.” - -“I am fair—to all concerned—” - -“Except to me who should be your first consideration.” - -“Look here, Jane, you’ve had things pretty much your own way for a -good many years. To me there wasn’t anybody—not one of ’em—in your -class, either as actress or woman. Darned if I wasn’t even afraid of -you! You’ve laid down the law more than once and I let you get away -with it. But I can’t let you grab a find out of my hand, just like -that!” Again the fingers snapped. “And I won’t!” - -The peacock’s shriek is the one unbeautiful thing about him. It is -blatant, raucous. It is crude as the rasp of iron on stone. - -Jane Goring’s voice rose belligerently to the housetops. “And I tell -you, I won’t have her putting over that sob stuff on me! I won’t have -it! I won’t have it!!” Stripped of iridescence, shorn of plumage, she -stood facing him, nails grinding into palms, head thrust forward and -upward, body rocking with the same fury that had seized her the night -before. - -Cleeburg came to her, his round eyes softened and troubled, and put a -hand on her shoulder. “Come, come, Jane! Don’t let’s do anything -hasty. You and I’ve pulled along pretty comfortably for a long time. -This thing is a tempest in a teapot. Let’s both think it over and have -a nice calm talk later in the week.” - -When he had left, she settled down to weigh things and balance -accounts. - -First and foremost, one discomforting thought was uppermost—she was -losing her drag with her manager. It had been a revelation, amazing, -most difficult to face, most delicate to handle. A few years ago -’Dolph Cleeburg would have been, as he had frankly stated, afraid to -cross her. Hers would have been the last word, the decisive one. Such -incidents as the cutting of scenes, the dismissing of actors to whom -she objected, were occurrences not uncommon. Gloria Cromwell would -simply have received her two weeks’ notice accompanied by a pleasing -smile from Cleeburg and, since he liked her, a contract and promise to -put her in his next production. To-day Jane Goring had met open -defiance, backed with a twinge of ridicule even harder to endure. Not -subtly but poignantly she felt it. That smile that had lurked in his -eye when he called the green-eyed monster by its right name—there was -no mistaking it. - -Just one course remained. Her brain sprang instantly to that—to -tighten her hold on him in some other way so that her will would still -be the lever directing their business association. At any cost it must -be accomplished. Times innumerable he had begged her to procure a -divorce from the husband with whom she did not live, and marry him. -That answer was the obvious one to her present situation. It gave to -Jane Goring the one safe solution. - -She did not hesitate, did not stop to weigh Bob’s wishes in the -matter. Circumstances had pushed her to take the step. Without delay -she must act and efficiently. Immediately and as quietly as possible -the whole affair must be put through, consummated. It must not be the -usual theatrical divorce, with blaring of trumpets and long columns in -the newspapers. If it could be managed, she wanted no publicity at -all. Just as her present marriage was unknown generally, so would she -conduct her second venture. - -Having arrived at a solution she called up her lawyer, made an -appointment and drove downtown. - -Two hours later she left his office, a shadow across her eyes, her -face drawn and a bit haggard. The thing was not so easy as she had -anticipated—impossible, in fact, in New York as matters now stood. -They had thrashed it out—viewed it from every conceivable angle—to -reach a conclusion that placed the final decision entirely in Bob -McNaughton’s hands. Unless Goring were willing to leave the state long -enough to establish a residence, Bob was the one who must sue. He must -be located, which would involve no great difficulty, and then, granted -his consent could be gained, it would take the red tape of the law an -indefinite time to unwind. - -What worried her was the fear that Bob might take this occasion to be -nasty. The long silence since he had gone West made it difficult to -gauge his attitude toward her. More than likely he would refuse and -cause her no end of trouble. - -When she received word from her attorney that, through his former -paper, Bob had been located with the Graystone Photoplay Company in -Los Angeles, she decided to write instead of trusting to the cold -terms of a legal request. - -Very carefully she worded the letter, making it most friendly but with -the impersonal friendliness of those whose lives have never intimately -touched. Since she had not heard from him in over two years, she -wrote, she was quite sure he had by this time come to regard her as a -sort of mythical being. Their separation had become so complete that a -request she was about to make would, she knew, be nothing short of -welcome to him. She wanted him to have his freedom. Herself—she no -longer wanted to feel bound. She would always think of him as the best -friend she ever had, but so many years had elapsed since their -relationship had been that of husband and wife that it was rather a -farce to keep up the pose any longer. She was sure he would agree in -this. Knowing the New York laws he must realize that the move would -have to come from him. California, she understood, was more lenient, -and since he was now a resident, it would be practically easy. She -assumed that by this time his health had been entirely restored and -wished him every good wish in the world. - -Before sending off the letter she gave it to her attorney. Stamped -with his approval but with no slight misgivings on her part, it was -registered and posted; then tossed carelessly into a bag with -thousands of others—tear-stained, anxious, pleading, desperate, -breathless, threatening, thumb-marked, hopeless—all jumbled as human -emotions are jumbled together in this puzzling world. With these it -was flung into a mass of other bags similarly laden and started on its -way across the country. - -Meanwhile instead of resuming their discussion, ’Dolph Cleeburg had -diplomatically avoided seeing his star. For several days he stayed -away from the theater and Goring was forced at every performance to -endure the girl’s entrance—the applause that apparently had become a -habit. - -The climax came when one of the Sunday papers featured the young -actress’s picture on the same page as the star’s. That was the -proverbial straw. - -Jane Goring scorned any further attempt to bring Cleeburg round to her -way of thinking. If he was afraid to see her, was determined to keep -Cromwell in the cast—very well, she would read him a lesson. She would -prove to him who was the motive power that kept his play going. She -would show him in whose hands lay his success or failure. Incidentally -she would resort to the very feminine ruse of playing on his -sympathy. - -At seven-thirty Monday evening she sent word to the theater that she -was ill and could not appear. - -As she had anticipated, the stage manager phoned wildly, begging for a -word with her. The situation was terrible! Terrible! She must come! -They were sold out! - -Goring smiled. It was just what she had looked for. No understudy for -her had been engaged so far. It was a matter with which they never -concerned themselves, for no one could have replaced Goring with the -public. The theater would have to remain dark—Cleeburg would have his -lesson. Madame was very ill, her maid replied, too ill even to answer -the telephone. The stage manager urged. He pleaded. In vain! A few -minutes later Cleeburg himself was on the wire. Couldn’t she drag -herself downtown? She must! To him she spoke, her voice so weak that -it could scarcely be heard. She had tried—impossible. Her heart— And -then the maid once more took the wire. Cleeburg was frantic. It meant -a refund—the loss of thousands. He almost wept into the phone. At the -psychological moment the maid told him madame had fainted. - -Jane Goring slept that night with a smile on her lips. - -She woke up in the morning to read that at half an hour’s notice -Gloria Cromwell had gone on in her place—and hit Broadway straight -between the eyes. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Some months later word came from the West that Bob McNaughton had -secured a divorce. There had been no personal reply to her letter. -Calmly and quietly he had complied with her request, his lawyer merely -notifying hers that Mrs. McNaughton’s wishes would be carried out to -the letter. No possible way had she of gauging how he had taken it, no -possible manner of knowing how, after all the years, such a request -had affected him. - -Her relief was like a gale of wind sweeping over the city after a -stifling day. For months she had been trembling on the brink of -terrifying uncertainty. The day following Gloria Cromwell’s amazing -success had found her really ill, so ill that had she remained away -from the theater that night there would have been justification. She -was stunned, utterly bewildered, sickened to the soul by the trick she -told herself Fate had played her. - -Over and over she read the papers, as one gazes fascinated over the -edge of a dizzying precipice. It was incredible! And worse still, it -might easily have been avoided. She might have accepted the girl, made -her a protégée, gracefully posed as having discovered a young genius -and pushed her to the fore. She saw all that now. And—further irony—it -would probably have redounded to her credit, a neat bit of -self-advertisement. As things stood she had made herself a -laughing-stock. She could not bear the thought of it. - -On the verge of hysteria, she dragged herself out of bed and dressed -for the street. When her maid dared to protest, she turned on the girl -ready to strangle her. - -Walking rapidly westward she veered north when she reached the Drive. -It was a dull day, no clarity of air to fill the lungs, no shimmer of -sunlight through the heavy clouds. Skeleton trees reached gaunt arms -to the sky. Thick mud covered the ground which a month before had -shown green and living. There was no cheer anywhere. Across the river -the Palisades rose misty and unreal, as if they had never been more -than mirages. Miles she made, on and on, seeking some way to still the -terror voice in her breast. - -That night she drove down to the theater with a sense of dread. But -whatever the flurry of gossip backstage, it ceased with her arrival. -Members of the company inquired concerning her health—that was all. -While she was dressing a knock came. The maid opened and the Cromwell -girl stood in the doorway. She took a rather timid step forward. - -“I’m so glad you’re back, Miss Goring.” She spoke with a note of -sincerity unmistakable, and in her wide eyes was a look of pleading as -of unspoken apology for what she had done. “I just had to come and -tell you.” - -“Thank you,” Goring replied and for her life could not say more. Her -hatred was a living, searing thing. - -The coup she had made in absenting herself accomplished its end. -Gloria Cromwell was withdrawn from the cast—to be featured by Cleeburg -in a new production! - -Anxiously Goring waited for some reference to the turn events had -taken. None came, not even when the girl left the company. Little -’Dolph seemed to be full of the joy of living these days—cigar more -active than ever, smile more genial, himself more generous to the -down-and-outers and brimful of plans. In the weeks that followed he -never spoke of their misunderstanding. Evidently his admiration had -not in any way decreased. She had chosen, she concluded, the -psychological moment to gain her freedom. - -When news came that it was consummated the weight of uncertainty -lifted. She felt buoyant, with a clear course to steer ahead. Not that -she was at all eager to marry her manager. But since it was the one -sure way to secure her future, it must be gone through. - -She will always have reason to remember the bright spring day when she -dropped into his office to break the news. For some time he had known -Bob was suing. - -“Glad to hear it,” he remarked when she told him everything was -settled. Then he swung round in his chair and gazed out of the window -at a pair of fleecy, fluttering clouds in the very blue heavens. - -“Well, I took your advice, Jane,” he added casually. - -“What advice?” - -“Remember telling me once to make that Cromwell girl change her name? -I went ahead and did it.” - -“You did?” - -“Sure! Changed it for her. She’s Mrs. ’Dolph now.” And he grinned -happily. - -She understood then why he had been grinning in just that way for a -number of weeks. Had she not been so absorbed in self, she would have -noticed that his smile was gayer—different from any he had ever worn. -It made his face quite boyish. - -The decline of Goring after that was gradual. As a matter of fact, it -could have been dated actually from the night of her non-appearance. -Upon the heels of that night followed a change, scarcely noticeable at -first, in the sea of eyes and lips and hands to which she looked for -signs of approval. Slowly—oh very slowly—there crept into the -audience’s response to her a quality mechanical, automatic almost, as -if largely force of habit, a quality that presaged the beginning of -the end. Whether in herself or the public she could not tell. It was -nothing tangible, nothing definite. But something had happened. The -fine thread by which an actress chains herself to popular favor had -snapped. In vain she told herself it was just nervous imagination. It -made her choke with fear. - -One thing Jane Goring had failed to take into consideration: Than the -highest rung of the ladder there is nothing higher; and unless one -dies having reached the top, there must be a descent. Youth pushes its -way upward relentlessly, and those who have been must make way for -those who will be. A ladder with top rung overcrowded would of -necessity break. - -Had she possessed the art of Bernhardt or the intellect of Fiske—that -magnetic quality of soul that charms with the mellowing years—she -could have laughed at time. But her ability consisted chiefly in a -technique, the accumulated result of stage tricks that only up to a -certain point can present itself as youth. - -With an eagerness that approached hysteria she reached out for the -adulation that for years she had accepted without question as her due. -The thirst for it was the thirst of fever. Even the tame robins she -had always regarded as more or less of a joke, she began to seek them -as they in the past had sought her. The desire to be seen about -pursued by youth; to lunch and tea at fashionable restaurants in their -company; to hold the center of the public eye at any cost, became a -mania. It was as grim an effort as that of a doomed man to cling to -the last moments of life. - -And when a year or so later came the inevitable day when Cleeburg said -to her—trying to speak gently— - -“Come, Jane, let’s talk horse sense. No use your trying to play a -chicken! God knows you ain’t one!”— - -Jane Goring went home, flung open her bedroom windows letting in an -uncompromising flood of sunlight, sat down at her dressing-table and -looked herself squarely in the face. The whiteness—smooth, -glowing—which had made her skin like gardenia petals in the old days -had gone long since. She had grown accustomed to simulating it with -modern triumphs of the beauty parlor. But sitting there with God’s -spotlight turned full on her, it was not the realization of muscles -sagging as if pulled down by the hand of Time that made her shudder. -It was not the gooselike shriveling of her throat when she turned her -head that made her eyes shut with pain. It was the knowledge of ebbing -self-confidence, the face to face admission that her day was done. -From now on it would be—“Let’s go to see Jane Goring. She used to be—” -or “Don’t let’s go to see Jane Goring. She used to be—” - -But always “She used to be—” Always that. - -There was no quibbling, no splitting of hairs. She knew! And with the -acknowledgment she rose to her feet, a great overwhelming defiance -seizing her. She would not let age get her. She would not go downhill. -She would not become a has-been! Rather would she quit the stage now -and let them say she had retired in her prime. Money she had—an income -larger than she needed. She would cut herself off from the theater -entirely; for looking in at the window of a house of cheer whose door -is barred—that would be unbearable. She would have to travel, to seek -diversion elsewhere. Then suddenly like the lifting of a rosy veil on -barren waste, she saw her career a thing of the past and herself -wandering down the declining years of life—alone. The desert youth -takes no count of—aloneness—stretched bleak and endless, a reach of -sand with no oasis to slake the thirst, no shade to cool the soul. - -And there swamped her with a sickening sense of need the longing for -that bulwark of days gone, the one thing that endures, the one thing -that counts not success nor failure, that survives when the ladder -itself lies crumbled in ruins. Giving it no conscious name, she knew -only that had Bob been there he would have shouldered the burden of -this cold hour of facing truth. He would somehow have contrived to -make it easier for her to hold her head high and continue to look -down, even though that look must be directed toward the sunset. - -Bob, whose adoration had helped her always over the difficult places, -Bob would to-day and through all the days to come have stood by to -help her bridge this most difficult place of all. - -Bob!! Well, why not? - -Many hours she paced the floor, brows drawn together, hands clenched -as if grappling with a flesh and blood thing. - -The peacock’s strut is slow and calculating. He lowers his head only -to gaze upon his own reflection in the pool. To shed the trait that -has made him world famous is to lay his gorgeous plumage in the dust. - - * * * * * - -The train steamed into the Santa Fé Station at Los Angeles. A woman -descended, the sort to whom one gives a second glance in spite of -tired lines round the eyes and little crinkles at their corners. -Gowned in the latest cut of blue serge, with a tan traveling cloak -swung across her arm, she cried New York the instant one laid eyes on -her. - -She put her maid and bags into a cab, and sent them to the Ambassador -Hotel. Stepping into another, she told the driver to take her to the -Graystone Studio. - -It was an afternoon of late June. The languorous breath of California -summer had kissed the foliage into mammoth bloom. They drove through -lazy, sunny streets, somnolent under warm skies, into that vortex of -activity modern commerce has planted in the midst of beauty, the frame -of artifice sprung up mushroom-like in the very heart of Nature. - -Jane Goring descended at a row of small buildings that barricaded huge -ones roofed with glass. She made her way past men and women with faces -ghastly white and lips preternaturally red, mounted the steps and -asked for Mr. McNaughton. The attendant wanted her name but she -insisted upon being announced merely as a friend from the East. She -had given Bob no warning of her visit and her eyes followed the man -with a look half curious, half eager as he opened a door and -disappeared along a corridor lined with offices. - -He came back presently and shut the door. Mr. McNaughton had gone -home. She asked his address quite as a matter of course—in a way that -brooked no refusal, and once more was driven out of bedlam to the -quiet of drowsy green streets, past the beautiful Hollywood homes of -picture stars who yesterday were unknown. - -Toward the sunset she went, melting amethystine into violet night. -Shadows stretched across the road, cool and mellow, and a soft sense -of fragrant tranquillity. - -She lay back, closing her eyes. When she opened them she had turned a -corner and was pulling up before the lawn of a rambling Queen Anne -cottage set snugly in a mass of shrubbery. She gave a little start, -pleasure surmounting surprise. It looked very much as though Bob -McNaughton had found time to make his own career. - -A gate with a lantern over it opened on a bricked path that led to the -house. She paused there and looked in. Under a tree sat a man she -scarcely knew. His hair was quite gray—iron gray—but the face under it -was full and ruddy, the eyes keen, the mouth relaxed and smiling. The -hand that held a newspaper which he no longer read was firm and -capable. A hand accustomed to direct, the hand of a man sure of -himself! Bob, who was almost fifty, looked less than forty! - -As she stood staring at him, the house door opened and a slim figure -was silhouetted against the light from within. The figure stepped to -the lawn, light shining through masses of soft brown hair like a halo, -eyes glowing, red lips parted in eager welcome, and with a cry full of -sweetness held out something to Bob McNaughton. He gave a laugh, -sprang to his feet, bent down to the eager lips, then caught the -something swiftly in his arms—with infinite tenderness hugged it close -against his heart. And it gave a gurgle of delight. - -Jane Goring turned and went back to the waiting taxi. - - - - -GREASE-PAINT - -_REALISM_ - - -There is no such thing—either in life or the theater. For what is real -to one is unreal to another. The tenement of the stage is real to -those who live in drawing-rooms—the drawing-room, real to those who -know only the squalor of tenements. That which seizes our imaginations -with grim claws, shakes our emotions with sordid passions we have -never experienced—we call reality. That which is uncertain, sad, -elusive, delicate—we call unreality. Both are life! - - - - -GREASE-PAINT - -CHAPTER I - - -She had weary eyes—eyes with the weight of centuries of knowledge upon -them—eyes that could no longer open wide with astonishment at anything -life might hold. The lashes were so long, so dark and straight that -they were like a veil of night shadowing the grayness beneath. Her -gaze came through, inviting you to penetrate, urging you by its very -weariness to try to read the story those eyes might tell. - -A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth, then let them droop -before the smile was really born. Her walk as she trailed from the -first line of show girls in her wide-spread bird of paradise costume -was as measured as the muse of tragedy. - -And yet she was only twenty-six. - -That was Naomi Stokes, who counted numberless acquaintances but few -friends; who knew many men better than they cared to be known but few -as well as she might have cared to know them. - -Broadway was a playground to Naomi but she had long since learned that -in the game played there, none are winners. Time is the _croupier_ -who rakes in the spoils and at Time Naomi had ceased to smile even -wearily. He stood with his long arm suspended, ready, it seemed to -her, to pounce upon each hour she might hold dear, jealous of all she -had crowded into one short life. Man she knew too well to fear but the -croupier with whom she had gambled so long, she dared not look in the -face. And as one sings in the dark to silence fear, so she had -developed a philosophy of life which she held close in those moments -when she might be tempted to take measure of things. She could not -afford to pause long nor to think much. - -Of that glittering section which stretches like some bejeweled -recumbent queen of the night from Forty-second to Fiftieth Streets, -Naomi was such an integral part that if a night passed without her -appearance at one or another of the tightly wedged restaurants, their -habitués wondered. When she moved between rows of tables with her -long-lashed smile sweeping with lazy insolence the whole room, those -who did not know asked who she was. Her name—in the theater merely -that of another show girl—had for so long swung from lip to lip in the -after-theater life of the White Way that soon it would of necessity be -relegated to that past which hangs so cruelly over the present. - -Naomi knew this. And more than once, alone in her tiny two-room -apartment and in spite of her philosophy, she wondered what would come -after. A shrug avails little in the midday glare of reality. - -It was on a night following such a day—when the dregs of life had -tasted particularly bitter—that Naomi and four others went to supper -with Marshall Kent. - -Kent having more money than he could spend enjoyed spending it on -Broadway. Having nothing better to do, he had never looked for -anything better. He and Naomi were good pals in their way. He liked to -stare through her lashes at the puzzle beneath. Most women were so -revealing. - -But to-night she resented his set gaze, the ironic twitch of his thin -lip. After her nasty, self-disclosing day she wanted a friend. Some -one to whom she could be something more than heavy eyes and -auburn-tinted hair, some one with whom she could share thoughts—and -fears. But Marshy Kent had never given her friendship. No man had. - -All through supper she was silent, with a hard, shell-like silence her -companions could not break. Finally she pushed her plate to one side -and her glance sifted the smoke-thickened air. - -Beyond the table, in a space so small that they might have been -squirrels chasing their tails, the crowd jostled and elbowed and -glared at one another in an effort to keep time to a stamping, -hilarious jazz. In the doorway beyond, another crowd jostled and -elbowed and glared at one another and fought for the privilege of -slipping crisp greenbacks to supercilious head-waiters. Through the -befogged atmosphere the lights with their shades of brilliant yellow -and black glimmered faintly. At the tables and on the dance floor -jaded New Yorkers and curious out-of-towners pretended to enjoy -themselves. - -Naomi swept it with a noxious sense of disgust. Suddenly it seemed -a ton weight, as if the ceiling like some infernal machine were -descending upon her. She lifted her shoulders and her head went back. -Oh, for a breath of real fresh air! - -“What’s the matter, my dear?” put in Kent. “Off your feed?” - -“No.” She brought her eyes toward him, then they drifted back to the -crowd at the door. “I was just thinking what a joke they are on -themselves, fighting like that to get into a stuffy old hole where -they’re going to be held up and fleeced.” - -Kent laughed. - -“Aren’t you worth the price of admission? You’re one of the exhibits, -you know.” - -She shrugged. - -He looked down at the easy movement of the white shoulders under the -narrow beaded straps that were the sole support of her black gown. - -“Any one with the eyes and arms of Naomi will always count,” he -consoled. - -She pulled from his gaze. - -“Oh, what’s the use! You know I don’t matter to them any more than to -you. You play around with me here because you haven’t any better way -to pass your time. And they, poor idiots—” - -“By Jove, you _are_ off your feed!” - -She turned her back on his low, impudent chuckle. - -His tolerant eye traveled over the shoulder turned from him to the -hot, wild mass clamoring at the doorway. Suddenly he became alert and -a second later was on his feet, without apology pushing his way round -the dance floor. Naomi saw him make for a man with a big frame and -graying mustache who lingered impotently at the rear of the crowd. -Kent reached out, grabbed his hand and with absolute disregard of -intervening humanity, wrung it as if he never wanted to let it go. She -wondered vaguely what it would be like to have some one as glad to see -her. He passed a word to the head-waiter. The red velvet rope dropped -as if by magic and, escorted by Kent, the party was led to a table a -few paces from where she sat. - -The man glanced about with the curiosity, half amused, half critical -of the sight-seeing stranger. Back of him came a girl of twenty-one or -so with eager gray eyes a thousand years younger than Naomi’s, white -teeth showing through parted lips and hair the dense, dusky black of -an Indian’s. At her side walked a young man. As he passed Naomi, their -glances met. They locked with that odd, unintentional arresting which -means that two out of a vast throng have momentarily become -individuals. Naomi’s slow gaze followed as he went on and it seemed to -her that in the allotting of places, he deliberately chose the one -facing her. - -Kent hovered over his friend with beaming enthusiasm. The ironic -twitch of his thin lips was gone. The somewhat sagging shoulders of -the man who keeps flesh down by massage rather than exercise had -straightened. He scribbled his address. He took theirs. He admonished -the waiter to treat them well, received that gentleman’s reassuring -nod, and apologized finally for having to return to his own table. - -Naomi watched the younger man’s face as Marshall Kent sat down beside -her. No—she had not been mistaken. She who knew so well how to read -men’s eyes saw in his dark ones a look of intense, concentrated -interest. The girl next to him saw it, too—and following it, thought -she had never seen a face more fascinating than the one so smoothly -white with its heavy-fringed lids and wave of glinting hair across the -forehead. It was artificial, of course, but then you got used to that -in New York. Her clear gray eyes went swiftly back to the dark ones -that were fastened on Naomi’s. - -Kent pulled in his chair and settled back. - -“Well, little Marshy’s all het up!” one of the girls prompted. “Who’s -your friend?” - -He was still beaming. - -“Fellow I haven’t seen since college—Alec McConnell. I was chucked. He -went through to the finish. Mining engineer—big man in Idaho to-day.” - -“And the other two?” queried Naomi casually. - -“The one staring at you, my dear, is the son of Bill Dixon of -Dixonville, Oregon, big ranch owner, king of the apple country.” - -“And the girl?” - -“Little friend of his being chaperoned by McConnell and his wife. -First visit to the big town. Is that all?” - -Once more Naomi’s lazy gaze met the one which had not moved from her -and a faint flush surged under her thick pallor. As the lids fell, -they covered something of the look of the gamester. It was a -calculating look that weighed possibilities, one she was quick to -hide. - -Kent detected it rather by instinct than otherwise. - -“Oh, have a heart, Naomi!” he teased. “He’s so young and tender.” - -Naomi turned slowly in his direction. She said nothing for the moment -but waited until the others got up to dance. - -“Well?” He was intrigued by her silence. “Well, Eve, do we tempt young -Adam to eat the apple or do we let him go home in peace and grow -them?” - -“I think we marry him,” she said quietly. - -Kent gave a start that brought him upright. Then he grinned, that -drawling grin tinged with cynicism. The idea of any one marrying Naomi -was amusing. She read his thought as plainly as if it had been put -into words and her head went up suddenly. Though the lashes did not -lift, a flash came through them. It was challenge. - -“You think I couldn’t?” - -“My dear Naomi—if you’ll pardon my brutality, I should say—not a -chance in the world!” - -“Why?” - -“In the first place I have a hunch that little girl, Nan Crawford, has -a pretty firm hold on young Bill. It’s plain to see they’re crazy -about each other. Darn sweet kid, too. I suspect she’s here -trousseauing. In the second, Bill is probably more sophisticated than -you or I imagine. This isn’t his first visit to New York.” - -“I’m going to marry him just the same.” - -“And go out and live on an Oregon ranch, old dear?” - -“Yes.” - -He laughed aloud this time. - -“You’d look sweet in a sunbonnet and gingham dress.” - -“Just what do you mean by that?” she asked, not quite sure what -emphasis to put on “sweet.” - -“Just this! You belong here as surely as grease-paint belongs in the -theater.” - -“No woman belongs here,” she flung at him. “There isn’t a woman made -who hasn’t the right to a home.” - -“Then why does she start here?” - -“Because she’s young and a fool—in nine cases out of ten. Because she -thinks this is living.” - -Her face went hard as nails; with contempt, with futility, with -derisive defiance of herself. And then furtively she pulled a bit of -lace from her bag and dabbed at her eyes. - -Kent’s mouth opened. It was the first time he had seen Naomi cry, had -witnessed a woman’s tears without suspicion. Usually they meant that -she wanted something. - -“Don’t mind me!” She met his astonishment with a swift effort to pull -herself together. “I’ve had a rotten day.” - -“How, my dear?” - -“Oh, just the realization that to-night it’s this, and in two years -it’ll be ham and eggs and a lunch counter—if I’m lucky.” - -“Nonsense!” - -“Oh, yes! I’ll just drop out and you’ll forget me—like the rest. -What’s become of Emy Steward—and Cora Greene—and Ray Granville? You -don’t even know and you used to give parties for them like this one.” - -He was silent, knowing she spoke the truth. Like comets across a -glittering sky those beautiful girls had gleamed and gone. Gone when -their beauty had gone, vanished into the night that engulfed them, too -proud or too forgotten to accept the humiliation of charity. - -“We don’t last long, boy,” she added grimly. “And I’m one of those who -can’t keep on fooling herself. I’ve had a beast of a day.” - -“Hence the ranch idea in Oregon.” - -“Yes.” A queer twist lifted her lips—then dropped them. “Inspiration, -I call it. The Limited that will carry me away from the poorhouse!” - -“You’ll never put it over.” - -“Sporting enough to lay odds on it, Marshy old dear?” - -In all justice to Marshall Kent, it must be admitted that under normal -conditions he would not have taken her up. But the restaurant happened -to be one of the many which prided itself that prohibition meant -nothing in its life and the silver flask reposing on Marshy’s hip had -been refilled on frequent visits to a side chamber just off the main -room. He looked out of the corner of an eye at Naomi stepping in where -angels might fear to tread and the flushed, grudging admiration of -gamester for gamester darted in the glance. - -“You’re on!” he said. - -“And you’ll keep off!” she urged, a bit breathless. - -“Yes—I’ll give you ground. What stakes?” - -“If I lose—” - -“Yes?” - -“We’ll make it a hundred perfectos, best brand.” - -“Nice and impersonal!” observed Marshy, head to one side, now well -into the game. “And if you win?” - -“The handsomest wedding present in town!” - -“I call that odds in your favor.” - -With a faint smile she leaned nearer, hand outstretched to clinch it. - -“Hold on! What’s the time limit?” - -“When he starts west I start with him.” - -“It’s a go. Only don’t expect any help from me.” - -“I won’t—except an introduction when he stops here on the way out.” - -“What makes you think he’ll stop?” - -“I know he will. He’ll find some excuse to.” - -And he did, of course. Waveringly, as he drew nearer the magnet of her -eyes, he paused and tapped Marshy’s shoulder. The latter sprang up. - -“Mr. Kent, we’re such a bunch of rubes—I thought you might recommend -the best show in town for to-morrow night.” - -Naomi waited as Marshy considered. - -“Why don’t you send your friend to ours?” she suggested in a low voice -apparently to him alone. - -“What one is that?” asked the friend, flashing eagerly into the -breach. - -Kent introduced him then to the upraised eyes round the table. But he -saw only Naomi’s veiled ones. She gave him the name of the musical -comedy and the theater—nothing more. And as he bowed and rejoined the -older man and the girl with the dusky hair standing in the doorway, -Marshall Kent dropped into his chair again. - -“Quick work, Naomi,” he murmured, “and Machiavellian method! One more -move from you and the apple wouldn’t have looked nearly so inviting.” - - - - -CHAPTER II - - - My dear Miss Stokes, - - This will be the fourth time I’ve seen the show and the third - time I’ve asked you to go to supper. If you tell me you can’t - again, I’ll think you don’t want to—and quit. No, on the whole, I - won’t quit. I’ve never done that in my life. I’ll just hang round - and bother you till you come, so better come to-night. I’ll be - waiting for you. - - Sincerely, - William Dixon. - -Naomi lifted the head-dress of paradise that swayed round her face and -handed it absently to the dresser, still concentrating on the note -which had been delivered at the theater by special messenger. - -“Sincerely, William Dixon.” Numberless notes she had received during -her show girl career, but never one signed just like that. -“Sincerely.” Probably it was a card index of the man. - -She laid it down speculatively, the look of Eve through her lashes. -Three nights she had put him off. Yes, the apple might safely be held -a bit closer to-night—but not too close. - -He was waiting just within the stage door, his face eager with -anticipation, his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. As she came up -the stairs that led from the chorus dressing-rooms under the stage, he -stepped forward and both hands came out of the pockets. - -She clasped the right one, smiling up at him, and his frank eyes -shone. He piloted her to a car at the curb. As the door slammed with -the sudden intimacy of shutting out the rest of the world, he leaned -forward, the glow of his eyes reflected in his voice. - -“Gee, this is great! I was afraid you’d turn me down again.” He did -not wait for an answer but crowded into the next few moments all the -hours of thought which her refusal of his invitations had lengthened -into days. “You must have thought me an awful rube, staring at you the -way I did. I’ve been afraid it made you sore at me. Did it?” - -“No woman thinks a man’s a rube for staring at her.” - -“I couldn’t help it. I just couldn’t take my eyes off you.” - -In the shadows of the car she smiled softly. - -“Funny, how I walked into that place, cussing the smoke and noise and -then saw you. Lord, suppose I hadn’t gone!” - -She smiled again. - -He went on. - -“You’ve seen me every night in the first row at the theater, haven’t -you?” - -“Yes, I’ve seen you.” - -“And I think it’s a punk show,” his teeth flashed in a quick grin. “So -now you know why I came.” - -She looked at him from under weighty lids. As if he had to tell her! - -“One lone show girl can’t be worth a speculator’s ticket four times,” -she prompted. - -“She’s worth lots more than that. Thank you for coming to-night.” - -His voice turned serious. He tucked the robe into her corner of the -seat for no other reason than the magnet of bending over her, of -breathing the faint fragrance that wafted from her like an aura. It -was the ghost of grease-paint and flowers, of powder and perfume—that -strange, exotic pot-pourri of the theater that clings to its women -like essence of old Egypt. - -She gazed down at the bent head, at the hands that brushed hers with a -boyish lingering as they drew the robe closer. How young he seemed! -She felt for the moment much as a man of the world feels when within -the scope of his worldliness there appears a radiant young girl. There -was the same thrill of interest, the same desire to be the one -privileged to open up avenues of possibilities. A man on Broadway who -had something to learn! It was like finding a canary in a cage of -monkeys! - -The strange exuberance was with her as they made their way among -crowded tables to the one he had reserved. Amber satin clung to her -supple body and long jet earrings almost touched her shoulders. She -was conscious that in the attention she drew, she was giving him the -sense of pride every man feels when the clatter of forks stops -momentarily in tribute to the woman with him. But more than that, she -had a sudden personal satisfaction in his pride and a curve softer -than any her lips had known for years lifted their corners. - -His tanned skin and eyes that glowed seemed lifted straight to the sun -rising above the mountains. She took a deep breath, as if from him she -could get the stimulus of all outdoors. He looked at the slope of her -white shoulders, at the droop of her shadowed eyes, as if in her were -epitomized the lure of the city. - -She leaned across the table just as he did. Their hands almost met. -Naomi had long, languid fingers that invited the touch. - -“You’re so—different,” he began. “So awfully different. I guess that’s -no news to you, though.” - -“So are you—different.” - -“Me?” - -“Yes—from any man I’ve ever known. You’re like fresh air. The others -are—stuffy—like a room that’s been shut tight.” - -He gave an embarrassed, pleased laugh. - -“Tell me about yourself,” she suggested, lifting the lever best -calculated to open up the dam of formality where the male of the -species is concerned. - -“Oh, nothing much to tell about me.” - -And he proceeded to tell it while they went through two courses. She -got a vivid picture of Bill Dixon, a colt straining always against -harness of any kind; a lad loathing routine to such an extent that he -had quit college rather than submit to it; a young man, impulsive as -the wind, more tied to the picturesqueness of ranch life than to the -business of it; an only son worshipped by the man who had paved the -way, who was both father and mother to him. - -He bent nearer to the white hands. “Now tell me about you.” - -“That would take too long. And if you find out all there is to know -to-night, you won’t want to see me again.” - -“Won’t I, though! Besides—I could never find out all there is to know -about you.” - -They danced. He was not a good dancer but as his arm went round her -and his dark head bent to her glinting one, she felt herself -completely encompassed. His bigness, his nearness, gave her a swift -sense of helplessness that frankly frightened her. The reins of the -future must be held in her cool hands, not in his. - -“I’m going to guess your age,” she announced when they were once more -at opposite sides of the table, “if you’ll promise not to guess mine.” - -“I don’t give a darn how old you are.” - -“Oh, I’m not as old as all that. But you—you’re twenty-five.” - -“Next month. Bet, at that, I’m older than you.” - -“You are,” she lied, without a quiver. - -“But you’re the sort of woman who’ll always be young—even when you’re -wrinkled and gray. It’s your coloring,” he went on, promptly -contradicting himself. “That wonderful white skin—I’ve never seen skin -so white—and the sheen of your hair and those eyes that make a fellow -sort of—sort of want to jump in.” - -The eyes smiled at him with infinite promise. - -“I think we’re going to like each other,” she said. - -“I know one of us does already,” he grinned. - -“You’re a dear,” she vouchsafed. - -They saw each other every day after that. He managed to bring it -about, either for luncheon or early dinner or after the theater. At -least he thought he was the one who brought it about. And as Naomi -opened his impetuous notes, or the boxes that held great clusters of -flowers ordered with awkward disregard of everything but quantity, the -Eve-smile lifted the corners of her mouth and her eyes looked a trifle -less tired. - -Occasionally they drove out to the country for the day. But the -countryside near New York rather amused him. - -“It all seems sort of puny,” he would say as she sat with face -carefully veiled from a too-revealing sun. “I’m used to snow peaks -that touch the sky and trees so high that when you’re on the mountain -trails above them, you look down and can’t see where they begin.” He -turned from the inadequate hills to the more absorbing scenery of a -woman’s face misted by a fluttering veil. “No, sir! When I come east, -I don’t want this. I want New York—the excitement, the thrill of it. I -want—you.” - -It was said softly. His voice held the word like a caress and, looking -up, she read in his eyes what she had read in many men’s—except that -added to it was the new element of awe. - -That new element became infinitely dear to her. She let him keep it. -Except when their hands brushed accidentally—or so it seemed to -him—they did not touch save for the clasp that helped her into a cab -or expressed “good-night.” The warmth of his arms closed round her -only in the dance. She met the light of his eyes with her own only -across restaurant tables. No debutante could have held herself more -aloof—perhaps not quite so much so. But Naomi did not play the -ingénue. It was her world knowledge—world old—that fascinated him, -that made her—as he had said—different. - -She amused him with cryptic remarks about the men and women who came -and went, with stories of familiar characters on Broadway, with a -touch of cynicism, a touch of pessimism, that lack of faith in human -nature which comes with disillusionment in self. But this, young Bill -Dixon did not know nor count. He merely tossed up his shaggy head with -the deep, long laugh that makes the whole body tingle and begged for -more. - -She managed to fill his days with joy of her when she was with him, -with longing for her when she cleverly denied him her companionship. -She was the hundred women to one man which her training had taught her -to be, knowing that to him she would thus become the one women. She -caught hold of his imagination and twisted and played with it as a cat -with a ball of twine, tossing it this way and that but always with paw -poised to pounce. - -And simultaneously there flared into her own soul an eagerness of -which Naomi Stokes had long since counted herself incapable. It was as -if that brown-eyed, ardent gaze held her with the same absorbing -quality of his arms when they danced. She began to look for -it—jealously as if it might escape her. - -Meanwhile in a hotel room that was just four walls, another pair of -gray eyes, not veiled, not mysterious, watched for him more and more -anxiously, saw him less and less frequently. The girl from the West -whose first visit to New York was to have opened up a fairyland of -adventure for her and the boy she loved—the visit they had planned -together—found its streets empty caverns at the foot of towering -cliffs, saw in hotels and theaters and restaurants to which McConnell -and his wife took her night after night in the hope of diverting her, -only the possibility, eager yet dreaded, of singling from the crowd -the faces of Bill Dixon and the woman who had taken him from her. - -She tried to hide her misery from the anxious eyes of her chaperones. -But because she was young—a thousand years younger than Naomi—she -could not hide it from the one she loved. And her quivering chin, her -reproachful reminders of engagements he had overlooked, sent his mind -and feet hurrying back to the woman whose red lips and drooping lids -thrilled him like the dizzying lights of Broadway, like a draught of -wine he had never before tasted. - -“Why does a girl think, because you’ve been together all your lives,” -he blurted out one night as he and Naomi drove through the jerk and -jam of traffic hold-up, “that she has a right to know your comings and -goings as if you belonged to her? Good heavens, a fellow can change -his mind, can’t he?” - -Naomi turned and smiled out of the window at the laughing sparkle of -lights. The look, part sphinx, touched her mouth. In the dark he did -not see its tinge of satire. - -He maintained for a second the silence that is usually accompanied by -a bitten cigar or cigarette half-smoked, the silence of irritation. -Then he swung about impatiently. - -“You’re not like that, Naomi! You’d never ask silly questions.” - -She leaned over, touched the hand that clenched and unclenched against -his knee. - -“Don’t be angry, Billie-boy,” she whispered. “I like to hear you -laugh.” - -His other hand closed quickly over the white fingers. - -“What is it you’ve done to me? I always thought caring about a woman -meant wanting to be with her because she liked the things I do, -because we understood each other. That’s the way I felt about—” he -broke off. “But you—I want to be with you because you’re so -different—because I don’t always understand you. I can’t get enough of -it—of looking at you, of listening to you. Naomi, do you care—a little -bit?” - -She lifted her eyes, lifted her lips, forgetting the game she was -playing, forgetting the stakes. Then before he saw the move, she drew -back. Not yet! She answered him instead with a shadowy smile and the -long silent pressure of the hand held fast between his. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -It was an afternoon of late March, grim and forbidding, as if winter -had thrown a last shadow across oncoming spring. The steam heat, -turned off in the chorus dressing-rooms during a week of balmy -weather, suddenly sputtered on and sang through the whole matinée -performance. - -Naomi came out of the stage entrance, fur coat hugged about her, and -shivering a bit, made for the curb to hail a taxi. As she glanced up -and down the street at the ant-like army of cars, one of them slid -toward her and a man stepped down. - -“Why, hello, Marshy,”—she reached out a hand—“haven’t seen you in -weeks.” - -He took it. - -“Jump in.” - -“Good! Buy me some tea, won’t you? I’m frozen.” - -“We’ll have tea at your place. I want to talk to you.” - -She turned and stared at him as he slammed the door. - -His voice didn’t sound like Marshy Kent’s at all. - -“I’ve called on you half a dozen times,” he supplemented. “You’re -never home.” - -“I’m busy.” - -“I know you are. That’s why I sidetracked you.” - -He did not speak again until they had mounted the flight of stairs to -her apartment in a reconstructed house near the theater. But as she -collected the seldom used tea things, he walked impatiently up and -down the room. - -“Naomi, we’ve always been pretty good friends, haven’t we?” he began. - -“Friends?” - -“Pals then,” he corrected, not knowing why. - -“Well, yes, I suppose so.” - -“That’s why I’m going to put something up to you. I want you to listen -quietly and then I want you to stand by me. Naomi—I’ve done a lot of -things in my young life that I’m not exactly proud of. But the worst -that could have been said of me was that I’ve been a waster. I’ve -wasted one or two fortunes that the old Kents slaved to pile up—on -cards—on the wheel—on the ponies—on women—I’ve never been anything but -a waster. But that goes in more senses than one. I’ve never been a -cad. Not until a month ago.” - -He waited for some response but Naomi merely struck a match and -touched it to the wick of the samovar. If a quick question did flash -to her lips, she held it back and kept her eyes lowered. - -“You know when that was. I was _non compos mentis_ and I egged you -into making a bet—” - -“In other words, dear Marshy,” she filled in his pause, “you want me -to let you off on the plea of—well, the undue influence of liquor. Of -course I will.” - -He pushed aside her easy acquiescence with a sweep that almost knocked -the cup from her hand. “But that’s not all. The bet’s not the thing -that’s bothering me. It’s you. You and that boy, Dixon. Naomi, you’ve -got to quit. You’ve got to, do you hear me?” - -“Quit—what?” - -“Don’t play the innocent! You know what I’m driving at. I’ve made -myself your partner in the job of smashing that boy’s life. And I’m -telling you—” - -“Wait a minute!” - -Very slowly she set down her cup. Very slowly she rose and went close -to him. At the hard, driving note in his voice, at the sharp -arraignment of his eyes, resentment brought her head up and her eyes -defiant. - -“Marshy, men fall easily into the habit of talking to—to some women -pretty much as they please. But in the years I’ve known you, you’ve -never said a word to me that—that hurt. Don’t do it now—please.” - -“Then let him alone. I’ve been through hell this past week thinking of -what I let those two young things in for. McConnell tells me the -girl’s on the verge of collapse,—can’t eat, can’t sleep, just sits and -waits for the boy to come and he stays away. Why, they grew up -together, those kids. They were as good as engaged. And now he’s -chucked her—for you.” - -He reached out, caught her by both shoulders with hands that shook. - -“I must have been crazy to take you up that night and promise not to -interfere. If you don’t cry quits, here’s where I do! Young Dixon is a -damn fine boy—McConnell says one of the finest—and I’m not going to -stand to one side and see you smash his life and break that little -girl’s heart. Understand?” - -The eyes that traveled up to his were more weary than he had ever seen -them. - -“What about my life, Marshy? Doesn’t that count—at all? Doesn’t it -matter that I’d like a chance? That perhaps if I marry Bill Dixon, -he’ll never know—and I can forget? Doesn’t it matter that you’d be -helping me away from being a has-been—and all that goes with it? Do -you ever think of the hours I spend here in the dark—alone, trying not -to see what’s going to happen to me when I count even less than I do -now? But no, of course not! Only—if it were the other way round, -Marshy, and I was a man and he a girl, you wouldn’t see any harm in -it—would you? If it were you, Marshy, and a young girl—” - -“That’s different!” - -“Why is it different—why? It’s a man standing up for a man where he -wouldn’t for a woman—that’s the only difference. It isn’t that you’re -any better than I am. It’s only that you think all men are.” - -“Look here, Naomi, I know it’s hard on you, my putting it the way I -have to. But conditions are conditions. We’ve both faced them too long -to try and buck them. You keep away from that boy and you won’t regret -it. I’ll guarantee that—any way you like. What’s it worth—?” - -“Marshy—you’re not trying to buy me off!” - -“Don’t put it so baldly—” - -He stopped. For her head had gone back and a laugh startlingly high -and sharp cut the sudden stillness. - -“So you’re afraid of me, that’s it! It’s gone that far. He’s declared -himself for me—and against her. It’s come to a crux, then—and -McConnell’s asked you to help. Why, I didn’t dream it! I couldn’t have -hoped for so much in such a short time. I wouldn’t have believed it.” - -Even with that high laugh of mockery, her shadowy eyes filled with the -vision of the boy fighting—fighting them all doggedly, with hot, -flaming defiance—for her—and it was sweeter than the thought of -triumph. - -Kent’s voice broke in, uncompromising as judgment itself. - -“I know a way to stop it—without you. I hesitated to use it before. It -didn’t seem cricket. But I’m going to him now with the plain, -unvarnished truth—the story Broadway tells when it hears the name, -Naomi Stokes,—the story I can add a few chapters to.” - -“Marshy!” - -“I’ll show him what a blithering fool he is. I’ll prove it the way I -can. We’ll see then!” - -The vision vanished from Naomi’s eyes. She caught his arm, clutched it -with the clinging fingers of a child who in sleep plunges from dreams -into nightmare. - -“Marshy—you wouldn’t do that! You couldn’t! Why, you called yourself -my pal. Could pals stab one another like that? Could I think of -harming you that way? Not for anybody! And that boy’s nothing to you. -Nothing! Won’t you give me this chance? Just this one. If you knew -what it means to me! Marshy, don’t turn away. Listen—please—please!” - -But he kept his face turned determinedly from the pleading one -streaked with tears, from the eyes he had so often smiled into when -their mystery piqued and captivated him in idle moments. And in the -rigid line of his jaw there was no yielding. He merely tried to tug -away from her clinging fingers and a short phrase answered her. - -“Do you cry quits—or no?” - -She steadied her lips. Her arms fell listlessly. But even as she met -the question, it came less in the form he put it than in the thought -of what Bill Dixon had come to mean to her. Not ease for herself, not -insurance against bleak years ahead, not the road that led away from -terror; but a boy’s hearty laugh and ardent eyes, the warm clasp of -his hand, the strength of his arms, what it would mean to lose them. A -light that lifted the weight of centuries shone through her lashes. A -smile that trembled caught her lips. - -“It isn’t quits, Marshy. No! Either way you win, so we might as well -play to the finish.” - -When he had gone, she sank on the couch and tears unlike the bitter -ones of early dawn and hard noon streamed silently down her cheeks. -They were tears of wonder and passionate regret, of gratitude that -she, Naomi Stokes, could know this engulfing tenderness. The thing she -had never dreamed might come was hers. She loved him. Nothing could -take that away. After stumbling through the years, she had found in -one brief month the dearest thing in the world. And now Marshy was -going to snatch it from her. Was that his man’s right? No! She would -fight him—the whole world—to keep that which had suddenly become her -reason for being. - -Yet she realized that she was not armed to fight, not Marshy, nor the -world, nor truth. She, who had never lacked resources, to whom the -game of life had been a game of wits, stood helpless now. - -She could only wait. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -Naomi made no pretense of trying to sleep. She did not even resort to -the bromide she was in the habit of taking when rest refused to come. -She merely lay, with blinds drawn to shut out the early morning, -trying to see light where she knew there was none. At ten she sprang -up, hand to the throat that was full, lids covering the eyes that -pained. Ever since Marshy Kent’s visit, those eyes had been straining -toward the future, the result, inevitable almost, of his revelation to -Bill Dixon. In the endless, wakeful hours of the night she had -rehearsed, as women do, everything that had probably transpired. - -Yet even in her misery she did not overlook the careful mask of -make-up, as mechanical a part of her daily toilet as the brushing of -her hair, or polishing of her glistening nails. She had grown to avoid -facing her mirror without it. - -She flung on a negligée of orchid chiffon that clung round her with -the afterglow of sunset. But like the orchid, she sought the damp -darkness of her living-room and sat with head resting against her -locked hands for a long time before she made a move to raise the -blinds and let in a shaft of sunlight. - -She had just lifted one of them when the sharp summons of the bell -came from downstairs. She pushed the electric button and waited -without curiosity for the apartment bell to ring. Then she opened the -door and peered into the shadowy hall. - -A girl stood there. The girl with her hair like a black cloud and eyes -young and gray and tense. - -They traveled hungrily over the other woman as if to get in that -moment the viewpoint of another pair of eyes that no longer sought -hers. - -“May I come in, Miss Stokes? You don’t know me but my name is Nan -Crawford,” she explained as Naomi said nothing. - -Naomi nodded. “I know.” - -The girl looked up quickly. - -“Has he—has he talked to you—about me?” - -“I’ve seen you with him,” was the non-committal answer. - -“It—it’s about Bill I want to see you,” she brought out the words with -the same halting pause which had marked her hesitation in the doorway. - -Naomi motioned her to a chair. The girl’s pale face went a tinge -whiter. Her lips quivered. She looked down. - -“I’ve been wanting to come to see you and hadn’t the courage. -Yesterday I followed you here in a cab from the theater. But you were -with Mr. Kent. I didn’t come up.” She fidgeted with the slightly -frayed silk of her chair. - -“Miss Stokes, I—I’ve known Bill Dixon all my life. I’ve loved him all -my life—and I thought he loved me. He used to tell me so. We—we’ve -always loved the same things and done the same things—together—in the -same way. We’ve ridden hours on horseback up into the mountains and -gone shooting in the woods—and tramped to places other people didn’t -know about. When I went away to school and he to college, we used to -write each other about our woods and the longing to get back to -them—together. We never planned anything—separately. We sort of -always—belonged to each other.” - -She halted once more. It was because she couldn’t go on. The eyes -lifted to meet Naomi’s were filmed. It was only too clear that she was -putting herself through the ordeal of tearing open new wounds for some -purpose. Naomi looked away. To play on her own sympathy, of course! -She wouldn’t listen. It would do no good anyway. - -“I’m trying to tell you, Miss Stokes, how I love Bill Dixon—how much I -want his happiness. And now he loves you. Oh, I don’t blame him! -You’re very beautiful—more beautiful than I could ever dream of being. -You’re like some gorgeous flower in a conservatory. I’ve never seen -any one like you. At first I thought I could—perhaps—win him back—but -I couldn’t. Not from you. I—I wouldn’t know how. I’ve thought about it -a lot. And I—at first I thought I couldn’t live through it. But I’ve -got to now. Bill can’t help loving you. I don’t blame him for that.” -She got up suddenly and brushed a hand across her eyes. In the poise -of her body, head thrown back, lip caught between her teeth, was -life’s first big endurance test and her brave attempt to meet it. - -“But you’ve got to love him, Miss Stokes! You’ve got to make him -happy. I’d give my life for him. That’s the way you’ve got to love -him, too. If you don’t—if you fail him—ever—I’ll kill you!” - -Waves of astonishment swept over Naomi. Those eyes that burned behind -the film of tears! Surely this was not their message! To demand -happiness for the man of whom she was being robbed—surely that was not -what the girl had come for. - -“My dear child—” Naomi began, instinctively speaking as if to one -years younger. - -“I mean it! You think I wouldn’t but I’m not afraid. I have nothing to -lose any more.” - -She stumbled toward the door, one hand reached out gropingly. There -she turned and once more her eyes traveled over the other woman. Naomi -felt that from their clear gray gaze she could not shield herself. A -girl so near her own age—the girl she might have been! And in that -moment she knew that Nan Crawford’s words had not been bravado, not -foolish threat. She was battling in her own way for the thing she -loved. - -She opened the door as if, now that her message was given, she could -not make her escape quickly enough. - -“Make him happy,” came strangled. “You must! That’s what I came to -tell you.” - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -Through the window Naomi had lifted that morning, the shaft of -sunlight receded slowly until it slipped away. Naomi had been sitting -in the same position ever since her door had shut on a girl stumbling -into the dark hallway. She sat there without moving and with a queer -little twist of wonder at the problems we bring upon ourselves. All -her life she had drifted with the least resistant current and without -thinking much. Now, of a sudden, thought had come smashing upon her -with the devastating violence of a hurricane. - -As daylight grayed she rose a bit stiffly and lighted the few lamps -that sent a glow through the room. - -She went into her bedroom and started to dress. Bill was coming at -five to take her to dinner. All afternoon she had waited for his usual -phone call, for the big box of variegated flowers so different from -those other men sent her. Neither came. But a peculiar lethargy held -her, made her conscious only of the numbness of futility. - -She dressed without haste in a plain dark cloth suit, feeling with a -curious finality that Bill was not coming. He had never kept her -waiting like this. Yet as the thought swept over her, a loud, long -ring came from downstairs. She went to the door, stood with eyes -fastened on the dusk. A figure loomed out of it, head bent, feet -taking the steps two at a time. - -He did not look up until they were in the room. Then his head went -back and the look of desperation he wore made her go to him swiftly -and push him into a chair. He sank down without resistance and covered -his face with hands he made no attempt to steady. She lifted hers from -his shoulders. - -“What is it, Bill? What’s happened?” - -“I—I’m late,” were his first shaky words. “Sorry.” - -“But what’s happened? Tell me!” - -“Naomi—I—” he broke off. “I don’t know how to put it. I feel that just -telling you is an insult—” - -Ah, she knew now! She knew what was coming. - -“That man, Kent!” he stumbled on. “They had me all afternoon, he and -Alec McConnell. I had to listen to things he said about you. If I’d -been a _man_, I wouldn’t have given him the chance to say them.” - -Eyes clinging to hers, he waited for some question, some denial. He -was giving her the chance to strike Marshy’s prosecution off the -record without one word of cross-examination. He was urging her with -his eyes to give Marshy the lie without even hearing what the man had -told him. - -All her anguish of the night before had been, like so much feminine -anguish, unnecessary. It was in her hands now. She had only to concoct -a story of jealousy or an ancient grudge of Kent’s and this boy who -had come to mean everything to her would accept it with the gladness -of one who doesn’t want to question. Yet she turned her face from him -and said nothing. - -“I listened until I couldn’t stand it. They made me! Then I knocked -him down. Swine like that ought to be killed!” - -“He’s not swine,” she found herself saying in a voice that didn’t -sound like her own. “He was probably telling you the truth for what he -thought was your own good.” - -“Naomi!” - -“Oh yes, it was probably all true. You don’t know what I am, boy. You -don’t know what I’ve been.” - -He was on his feet, grasping her arm, straining down to read her -veiled eyes. - -“Naomi, do you know what you’re saying? He accused you of—” he halted. - -She took him up without waiting. - -“Of things he can prove to you, boy dear. I’ve known Marshy Kent years -and years and he wouldn’t tell you anything about me he didn’t know he -could back up.” - -In her submission to the inevitable, in her complete lack of defense, -she was so helpless, so almost child-like that the boy’s fury against -Kent flamed back to his eyes, burning out the horror of her dumb -confession. His hands were knotted into the hard fists that had sent -his informer spinning to the floor. His chin was fighting forward. His -eyes fastened on the exotic beauty that was Naomi’s intensified by the -fact that she was woman, helpless under the lash of another man. That -was all he saw—a beautiful woman who needed his protection! And to -every other vision his youth determined to blind itself. - -“I don’t care what he’s told me! I don’t care what you’ve been. I only -know I love you. You’re the most glorious, fascinating woman in the -world—and I want you, do you hear! I want you more than anything—more -than anyone! I love you! Naomi—will you marry me—now—to-night?” - -Her eyes closed. All she had planned—all she had longed for! Marshy’s -move had only succeeded in thrusting it more swiftly into her grasp. -And yet she did not stop to think of that. All that registered were -those three words: “I love you.” Their sweetness ran like some warm -fluid through her veins. - -“We’ll get away from here!” he plunged on. “I’ll take you west—home. -No Kents there to tell ugly stories. We’ll forget them ourselves. -Nobody need ever know. We’ll be happy—and I’ll have you all to myself. -Those lips and eyes—they’ll be all mine. Naomi—dearest—let me kiss -them now!” - -Her arms had gone up instinctively but they dropped again without -touching him. She held away, not looking at him. - -“No, Bill,—it can’t be.” - -“Naomi!” - -“No.” - -“You think that what he said makes any difference? I tell you, it -doesn’t. I don’t care! I’d marry you—” - -“It’s not that. It’s just—I couldn’t make you happy, boy.” - -“Yes, you could. You’re the only woman—” - -“No—I couldn’t. Why, you don’t love me. You love the thing I -represent—the thing that represents me—Broadway. Take me away from it -and what would I be? A faded woman, Bill, a woman who would only make -you hate her because she’s so different from what you thought. And I’d -rather never have you than to see you in a short time—oh, it wouldn’t -take long!—disgusted with me.” - -“You don’t love me—that’s it!” he flamed. - -“If I didn’t love you I’d marry you. Sounds queer, that, doesn’t it?” - -“Then we both care! What else matters?” - -“Only that I want to give you happiness—and I can’t.” - -“You’re the only woman who can.” - -“No I’m not, dear. You think so now. But it’s the grease-paint stuff -you love! Out on the ranch—with my hair its own color you’d wonder why -you did it.” - -He paid no attention to her last whispered words. - -“I’m willing to risk it! I’ll risk anything for you.” - -“You’d find me out, Bill—you’d be bound to. Why, I never go out in the -sun without wearing a veil to keep the secret of my complexion to -myself. And there, where you belong, I’d be in the sun all day.” She -tried to smile. “How would I look going round a ranch like the queen -of a harem? No, you’d have to see me as I am. And in a week you’d hate -me.” - -He went close, hearing only the sob in her voice. - -“Dearest—you think I’m young—that I don’t know my own mind. You think -I don’t know my woman when I meet her!” - -She smiled now, with a little shake of the head. - -“You don’t. You only think you do. You love the way people look at me -in a restaurant. You love the way I wear my clothes. You love my -coloring. It’s put on, boy. And so is the sheen of my hair you rave -about and the blackness of my lashes. It’s all fake—like me.” - -“Why are you telling me all this?” - -“Because—because you mean more to me than anything in the world. -Because I’d rather have your happiness than my own.” - -Even as the words came, they amazed her. All afternoon they had been -struggling deep down in her consciousness. A girl with stark young -eyes had opened wide those veiled ones. - -“Then that’s the only thing that counts,” he retaliated, eyes alight, -and his arms went out. “If you love me, I don’t care about anything -else.” - -She pulled back. Once his lips touched hers, she knew she could not go -through with what she had to do. Recklessly—while the mood held her—as -if she were another person playing a trick on Naomi Stokes, she moved -round the room, turning off the soft lamplight. A second later the -central chandelier flashed its glare and Naomi was at his side again. - -“Wait, Bill—I want to show you something.” - -She disappeared into the bedroom. When she came back, there was a -white rag clenched in her hand. - -“I’m not really beautiful the way you see me.” And even as she spoke -the words her eyes were frightened. “I’m a faker—but for once I’m -going to be honest with you—with myself. I’m going to let you see the -woman you don’t know, the woman you’d see—out there.” - -Without pausing to give herself breath she dragged the cloth, weighted -with some thick lotion, across her face. It came away covered with -color. She threw it aside. The face it left lifted to his was like -tragedy, unmasked. - -“Look—I can scrape it off—the beauty you love so! This is the way I’ll -be in broad daylight, Bill. These lines—they’re the years I’ve stolen -from you. They’re the real me—the me you don’t know. Do you want me -now?” - -He looked down on the face that in ten seconds had aged ten years. -Dazedly he took in the circles under the eyes, the pinched lines from -nostrils to mouth, the pallor of the lips. The luminous cream of her -skin had given way to a whiteness that looked dead. All the exotic -color of her—the color that fascinated him—was gone. It was almost as -if some magic had wafted away the Naomi he knew, as if this were -another woman. - -He stood there gazing down on her, confused, silent before the -revelation he could not quite compass. Only the eyes of his Naomi -remained, infinitely sad, infinitely lovely, even with the heavy black -gone from their straight lashes. - -“You don’t want me now. You don’t want the woman I really am. Don’t -stop to think! Don’t hesitate! Just answer me,” she whispered. - -But he did stop to think. Without quite meeting the eyes raised to -his, holding his own away from the face that seemed suddenly a strange -one, he lifted her two trembling hands, put them against his lips. - -“I’ve asked you to marry me, Naomi,” he said huskily. “I’m asking you -again.” - -“Thank you for that, boy dear. You—you’re just everything I thought -you were. But I’m not going to take you up. Not now! If you want me -six months from now, come back for me. I’ll know then—that you need -me. Only, dear—you won’t come.” - -He looked straight at her then, letting himself see only the eyes -which had not changed. And she knew before he spoke that he was -bowing, without argument, to her verdict. - -“I’ll come back for you,” he told her. “I won’t wait six months. -You’ll see!” - -She simply shook her head and no smile of hope touched her pale lips. - -A few minutes later she stood looking for a long time at the door that -had closed after him. Then she put on hat and coat and went down the -steps and over to the theater. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - - Harvard Club, - New York, July 30th. - - Dear Naomi,— - - This letter is going to be harder to write than an income tax - report. When a man has never before been on his knees to a woman, - they’re apt to be creaky and resist bending. But I’m on my knees - to you, my dear,—in tribute, in abject apology, in the tenderest - feeling I’ve ever known in my life. - - Last March Bill Dixon went home and I sat back with the sensation - of a good Samaritan. I was blithering ass enough to think I was - the one who had sent him away. To-day, four months later, I’ve - learned the truth. It came with the announcement of his marriage - to Nan Crawford. He told me what happened. He told me what you - had done, Naomi. - - I’ve never had much belief in women. I’ve always thought them - rather a poor lot. That’s the penalty of having begun early to - know the wrong side of them—assuming there was no other. But - you’ve given an old stager a faith he’s never known. For that I - can’t repay you. But whatever I have, whatever I can give you of - devotion and friendship is yours, dear girl. Knowing what you - were equal to doing for that boy has suddenly made life worth - living for me. - - I haven’t seen you in months. Will you make up for lost time? - Shall we go to supper to-morrow night? - - Yours—I mean it— - Marshy. - -Naomi’s eyes wandered from the letter to another that lay open on the -desk beside it. It was in a boy’s rugged hand, incoherent, -embarrassed. It told of his approaching marriage and tried to thank -her for making him see that the old love was the true one. She had -read it so many times that she could have told what it told her—with -eyes shut. - -She reread Kent’s letter then. After a moment she picked up her pen -and wrote: - - Thank you, dear Marshy. I can use your friendship. I need it. But - I’ve quit going out to suppers—for good. - - Naomi. - - - - -THE BACK DROP - -_DRAMA_ - - -Comedy met Tragedy at the crossroads of Life. - -“Know,” spake Tragedy, “from Wisdom have I learned that thou and I -emanate from the same source—born of the folly of man and nourished by -his deeds. The tie between us is so strong that we must follow, each -upon the other’s heels, as long as the road of life has its turnings.” - -“Then come,” laughed Comedy, “a bargain let us conclude. Let each -forever carry some suggestion of the other!” - -So, with a tear in the eye of Comedy and a smile under Tragedy’s -frown, they linked arms and proceeded down the road together. - - - - -THE BACK DROP - -CHAPTER I - - - RUDOLPH CLEEBURG - Presents - GLORIA CROMWELL - in - “LADY FAIR” - A Comedy-Drama - by - _Bronson Reed_ - -A car pulled up sharp at the curb and a woman leaned out to read the -tall lettering. It loomed startling and white against a black ground. -Along a street where theaters crowded each other like chorus girls in -a manager’s office, that inky splash with its tracing of white paled -to oblivion all the others. - -The man beside her watched her eagerly, studied the delicate profile -with a kind of hunger. When she turned, his eyes went alight at the -smile in hers. - -“It’s stunning, ’Dolph. But then you always do things right.” - -“Y’mean that? Do I always manage to suit you, kiddo?” - -“You know you do.” There was a low, tender note in the voice that -would always be wistful. It was an odd voice—one that, breaking with -the swift snap of a violin string, brought tears from its audience as -one chokes at a broken chord. - -“H’m, that’s all I want.” He grinned sheepishly. “No fool like an old -fool, eh?” - -He stepped out as the chauffeur swung open the door, and reached up to -help her. Gloria Cromwell—in private life Mrs. Rudolph Cleeburg—was -not tall and her intense slenderness made her look frail, yet standing -next to her husband she measured a full inch above him. Any passerby -taking in the round face, eyes and figure of the well-known manager, -his bald pate and prominent features, would have smiled at the -information that he was the most artistic producer in America. But -then, no passerby would have noticed the hands, key to character, that -tapered so incongruously. Even the man himself failed to take count of -them. He knew only that he felt beauty like a tangible thing, that he -expressed it through the two mediums he loved—the stage and his wife. - -He took her arm and they went down the cool dark alley to the stage -door. It was a Sunday in September, hazy and languid, the first -shadows of twilight creeping into the arms of night. - -In almost every building on the block rehearsals were under way. -Behind blank front entrances with high iron gates locked fast, -throbbed the pulsing life of the theater. No effort too great, no work -too intense, to give to the world its most human tonic, amusement. - -The dress rehearsal of “Lady Fair” had been called for 8:00 p. m. They -were early, having made good time from their place at Great Neck. -Gloria crossed the stage set for Act I while Cleeburg paused to -suggest to the electrician some experiments with the lights. - -“Try a couple of reds, Bill, in the foots for Act II. And cut out -four or five of the ambers on top. They make her look too yellow, sick -around the eyes. Get me? Too much shadow. We want to bring out all the -flash in her hair. Light her up. It’s her big scene. And here—have a -smoke!” - -He followed Gloria. She had tossed her hat on a table and stood taking -in the new props he had provided while the company made the customary -short tour that precedes a New York première. - -With the shadows of the unlighted stage about her and the dusky quiet -of the empty house stretching at her feet, she seemed to the man who -went toward her deplorably young and tender, with a something yearning -from her that he had tried to reach and never even been able to -define. Not for the first time he asked himself: Was it the almost -childish form under the soft summer dress—or the delicate line of her -long throat—or the intense red curve of lip—or her pallor topped by -the tawny hair whose lights and shades he was so intent on featuring? -No, none of these! It was the look of her eyes. Wide and hungry, with -fright in their depths, they had arrested him six years before as he -hurried through his outer office; arrested him and found her a job. -The fright had gone long since. And the hunger which had been nothing -more than actual physical hunger. But the look that was so much like -the quality of her voice still lurked there, eluding him. - -He came up behind her as she stood examining the heavy black velvet -drapes with crests of blue, purple and gold embroidered in the -corners. - -“Like ’em?” he asked once more anxiously. - -She veered about. “They must have cost a fortune, ’Dolph. Wouldn’t -those blue ones we had on the road have been good enough?” - -“Not for you. Only the best for my girl! And look at you against ’em. -Those newspaper guys are right—there sure is something about you -that’s got the rest of the bunch lashed to the mast!” - -“It’s what you’ve made me, ’Dolph.” The words came breathless, with -that strange fascinating catch. “You’ve put me over just the way you -did the rest. Goring and Wilbur and Chesterton. Without you I’d have -been just an actress. Now they call me an artist. And you’ve done -that—you’ve done every bit of it.” - -With a furtive glance to make sure the electrician was still occupied -he went closer, laid an arm across her slim shoulders and gazed -eagerly through the shadows into her face. - -“Say that again. Of course it ain’t true. They were all piking -compared to you. But say it anyhow. It’s music to me—the greatest -symphony and greatest opera rolled into one.” - -“It is true.” - -“Then if I never do anything else for you, that goes on the right side -of the ledger—what? Sometimes, little girl, I feel like I was a dog, -grabbing you the way I did right after I featured you and you thought -you couldn’t turn me down.” - -“Nonsense!” She caught his hand and her clasp was so tight it seemed -to grip. - -“I’m a pretty old piece of scenery and not easy to look at, at that.” -He glanced through the drapes at the back drop. It represented a -stretch of blue sky pierced with holes through which presently stars -would glimmer. “Like that old thing,” he added. “Just a piece of -shabby canvas, good enough for background.” And as she started to -protest he laughed, a laugh that wasn’t much more than a sound. “Why, -even Doug Fairbanks won’t be able to kid himself he’s young when he’s -past half a century.” - -He turned as several members of the company strolled in and greeted -each with a hearty handshake. With a smile for every one and an ear -ready to listen, the Cleeburg of to-day had the same enthusiasm as the -pudgy newsboy who years before had run fat little legs off to procure -for a patron his favorite daily. - -“Hello there, glad to see you! Well, they tell me we’ve got a -knock-out. Let’s have a look.” - -He made for the rear of the house with his stage director who had -accompanied the play on tour. - -The curtain up, he leaned against the seat in front, a long black -cigar jerking from corner to corner of his mouth like a propeller. Not -a gesture, not an intonation escaped him. His concentration ignored -any world but this. Had the building burned down, that stage before -him would still have been the pivotal point of interest. - -When Gloria appeared between the black drapes, eyes luminous under the -untamed hair, and the thrill of her voice came over the footlights, he -sighed and a smile of anticipation spread across his face. It was the -look of one whose senses are about to be lulled by rare music. - -The play had all the quality of delicately written French drama, its -big scene at the end of the second act being calculated to bring even -a New York audience straight out of its seat. Gloria and John Brooks -were as finely teamed as a pair of high-stepping thoroughbreds. He had -been her leading man two seasons. Little ’Dolph, with an eye to the -future, had him tied up on a five-year contract. - -You would never have taken John Brooks for an actor. There was about -his clothes no suggestion of the extreme that Broadway is tempted to -affect. They were cut by a conservative tailor and he wore them with -the ease of not caring particularly what he had on. Critics called him -distinguished. When he walked into a stage drawing-room one knew -instinctively that more exclusive drawing-rooms had opened to him. He -never talked shop outside and never brought his social activities into -the theater. But it was generally known that his friends numbered -scientists and men of big business. - -On the stage he suggested a clean-cut Britisher, tall and well -groomed, easy of manner, clipped of speech, yet with a more intense -vitality and that gleam of humor under the straight black brows that -is peculiarly, blessedly, of, by, and for America. - -The manager sat back, eyes half closed, lapping up the charm of it as -a kitten laps cream. When the curtain fell he licked his lips and -purred as he turned to the director, Lewis. - -“You’re right, Lewy! Never saw a pair to touch ’em. Gad, that give and -take, that playing into each other’s hands—nothing like it in this old -berg, I tell you!” He sprang up, bounded down the aisle like a rubber -ball. “Immense!” he shouted. “That act runs on greased wheels. It’s -sure fire! They’ll eat it alive.” - -He climbed into a box; with amazing ease jumped on to the stage. Bulky -as was his figure, almost pouter pigeon in certain postures, there was -nothing funny about Cleeburg in action. It was the fire of his genius, -the spark that lighted his homely face with inspiration, that -commanded respect. Even with a handkerchief tied round his neck as it -always was in hot weather and the open sleeves of his silk shirt -flopping like awkward wings, no one thought of smiling. One merely -listened. - -He gave a few instructions to the property men and slipped back to his -wife’s dressing-room, poking his head in at the door. - -She was changing to a tea-gown, a lovely shimmery gold thing that -brought out the reds in her hair like touches of flame. - -“Well, how does it go?” she asked. “Any suggestions?” - -“Not half a one. Couldn’t be improved. And John—he was made for you!” - -She dropped her eyes to examine a tiny rip in the train. - -“Better mend this, Suzanne, before I go on. It might catch on -something.” - -“Glad we’ve got him sewed up tight. First thing you know, one of the -boys’d be offering to star him and then biffo, we’d lose him!” - -“He is—wonderful.” She did not raise her eyes as the maid’s needle -flashed in and out of the soft fabric, then looked up suddenly. “Lewis -thinks we have a big hit.” - -“Lewis knows his business. You never had a chance that touched -it—comedy and the big heart stuff combined. Try a little more red, -honey. You look pale. Tired out, eh?” - -“No—just a bit nervous, that’s all.” She turned hastily to the mirror, -picked up a rabbit’s foot and dabbed some color across her cheek -bones. As she bent forward, her teeth caught her lower lip and held -it. And Cleeburg, noting the reflection of her eyes, fancied fright in -them. Nerves, of course! Emotional tuning up of the vibrant artist! - -He went out front as the curtain rose on the second act. It revealed a -boudoir. Not the sort bestowed upon woman by the average scenic -decorator with its brilliant splashes of color and general air of a -department store exhibit, but a room that suggested four walls -enclosing feminine taste. - -Steadily Gloria and Brooks mounted to the big moment when the man’s -passion, like a torrent crashing through ice, carried the woman with -it. They stood facing each other and the voice of John Brooks came -quiet, yet with the threat of doom. - -“We’ve played the game, you and I,—to the finish. And we’ve lost. No, -not lost, because this is the end we wanted. We’ve been a pair of -gamblers, banking on defeat, waiting to have the game get us. Now -we’re going to lay down our cards, admit we’re beaten, and take what -is greater than victory. You know what that is. I don’t have to tell -you I love you—” - -The woman gave a terrified “No—no!” with arms thrust out to ward off -the thing she had desired. The man followed with a quick laugh as he -caught them and her to him. - -Cleeburg jumped up and speeding down the aisle made a trumpet of his -hands. - -“Hey, John—play that for all it’s worth. Give it to ’em strong. You -fall down a peg or two at the end. Got to keep up the tension. Get me? -Don’t be afraid of too much pep. Can’t be done in this town. Let go! -Give ’em the love stuff till they faint.” - -Again and again he put them through it. Up to the crucial point it -went superbly. Then something seemed to snap. It was less in Brooks’ -rendering of the speech than the way he caught up Gloria and swept her -to him. Instead of an onrush like a force irresistible, his embrace -was almost measured. One felt that with very little effort she could -have escaped. - -Sitting in the front row now, a puzzled seam between his eyes, -Cleeburg noted that Gloria, too, appeared to hold off. Gloria, who -flung herself into a part as if it were life! What had happened? He -shook his head, began to pace the length of the seats. - -“You’ll let down the whole act, children. You’ll lose your curtain. -Why, they’ve been wanting this to happen from the beginning. If you -don’t give it to ’em and give it to ’em big, they’ll can you. Sure -thing! Let’s have another go.” - -John Brooks’ thin lips came together. There was something tense about -the way he went into the scene this time—muscles tight, hands -clenched, voice husky. And when finally he swept her into his arms it -was as if he would never let her go. Their lips met as the curtain -fell. Even in the empty house one could feel the thrill of it. - -Cleeburg gave a chortle of relief. Just for a moment he had been -afraid they were going to muff it. - -But he apologized for his persistence later over a bite of supper. - -“It’s the crux, old man. That’s why I kept you at it. You see, the -woman is yours by every law of God. Once you know it, you don’t give a -damn for the laws of man.” - -“I get you.” - -“Put over the feeling that it had to be. If you don’t the whole show -goes fluey. You and the little girl do such bully team work, we don’t -want one hitch to spoil it. Hope I haven’t played you out.” - -“Oh, that’s all right.” The other man smoothed his hair with a gesture -of both long hands and looked across the table. “Afraid my thick head -has tired Gloria, though.” - -She was leaning back, limp, face white as the moon that looked in -between the pillars of the roof garden. - -“Not a bit.” Her lids lifted quickly and Cleeburg was startled at the -fever under them. She leaned elbows on the table. “I was as stupid as -John. We just couldn’t seem to get it.” - -“Well, don’t worry. It’ll go like hot cakes to-morrow night. You won’t -worry, kiddo, will you?” He patted her arm anxiously. “I don’t like to -see you look like this.” - -“Why, there isn’t a thing wrong with me—truly.” She turned to watch -the dancers as they swayed past, two moving as one to the lure of -darky music. In the center of the flagged floor a fountain sent up -showering spray colored emerald, ruby and gold by lights from within. -The place was filled with a soft languor. It seemed set very close -beneath the Indian Summer sky. - -When she turned back she found Brooks gazing at her. - -“Come to think of it,” observed Cleeburg, glance traveling from one to -the other, “you don’t look any too chipper yourself, old man. Didn’t -notice it when you got in this morning but you’re both played out.” - -“Gloria had a little smash-up after the performance last night. Been -working at top speed. Nothing wrong with me. We’re both tired, that’s -all. There wasn’t a breath of air in the train, either.” Brooks lifted -his glass of cider and a dry smile played round his lips. “I drink to -thee only with mine eyes,” he said to Gloria. - -Cleeburg grinned. “Say, why not come out to the house with us now? -Give you something stronger. Stop off, shoot a few things into a bag -and a night in the country’ll do you good.” - -Brooks put down his glass. “Thanks, no. Think I’d better stick to my -own bunk.” - -“How about next week then? Run you out after the show Saturday night. -You can try a couple of holes of golf with Gloria Sunday.” - -“Sorry, old man, I’m booked.” - -“Well, any time you like. Ain’t a place, ours, where you have to wait -for a bid.” - -“I know that.” - -“What’s the matter with you anyhow? Last summer, you used to run out -every few weeks. This year, have to beg you to come!” - -“Not a bit of it,” laughed Brooks. “Wait till we get this opening off -our chests and you won’t be able to get rid of me.” - -“Can’t come it too strong to suit us, eh kiddo?” - -Gloria’s eyes had drifted out to the swaying throng once more. “Of -course not,” she said quickly, and pushed back her chair. “If you -don’t mind, ’Dolph, I believe I am tired.” - -Cleeburg noticed as they went down to the car that her step lagged. -When they had dropped Brooks at his flat and were speeding up Fifth -Avenue, sleepy under the quiet hour when life in New York closes one -eye, she turned swiftly. “’Dolph—you remember what you called yourself -in the theater to-night—before the others came?” - -He thought a moment. Then his face went alight, all but the eyes. -“Your old back drop, y’mean?” - -She nodded. “Don’t ever do that again—don’t!” - -Her vehemence made him shift his position so that he faced her. - -“Why, honey—” - -The break in her voice had been poignant. Her hand clasping his arm -was feverish. He felt the heat of it through his thin coat. Even in -the dark he could see her eyes, brilliant, with something of the -fright he had read in them earlier in the evening. Only it was -intensified. - -“Honey, what is it?” - -“I want you to know I love you,” she rushed on breathlessly. “It -wasn’t just gratitude that made me marry you. I’ll always love you. -You’re splendid and fine and generous. They don’t come any better. -Never doubt it, ’Dolph! Never—will you?” She shook his arm, repeating -the question over and over. - -“Why—kiddo—” - -“And I have made you happy?” she broke in on his amazement. “I have -given you something for all you’ve given me?” - -He answered quickly enough then. - -“Everything, honey. Why, these past five years’ve been more than most -fellows get in a lifetime. I ask myself often what an old tout like me -ever did to deserve ’em. In the theater and out—hasn’t been a day that -wasn’t heaven. That’s what you’ve given me.” - -She sat an instant silent. Then before he could divine her intention -she had carried his hand to her lips. But it was not their moisture he -noticed as he drew it hastily away and slipped an arm round her. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -Over Long Island, as Cleeburg drove in the following day, hung a mist -that made the low hills look like a mirage melting into the sky. It -was as if the smoke of the city reached its long arm far over green -stretches and cool woodland, cloaking Nature with the garment of -industry. - -Little ’Dolph sat forward, hat tossed to the floor, cigar ashes strewn -over it like snow. He had smoked incessantly from the moment the car -shot past the hedge surrounding the Cleeburg place. He had smoked with -brow furrowed and teeth chewing on the butt of his weed, concentrating -so intensely that for the first time in years it failed to circle from -corner to corner of the friendly mouth. He was worried—and about -Gloria. What had got her last night? What had brought the fever to her -eyes and that desperate grip to her fingers? What had made her cry, -with long sobs like a child’s when his arm went round her? Wasn’t like -her. Not a bit. He’d never seen her like that, didn’t know how to -handle it. - -Overwork must be the answer. She’d been at it for six years seeing -results. And before that God knew how many without seeing them! He -recalled the poor little starved thing she was when first those eyes -with the strange glow back of them had begged for a chance. Since that -chance had been hers she hadn’t stopped, not for a minute. And how she -had mounted! For a second his look of distress vanished in a broad -grin of pride. Gloria had the divine fire, whatever that might be. -The light of it had always been in her soul but his was the -satisfaction of having kindled it to flame. He had found in her the -instrument to express all the seething love of beauty his unbeautiful -body harbored. He could not have put it into words but the -consciousness was there, a vital thing. - -He looked out anxiously at the hazy September landscape. Yes, must be -overwork! If it had been anything else, she’d have told him. Dashed -like hysteria, that breakdown last night! Give her a long vacation -next summer, that’s what he’d do. He’d close her in the spring and -take her abroad when he went to clinch those English contracts. - -Having reached the only decision possible in view of present demands -on her, he settled back, applied a light to a final cigar and puffed -peacefully until they pulled up at his office in the same building as -the theater. - -Toward four-thirty she telephoned that she was feeling much better and -laughed at the relief in his voice. If he worried about her that way, -she’d give a perfectly rotten performance to-night! - -But in spite of her chaffing, Cleeburg, going to her dressing-room at -seven, caught her unawares with head drooping into her hands and a -look of utter dejection about the slim shoulders. She lifted both -quickly as he entered and smiled up at him. He peered at the heavy -blue smudges under her eyes. - -“Won’t need much make-up, will I?” she laughed, in quick response to -the look. “You see, I’m trying to put the grease-paint men out of -business.” - -“What is it?” He pulled a chair close to the dressing-table. It was -higher than hers and so brought their faces on a level. “Something’s -eating you. What? Tell me—tell your old ’Dolph.” - -She leaned over, brushed his cheek with her lips, then turned quickly -to the mirror and dabbed the color on her face with the same nervous -haste he had noticed the night before. - -“Nothing’s wrong, dear. Wait till we settle down for a steady run and -you’ll see.” - -“It’s sure fire! Only keep an eye on that second act. Don’t be afraid -to let go.” - -From the wings he watched the audience stream in—beautifully gowned -women, perfectly groomed men, keen-eyed critics, his own colleagues -with soft collars and clothes not too well pressed, here a familiar -round-the-towner, there a merchant who took his first night -subscription seats as religiously as his pew in church. Truly a motley -such as only the Metropolis can produce. Little ’Dolph’s eyes shone -and his broad mouth broadened. Those women with their feathery fans -and glittering jewels; those men with their sleek heads and smart -clothes; the press; the world theatrical; they constituted his court, -this theater his kingdom. - -Only a few times since the throne had been his had he failed to give -them what they expected of him. That was why to-night he saw in every -pair of eyes an eager anticipation that was to him like strong -stimulant. He slipped round to the front of the house as the curtain -rose. - -All through the first act he divided attention between the stage and -the audience, watching the latter laugh and chuckle and wink and -furtively wipe its eye, and nodding as each effect came at the right -moment. When the lights went up he dodged backstage, not to Gloria, -but to Brooks. - -“Great, old boy! You’ve got ’em. Just keep up that tempo. Feeling -fit?” - -“Fine!” - -“Look out for the end of this act, won’t you,” he added half -apologetically. - -“Thought you were coming to that,” laughed Brooks. - -“No offense, you understand.” - -But he went back to his seat wishing the big scene finished. He -couldn’t help a twitch of uncertainty. If they handled it as they had -at first last night it would fall flat as a pancake. - -Eagerly he followed every line. It was scintillant as sunlit ice and -very thin ice at that. The throng round him skated over it with the -actors and when Gloria’s scene with Brooks arrived they were, as he -had prophesied, keyed to an emotional pitch that only the limit of -acting could satisfy. - -Then he held tight to the arms of his chair and literally his breath -stopped. - -Brooks came to the climax. His vibrant voice fell across the quiet of -the house. - -“We’ve played the game, you and I,—to the finish. And we’ve lost. No, -not lost, because this is the end we wanted. We’ve been a pair of -gamblers, banking on defeat, waiting to have the game get us. Now -we’re going to lay down our cards, admit we’re beaten, and take what -is greater than victory. You know what that is. I don’t have to tell -you I love you—” - -Cleeburg felt the quick intake of breath, the surge forward, that -pulsing reach of an audience. If only they’d play it now for all it -was worth! - -Gloria pulled back and terror was in her voice. - -“No—no!” - -For a second Brooks seemed to hesitate. What in Sam Hill was the -matter with him? Why the deuce didn’t he let go? - -Then suddenly his laugh went high. He strode to her. His arms swept -out. - -She stood poised as if in resistance, the light from above playing -over her, her eyes started up to his. One could feel the catch in her -throat, the swaying at the edge of a precipice. And then the eyelids -fell, the man’s embrace closed round her like an enveloping flame. Her -lips went to his. - -With a deep sigh little ’Dolph subsided. The audience did likewise. It -had them! An excited buzz, the crash of applause told him that. He -dodged out of his seat and to the lobby. Nothing further was to be -desired. “Lady Fair” had gone over with a bang. - - * * * * * - -It was over a month later that the manager finally prevailed upon -their leading man to week-end with them. He buttonholed Brooks after -the performance one Saturday night and refused to take “no” for an -answer. - -“Say, John, getting upstage? Cut your swell friends this week. You’re -coming out with us, ain’t he kiddo?” - -They were standing within the stage door. Cleeburg linked a persuasive -arm in the other man’s. - -Gloria smiled without looking directly at Brooks. She drew her -squirrel wrap close about her and stepped out of the light. - -“John’s always welcome, of course. But if he has other plans we -mustn’t interfere.” - -“You don’t say!” laughed Cleeburg. “Well, he’s going to chuck any -other plans and give us the pleasure of his society.” - -Brooks held a light to his cigarette. The flare of it illumined his -set mouth, the line of his jaw. - -“Another time, old man. There’s a game on at the club to-morrow -afternoon.” - -“Good! That being the case, we’ll save you money.” He started down the -narrow alley to the street. - -Brooks looked across at Gloria. She was looking down, struggling with -the clasp of her glove. - -“Come on,” urged Cleeburg. - -An instant more Brooks hesitated. Then his head went back. - -“All right, I’m with you.” And he laughed as if with relief. - -They stopped off for his bag. They were still using the open car in -spite of the winds of late October. Gloria liked the slash of air -against her face, liked to get the first salty whiff of the Sound. She -leaned back with lids drooping and hands clasped loosely and was -silent all the way. The men talked of next year’s prospects. - -“‘Lady Fair’ is good for next year and a season in London. Think I’ll -let you and Gloria take it over. She’s never had a lick at the other -side,” chuckled Cleeburg. “Bound to knock ’em silly.” - -Gloria spoke for the first time. - -“I wouldn’t think about London—just yet.” - -Cleeburg started at the queer note in her voice. They turned into the -drive where willows drooped their branches to the ground. Beyond shone -the lights of the rambling old house, modernized by the family who had -owned and loved it for generations, but untouched as to line or grace. -High ceilings, French windows, arched doorways, tall fireplaces—these -constituted the charm of the estate little ’Dolph had presented to the -woman who had given him happiness. - -Supper for two was spread before the flaming logs at one end of the -entrance hall. In the center of the table stood a bowl of autumn -leaves, the wild red of Gloria’s hair. Cleeburg pulled up another -chair as the chauffeur brought in their guest’s bag and helped him out -of his overcoat. - -The latter stood gazing round the place with a look of real affection. - -“It’s good to be back,” he said with a deep breath. - -“Well, the house has been here. Your fault that you haven’t!” Cleeburg -cocked his ear to the comforting pop of a champagne cork. - -“Gloria has enough of my company eight consecutive times a week,” -smiled Brooks. - -“We missed you anyhow. Didn’t we, kiddo?” - -“Of course. Seeing you in the theater isn’t a bit like having you here -under our own roof.” She took off her hat, pushing back the weight of -hair as she sat down beside him. “They’re distinct and separate -lives.” - -“I wonder if that’s true,” Brooks put in quickly. “Do you really think -the life of the stage can be cut off completely from a man’s everyday -existence?” - -“Why not?” There was almost an urge in her question, a plea in her -eyes. - -“I’m inclined to believe,” he answered slowly, “that once the theater -is in a man’s blood, it colors everything he thinks and feels and -does. He’s got to put so much of himself into it that it becomes an -essential part of him.” - -“But why is that more true of the stage than of any other profession?” - -“Because success on the stage depends less on executive ability than -on sincerity. It’s swaying that crowd out there that counts.” He made -a sweeping gesture of his long, thin hand. “And they know counterfeit -when it’s handed them.” - -“You said it,” agreed Cleeburg. “Make a business of acting and you -make a failure.” - -“Lord,” laughed Brooks, “here I am telling Gloria something she knows -instinctively. Never saw a woman so charged with the power to make -people feel.” He stopped abruptly. - -Gloria had been gazing into her glass as if into a crystal. She set it -down and the next words came as though she did not want to say them. - -“If that’s so—I guess you’re right. I do live every thought and -emotion of every part I play. I suppose that’s why they call us -temperamental.” Her full sensitive lips curved in a half-smile. “You -don’t need temperament to sell stocks and bonds or argue a case in -court.” - -“I beg your pardon,” corrected Brooks. “A lawyer often has to be a -darned fine actor. I know, because I started out to be one.” - -“What’s that?” grinned his host. - -“Fact! I haven’t made it generally known. It’s too funny even to make -a good press story. But I was admitted to the bar before the stage got -me.” - -“Well, I’ll be—!” Little ’Dolph’s fork halted in its hurried trip -upward. - -Gloria pushed her plate aside and leaned farther over the table, eager -interest warming her eyes. Brooks brought his round to meet them. -Sitting there with the flames flickering over tawny hair and smoky -gray dress, she seemed somehow part of them. - -“Tell us how it happened, John.” - -“Oh, there’s no story strung to it. I’d done stuff each year in -college theatricals and the last year we took our show on tour. I got -the bug and when an honest-to-God manager offered me a real job I fell -for it.” - -“Have you ever wanted to go back to law?” - -“If I did,” his thin lips twisted, “they’d think it too much of a joke -to take me seriously.” - -He said it with rather a grim smile and looking at Gloria. She twisted -round in her chair, away from him. For a moment silence fell, broken -only by little ’Dolph’s apparent enjoyment of his supper. - -A gale banged against the windows trying to break its way in. Gloria -got up, went over and drew aside the curtain. Brooks followed. - -“I’d love to be out in it!” Her voice throbbed. Night shadows, -beckoning, fell across her face. - -“It would never let you come back.” - -“What a wonderful fight, though, trying to conquer it!” - -“Do you think you could?” - -“Yes. I think determination can conquer anything—even oneself.” - -“If one could be sure of that.” He looked down at the full lips that -trembled a little, at the eyes with flames back of them, and walked -back to Cleeburg. “Think I’ll turn in, old man.” - -Half an hour later Cleeburg stopped at the door of his wife’s room on -the way to his own. She was letting down her hair. It fell like a -loosened mane over neck and shoulders. He took a deep breath, more of -wonder than any other emotion. She turned, saw him and got suddenly to -her feet. - -“Have you seen what a night it is, ’Dolph?” - -She opened the French windows. A gale of dead leaves flung itself into -the room. She lifted her face, pulled her purple silk kimono closer -and stepped on the balcony. He tried to halt her with a warning -against catching cold. She laughed and beckoned to him. - -Black clouds raced across the moon. Trees dashed against the house -with all the impotence of human effort against the walls of Destiny. -There was no rain. The wind leaped up and drove Nature before it, a -mocking god bent on destruction. - -“By godfrey, if you could only get that on the stage!” whistled -Cleeburg. - -Gloria said nothing. Her face was still lifted, lips apart. Her arms -darted out so that the long kimono sleeves spread like wings. Her -whole body was poised as if for flight. - -Cleeburg stepped back and looked at her. - -She was part of the storm-torn night. Something about the abandon of -the scene frightened him. - -“Come in, honey, won’t you? Catch your death if you stay out like -this.” - -Her arms dropped. She turned and followed him indoors. But opening his -own window a while later he saw her slim silhouette outlined against -hers, upright with the dusky light of a lamp behind her. - -The next day at their noon breakfast he asked what time she had gone -to bed. - -“I don’t know. The night was so fascinating, I stayed up with it until -day came.” She looked as if she had not slept. - -Cleeburg lit a prodigiously long cigar, twirled it between his lips -and settled back benignly in an armchair by the fire. - -“Well, children, I’m here for the afternoon. Drive over to the club or -do whatever you like. Little ’Dolph’s going to get busy doing -nothing.” - -He reached over without altering his position of solid comfort and -picked at random one of the Sunday papers piled on the table beside -him. His broad face was suffused with a look of utter peace and -relaxation. Even the ever-active cigar suspended activities. - -Gloria’s lips touched his forehead. - -“We’ll go for a walk—back at four-thirty for tea.” - -His eyes went after her the length of the foyer to a side door opening -on the gravel walk—Gloria in dull green sport coat and tam, a fur -piece swung carelessly from one shoulder; and the tall well-knit man -in knickerbockers whose elastic step so easily fell in with hers. Had -they followed farther they would have seen two people tramping in -silence along a country road strewn with leaves that faded from green -to mottled dead brown under a sullen sky. They would have marveled at -the set look of the man’s mouth, the quivering of the woman’s. Those -sympathetic prominent eyes of his, always seeking the most beautiful -way to simulate human emotion, would have clouded with question had -they read the pain in both pairs that stared straight along the road -without meeting. - -Half a mile or so the two walked and then abruptly the man turned. - -“I tried to avoid it, Gloria.” - -“I know.” - -“But he took the matter out of my hands. You saw that.” - -“Yes.” - -“I could see he was hurt because I hadn’t been out this year. And -little ’Dolph isn’t the sort of man you can hurt.” - -“No.” - -“We both know that, don’t we?” - -She looked up at him without answer. Tears stood in her eyes. - -He turned his from them and his lips went tighter. - -“He’s the finest that walks in shoe leather,” he added. - -“I told him that the night we came in from the road. But I was telling -it more to myself than to him. John, I felt just knowing that you—that -you cared, was disloyal to him.” - -“I wouldn’t have let you know it, Gloria. I was determined never to -suggest it by so much as a word. Then when you went smash at the -theater the day before we came in, I—somehow I didn’t have to tell -you, did I?” - -“No.” It was a whisper. - -“I want you to believe I couldn’t be anything but square with little -’Dolph. You do, don’t you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Why, even on the stage, I feel I haven’t the right to take you in my -arms. And I must have shown it in some way or other. He noticed the -difference at the dress rehearsal.” - -She walked on silently at his side. - -“But I’m glad you know. Don’t blame me for that. It’s the biggest, -finest thing in my life, a thing I can’t help. I wouldn’t be human—” - -“We must never mention it again, John,” she broke in and her voice -came throbbing as it had the night before. “We can’t help it, just as -you say. But we must keep it locked up tight, so that it will harm no -one—not even ourselves. We owe that to him.” - -“Yes. I’d made up my mind to that.” - -“You mustn’t see me away from the theater. You mustn’t come out here -any more.” - -“I dare say it’s better that way.” - -Her eyes traveled along the leaf-strewn road, then up to the sulky -sky. And because they were not seeing quite clearly she stumbled and -almost fell across a fallen trunk. - -The man’s arm went round her, holding the slim body a moment. Then -with a conscious tightening of muscles he drew it away and plunged on -without a glance at her. - -Presently he turned and in the look he gave her was a sort of -desperate pleading. - -“Is there any harm in telling you just once, Gloria, what you mean to -me? I’ve been telling it to myself so long.” - -“I—I don’t think you’d better. I—I don’t believe I could listen.” - -He looked down. Her eyes, struck with terror, went up to his. - -“Please—don’t.” - -“It’s all right. I won’t.” - -They came to a trail through the woods. - -“Shall we take this back?” She turned into it. - -He reached up and broke a last branch of red leaves that trickled like -blood from a dying tree, and handed it to her. - -“Have you noticed how intensely bright this live stuff looks when -everything around it is dead or dying?” - -Little ’Dolph a mile or so distant, dozed by the fire with cigar still -sidling from the corner of his mouth. His dreams were hazy and -disjointed. But Gloria as he had seen her on the balcony the night -before drifted through them. The howling night swept by, tearing at -silken robe and wild hair. She seemed to sway with it. The clouds -descended. He had a vague sense of effort to reach out, to hold her, -that breathless catch at the heart of nightmare. Then suddenly he lost -sight of her. A distant crash and he saw the clouds sweep her up -and—while he stood rooted—carry her away. - -He sat up with a gasp. The cigar fell from his lips. His heart thumped -madly. - -“What a shame! The banging of the screen door wakened him!” It was -Gloria’s voice and she was coming toward him. - -He gave a great sigh of relief. - -“By godfrey, I’m glad to be awake! Come here, kiddo. Want to make sure -I’ve still got you!” - -She whisked the branch of scarlet leaves across his face. - -“Just had a dream that took you right out of my young life and I -couldn’t catch up!” - -She pulled off tam and coat, swung to the arm of his chair. - -“Can’t lose me, Dolphy dear!” - -“By-the-way,” remarked Brooks, as Gloria served tea, “please don’t -mind if I beat it back to town to-night. I’ve got to see my lawyer at -ten a. m., and you won’t be going in until to-morrow noon, will you?” - -“Yes, I do mind, by George!” came from ’Dolph. “We get you out here -once in a blue moon and you can’t even stand it for one day. What do -you want with a lawyer anyhow? Hold on to your pocket and attend to -your own legal affairs.” - -“But if John has to go in, dear, we mustn’t keep him.” - -Brooks was looking down at the cap twirling between his hands. - -“See, old man! Your wife understands.” - -“All right!” Cleeburg got up, peeved, and went to the bell. “What time -do you want the car? I’ll drive you to the station. But hanged if I -don’t think you pay us a mighty poor compliment!” - -He still showed annoyance when Brooks went up to pack his bag. - -“What’s got him, anyhow?” he put to Gloria. “Damned if I ask him -again!” - -All the way to the station he chewed on his cigar, responding -laconically when his guest tried to make conversation. The little -manager had a peculiar racial pride that John Brooks unwittingly had -speared. - -“Good enough to hand out his weekly stipend; good enough to give him -his living!” kept spinning round the active brain. “But not good -enough any more to sit with at the table! Prefers his Fifth Avenue -cronies for that.” - -As the car stopped, Brooks swung down, reached out a hand. - -“Thanks, old man. Had a great time!” - -“The hell you had!” said Cleeburg. - -He drove back still turning over his guest’s desertion and madder -every minute. When the car pulled up he sprang out, intent upon -talking the whole thing over with Gloria. He crossed the veranda, -opened the front door. - -She was sitting in the chair he had occupied before the fire. Her body -was bent forward, head lowered. He went nearer. She was stripping the -branch she had brought in of its blood-red leaves. One by one she -broke them off and dropped them into the fire. And her eyes never left -them as they curled up and shriveled to a crisp. - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -We who sit in the orchestra of life are inclined to smile, to lend -willing ear to whispers of scandal from behind the footlights. Perhaps -the standards are a bit less rigid on the surface. But so are -emotions. They cannot be hidden as the rest of the world has learned -to hide them but must be brought forth on the stage nightly that we at -play may know the joy of laughter and tears for which our own lives do -not exact payment. - -Those twin giants, Opportunity and Propinquity, stand guard at the -stage door, ushering in with a flourish each newcomer. Human frailty -is their stock in trade, the theater their most satisfactory market. -For a year they had stalked the steps of Gloria Cromwell and John -Brooks. For a year they had appeared at unexpected moments, working in -absolute harmony, waiting with tongue in cheek for the unguarded -second when the set line of the man’s mouth would relax; when his lips -would tell her what his arms had not yet made known; when the woman’s -voice with its strange thrilling note would meet his and confess. - -And they had been cheated. The unguarded second had come on the dingy -stage of a small town theater during the tour of “Lady Fair”—with -Gloria crumpling at his feet and his arms going round her in a sudden -desperate clasp. Alone in her dressing-room, her opening eyes had met -the look in his like a shaft of light struck through blindness. His -whispered “Gloria,” the straining of her close as if to hold her -always; the swift loosening of that hold; the step backward; the -breaking of their locked gaze. - -If love could be classified—and of course it cannot—I wonder how we -would label love that goes quietly on its way without hysteria, -without big scenes, with no effort to grasp that to which it has no -right; knowing that it must endure, even while it can never find -fulfillment. - -’Dolph Cleeburg, with round eyes constantly in search of new angles on -old conflicts, did not dream that daily in his own home, in his own -theater, those eyes were looking upon drama more vibrant than any he -could see in a mimic world—the quiet tragedy of passion which in daily -contact with its object, yet soldierwise faces its own death knell. - -He took note of nothing but the crowds that jammed the theater. He -planned gaily for next season’s tour, to be topped by triumphal entry -into London. - -“You and John will be a knock-out over there,” he told Gloria, eyes -popping. “Even if I am sore at him, I’ve got to admit he knows his -job.” - -Gloria looked out at the hills, shorn of all but bare-limbed trees and -covered with a fine frost, the gray beard of coming winter. It was -their final week-end in the country, later than they usually remained. -But she had wanted it so. - -“Have you spoken to John about going?” she asked. - -“Not since he was here. Haven’t spoken to him at all.” - -“Big baby!” she laughed. - -“Well, he hurt my feelings. I can’t forget the way he gave us the -go-by.” - -“Then—then why send him abroad?” It came with a sharp intensity. “We -can look the ground over when we cross this summer and engage an -Englishman.” - -“Not on your life! You and John pull too well together. The pair of -you will give ’em a taste of real American pep.” - -She hesitated, eyes riveted to the vista of cold hills. Suddenly she -wheeled round, one hand grasping the drape that bordered the French -window. The next words came like a catapult. - -“’Dolph, don’t book me for London! I’m not going! I don’t want to play -there.” - -“You don’t—” Cleeburg’s jaw dropped in sheer amazement. - -“No,” she raced on. “I’ve been thinking about it—a lot. I don’t want -to go.” - -“But why?” - -“I’ve never been over. I don’t know any one—” - -“That won’t take long. Why, they’ll be giving you a rush the day after -you land. And there’s John for company if you get homesick.” - -“Yes, I know. But”—she turned once more to the stripped hills, then -back with something like terror in her eyes—“but it’s you I need, -’Dolph. I don’t want to be so far away from you.” - -He got out of the chair that hugged his merry fire, went to her, laid -a hand that trembled over hers. - -“Y’mean that, kiddo? After six years of me, do I honest-to-God matter -as much as that?” - -Her hand curled up and over his, holding it tight. - -“Oh, ’Dolph, if you knew how much I need you! More now than ever -before! Don’t send me away—don’t!” - -Cleeburg’s eyes went up to hers. Hers went down before them. - -“By godfrey!” he said finally, brushing a hand across his eyes. “Think -I’m crying. Ain’t ashamed of it, either.” - -She did not answer. - -“You, too!” He peered under her lowered lids. “Fine pair of slushes, -eh? Well, I want to tell you right now, honey—ain’t a knock-out I ever -had that made a hit with me like this does.” - -She brought a smile to her silent lips. - -“All I’m looking for is the best thing for you,” he went on. “You’re -the main guy in this combination. I’m just the old back drop like I -told you. If you ain’t going to be happy in London, you don’t -go—that’s all. But think it over! I’d like to see my little girl make -the Britishers sit up. We’ll give them the once-over this summer. Then -you can decide.” - - * * * * * - -The memory of that afternoon with Gloria against the sunless winter -twilight begging not to be sent away from him, was to little ’Dolph -like some treasure one keeps in a vault—to be taken out, gazed upon -and locked away again. Sometimes in the rear office that was his -sanctum, when things had gone wrong or a lull came in the day’s -activities, he would sink back in his chair, a smile slowly radiating -his plain features, and before him would come a woman with arms -outstretched toward him as if for protection against all the world. -The wonder of it made him glow, sent the worries of business scurrying -into the background. - -He was seated so one Saturday afternoon between the matinée and -evening performances, after having rounded up the tour for next -season. The immortal cigar circled contentedly and he lolled back, -contemplating a sweep of intense blue sky—but seeing rather the Long -Island hills against a somber one—when his secretary brought word that -John Brooks was outside and wanted to see him. - -Cleeburg nodded. - -“Lo, stranger,” he said a bit sheepishly as the latter came in. “Time -you showed up.” - -“I’ve been trying to see you for the past month,” Brooks informed him, -throwing hat and coat on a chair and pulling another close to -Cleeburg’s desk, “but you passed me up every time we met. Never mind, -old man,” he added with a short smile as the other started to lay down -his cigar, “I know why. You were sore at me—and with reason. We’ll let -it go at that. I’m sorry.” - -“So’m I,” grinned little ’Dolph and sat back again. “When I like a -fellow, I like him. Enemies can’t hurt my feelings. Now what’s on your -mind?” - -Brooks got up as suddenly as he had sat down, took a turn the length -of the room, and came back. - -“’Dolph”—he began somewhat awkwardly and stopped. “’Dolph,—when this -season closes I’m going to ask you to get some one else for the road. -I can’t go out next year.” - -For the space of a breath the manager said nothing. He sat blinking -uncertainly as if not sure of his ears. Then he jerked forward. - -“What’s that?” - -“I know it seems a rotten trick to pull. But I want you to take my -word, ’Dolph, that I wouldn’t do it if I hadn’t justifiable reasons.” - -“Am I to understand that you’re handing me your notice?” - -“Yes, old man.” - -“You’re notifying me that you quit?” - -“Yes.” - -“When?” - -“When we close. If you can let me off before then—” - -Cleeburg’s laugh cut the sentence like an ax. It held—sharp, -contemptuous. Then his teeth shut on his cigar until the end broke off -in his mouth. - -“Who’s offering to star you?” came tersely. - -A flash from the other’s eye answered the arraignment. But his reply -was low and quiet. - -“Nobody.” - -“Since when did you take me for an easy mark?” - -“’Dolph,” Brooks began, “you and I have been on the level with each -other always. I’ve played fair and I’m going to keep on playing fair. -I’m quitting for reasons I can’t make clear to you now. You’ll have to -take my word for it.” - -“The hell I will!” Cleeburg shot out. “This has been coming a long -time. I saw it when you were in the country. Swelled head—that’s the -answer! Didn’t think they could do it to you. But those society snobs -have got you thinking you’re Edwin Booth.” - -The other man’s thin lips opened. His eyes narrowed with a look almost -of menace. Then in silence he picked up a flexible paper cutter and -bent it slowly in two. There was a snap. He chucked the pieces on the -desk. - -“That’s a damned injustice, Cleeburg. Wish you hadn’t said it. But it -won’t change matters any. I’m quitting.” - -“Look here, sorry if I was hasty. You hit me hard—that’s all! Sit -down. Let’s talk it over—cards on the table. What’s the big idea?” - -“I told you.” - -“No, you didn’t. Somebody’s after you. Somebody’s going long on the -golden promise stuff. I ain’t a fool. That’s plain as the nose on your -face. Now who is it? Kane? Coghlan? Surprised they didn’t try to get -you long ago.” - -“They did. I turned them down.” - -Beads of perspiration had gathered on Cleeburg’s head. He pulled a -handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped mechanically. - -“Anything wrong downstairs?” - -“N-no.” - -The manager looked up sharply. “If there’s trouble, just spill it and -I’ll settle things to your satisfaction.” - -“Nothing wrong, old man.” - -“Then look here, let’s get down to cases. If it’s business, we’ll talk -business. You’ve got to stay. Gloria can’t get along without you.” - -Brooks’ eyes shifted to the window. - -“I don’t want any trouble for her,” little ’Dolph pursued. “I’ve got -you billed together next season. Her public looks for you both. I’ll -meet any offer you got. Yes—and top it.” - -Brooks turned back slowly, shook his head. - -Cleeburg sprang up. - -“Well, get me straight—will you? You’re tied up tight. And I won’t let -you off. Now I’ll just about show you where you stand.” His thumb went -down on the press-button in his desk as if it were going through the -top. “Bring me Mr. Brooks’ contract,” he told his secretary. - -Brooks walked over to the window. His hands were shaking. His face was -dead white. He stood staring out with jaws set and the look of a man -going into battle. - -But Cleeburg saw nothing of that. His own hands opened and shut -spasmodically. He tramped steadily back and forth the space of his -desk, muttering to himself like the rumble of storm. Under the puzzled -question that brought brows together was a frown of fury. - -When the contract was handed him, he rustled quickly through the -pages, scanning the closely typed sheets, studying it clause for -clause. - -“No, sir! I’ve got you!” he ended triumphantly. - -“’Dolph, I’ve never asked favors—not from you nor any other man. But I -ask you now to let me off without any kick. You know me well enough to -realize I wouldn’t, without some good reason.” - -“Then I’ve got to know what that reason is.” - -“I can’t tell you.” - -“Not the ghost of an excuse, yet you want me to let you quit without a -murmur! What d’you think I am?” - -“I think you’re man enough not to try to hold me, contract or no -contract.” - -“That won’t work! Here it is, black on white.” He banged down the -contract. “No loophole for three years! It’s ironclad.” - -“Then I’ll have to break it,” the man at the window said quietly. - -Cleeburg went close to him. For some unaccountable reason this man -calmly breaking all rules of the game, made him feel apologetic. An -outraged sense of justice added to his fury. - -“Oh, you will—will you? Well, we’ll just look after that. Whatever -you’ve got up your sleeve, Brooks, it’s a skunk trick. And I won’t -stand for it, d’you hear? I’ll stop you from tying up with anybody -else. S’help me, I will!” - -“I’m not tying up with anybody else. I’m quitting—for good.” - -“What?” - -“That’s why I want you to release me.” - -Cleeburg gave the same hard contemptuous laugh as before. - -“What’re you trying to put over?” - -“Nothing.” - -“You mean to tell me you’re chucking a profession when you’re right on -top?” - -“I’m going back to the law—if the world hasn’t too keen a sense of -humor to accept a one-time actor as a lawyer.” - -The manager gave him one long uncomprehending look, then flung back -his head and roared. It was laughter not pleasant to listen to. Brooks -stood it silently for a stretch while his hands twitched. Then his -eyes flared as if fire were behind them. Still he did not turn from -the window. - -“Let’s end this, will you? We’re not getting anywhere. And I’ve given -you my ultimatum.” - -“Well, I’ll give you mine.” Cleeburg had lost all count of words. The -bruise of bucking against a stone wall had made him see red. “You -stick to Gloria or I’ll make it so hot for you that they’ll hoot you -out of this town! That’s the only way to handle—swine!” He broke off, -turned on his heel, went back to the desk. Suddenly he leaned across -it. “What the hell do you want, anyhow?” - -Brooks came round like a pivot. The other man’s breath held at the -look on his face. “I want your wife! Now for God’s sake throw me out, -will you!” - -It was quite still in the room. Even the words were spoken in -something less than a whisper. When they had come there was no outward -intimation that a man had pulled down a mountain crashing about his -head. - -Cleeburg’s hands clenched where they lay on the desk. He stared across -it without changing position. The blood mounted to his wet forehead, -then receded, leaving it gray white. His face was that of a man ready -to kill. Then he shook his head a little vaguely, felt for the chair -behind him, pulled it up to the desk. But he did not sink into it. He -caught hold of the arm and stood so, steadying himself. - -“Nothing on God’s earth would have made me tell you, ’Dolph,” Brooks -went on hoarsely. “I thought I could make you let me off without a -word. But you can see for yourself—” He paused—then abruptly: “Do you -know what it means to take her in my arms, loving her? Do you know -what it means to want another man’s wife and feel her lips on yours -every night?” - -Cleeburg moistened his own. They opened and closed. His nails dug into -the varnish of the chair. His eyes, so long unseeing, visualized in a -flash the scene they had gazed upon so often—Gloria in the arms of the -man facing him, himself urging them to more intense expression, more -abandon of love. Like a raging animal the fighting male leaped up in -him—then subsided, knowing it had to fight only itself. He met the -straight look. In turn it met his. And he knew that set mouth had -spoken truth, clean, uncompromising; could not have spoken at all if -it had been otherwise. He groped uncertainly,—spoke at last half in -fear, the first thought that had seized him. - -“Does—does she—know?” - -John Brooks looked into the tortured face and lied without hesitation. - -“No.” - -“You mean—she hasn’t even guessed?” - -“No. And I don’t want her to.” - -“That’s why you kept away from us?” - -“Yes.” - -“That’s why you went back to town last time you were with us.” - -“Yes.” - -“And I thought you were a damned snob!” A hand that trembled came -across the desk top. “Sorry I said what I did. Pardon!” - -The other made an attempt to treat it lightly. Two shaking hands -clasped. - -“No trouble about getting off now, eh?” - -“I—I’d like to eat dirt for the way I talked to you,” said Cleeburg. - -“Forget it! Your assumption was the only logical one. Another man -would be after me with a gun for what I’ve told you.” - -“Look here,” little ’Dolph stumbled on, “I—I’ll star you myself.” - -“No,” Brooks smiled a bit grimly. “I’m quitting—for good.” - -’Dolph Cleeburg’s eyes, comprehending now, took in the drawn face and -tired look of the man who had fought a losing battle—and won. And some -strange click of memory brought simultaneously the same look of -desperation in another face. Where had he seen it? When? Why did it -haunt him? He sat down, picked up the halves of the paper cutter and -tried to piece them together. Suddenly they rattled to the desk. -Gloria! Gloria’s white face that night after he had put them through -their paces, the night she had clung to him, the night of her strange -outburst of hysteria. Gloria’s face when he suggested sending them -abroad! Gloria’s face a dozen times since! - -His gaze moved slowly toward the door, straining as a man stares -through the dark. His thumb pressed the button on his desk, not as -before, but mechanically. He waited without moving. Yet his secretary -stood in the doorway fully half a minute before he spoke. - -“Find out if Miss Cromwell is in her dressing-room. Say I’d like to -see her here.” - -Brooks took a quick step toward him. - -“What do you want her for.” - -“To tell her you’re quitting.” - -“That’s not necessary. See here, ’Dolph, let’s drop it. You and I -understand each other.” - -“No harm telling her, is there?” - -The other man stepped back and sat down with a gesture that told the -futility of argument. He, too, sat with eyes on the door. - -Neither spoke. Little ’Dolph’s face seemed to sag. The skin fell -heavily round the jaws. The eyes had a vague, helpless look. He took -out his handkerchief, folded it carefully and put it back in his -pocket. He got up, changed the position of a chair, came back to the -desk. - -“’Dolph, what are you going to do?” Brooks brought out at last. - -“Just tell her,” he repeated. - -The door opened and Gloria came in, dressed for the street. - -“I’ve been waiting for you to take me to dinner,” she told Cleeburg. -“What’s kept you, dear?” - -He got up, pushed his chair in her direction. - -“News,” came uncertainly after a second’s pause. “Rotten news. John’s -leaving us.” - -The bomb was flung. He stood peering into her face, waiting for its -answer rather than that of her lips. - -There would be surprise—there must be that! And after the first start -of amazement, a protest. And indignation! The outburst of the actress -about to lose the support on which she depends. His hands clenched. -That she might not see, he clasped them behind him. God, let her know -the anxiety natural under the circumstances! Let her rise up -determined to hold this man to his business contract! Let her threaten -with all the impersonal fury he himself had shown! Let her prove that -to her John Brooks was merely part of her professional life! That as -such she would not let him go! - -He waited while his silent lips moved in prayer. - -Gloria’s first swift glance was to Brooks. His linked with hers. Her -fingers locked and unlocked. Twice she opened her lips without speech, -then turned back to Cleeburg. - -“Has anything happened? There—there’s been no trouble between you, has -there?” was all she said. - -“Of course not,” Brooks put in quickly. “I’ve told ’Dolph I’m quitting -for good. That’s all there is to it.” - -Little ’Dolph did not take his eyes from her. Now it would -come—surely. She had been too amazed, too taken back before. He waited -for the throbbing voice to answer. - -“You—you’re leaving the stage?” it asked too quietly. - -“Yes,” Cleeburg plunged in. “He’s quitting us—cold. Get that? He’s -leaving us in the lurch. What do you make of it?” - -With a look of sudden fear, Brooks sprang up. “See here, ’Dolph—” - -“John must have some good reason—” - -“Do you know what it is?” - -She glanced quickly from one to the other. Something in both faces -brought her, too, to her feet. “Why should I?” - -“You didn’t seem surprised when I told you.” - -“I am surprised, of course.” - -“Then why in God’s name don’t you make him give you some explanation?” - -“Hasn’t he given you one?” she asked very low. - -“Yes! Do you want to hear it?” - -“’Dolph!” the other man fairly leaped at him. - -“Wait a minute!” Cleeburg stretched out a hand. His throat was so -parched, he could scarcely bring out the words. “Wait a minute! I’ve -got to go through with this. I’ve got to know.” He turned to Gloria. -“You asked if anything happened. The biggest thing has happened since -you came into the room. I sent for you to tell you John was going. -That means you lose the best support you ever had or will have. It -knocked me out completely. And you take it without a murmur. You’ve -got him under contract, yet you don’t make the ghost of an effort to -hold him.” - -Gloria’s voice shook as she answered. - -“Why should I try to hold him against his will?” - -“Why wouldn’t you put up the fight of your life to hold him—unless -you’re afraid to?” - -“Afraid to?” - -“Let’s drop this!” came swift and sharp from Brooks. - -“I can’t—I’ve got to know,” Cleeburg broke in pitifully. Then to -Gloria like a man pleading for life: “You didn’t want me to book you -and John for London. You preferred not to go. That’s a fact, ain’t -it?” - -“Yes.” - -“Was it—was it because you didn’t want to be over there with -him—alone?” - -She stared as he put the question—stared into the eyes that were like -a bleeding animal’s. - -“I didn’t want to go without you. You know that.” - -He saw her mouth quiver at the corners and her teeth hold the lower -lip. And all her nervousness that night of the dress rehearsal swept -before him in torturing detail. He shook his head helplessly. He -grasped the arm of a chair as he had once before and steadied himself. -Haltingly the words he had known he must speak came at last. - -“Why wouldn’t you go without me? Was that—was it because you knew what -I know now—that he loves you?” - -She gave a start. He saw her eyes fly to the other man’s. There was -nothing of indignation in that look, nothing of anger. Terror—yes—and -question! But back of both a glow—the instinctive look of the one -woman to the one man that will live as long as the world. Because -unconscious, it was all the revelation the man who watched her needed. -A sort of groping wonder at his blindness seized him. Then little -’Dolph sank into the chair and, like a candle snuffed, hope went out -of his eyes. - -What she said as she turned back to him was merely a veil drawn across -thought to hide its nakedness. - -She went over, laid a hand on his shoulder and looked into the poor -haggard face that had not learned, as have women, to conceal its -suffering. Her own was as white. - -“’Dolph, dear—whatever John has told you, I want you to believe that -he’s never, by so much as a word, been disloyal to you.” - -He patted her hand and tried to smile. - -“I know that, kiddo. It’s all right. Honest it is.” - -“Don’t blame him. We’ve been together so much. The theater is so -different from any other kind of life. It’s so—so intimate.” - -“’Dolph has been one hundred per cent there.” Brooks squared his -shoulders as he spoke and went toward the door. “Another man would -have put a bullet through my head.” - -“You—you’ll go on being his friend, ’Dolph?” - -“Don’t worry, kiddo.” - -“You and I will have each other.” Her voice broke. - -His empty eyes came round to her. - -“You’re going to stay on with me?” - -“Of course I am.” - -“Y’mean it?” - -“Of course I do.” She looked to Brooks and held out her hand. -“Good-by, John.” - -He came over and took it and held it for a moment—tight. - -“Good-by, Gloria. I’ll be leaving town next week, if ’Dolph’s willing -to have an understudy take my place from to-night on. I’m not likely -to see you again.” - -Their eyes met and managed to smile. Then Gloria looked away. -Something in her throat was fluttering like a wild thing. - -When she looked back the door had closed. - -“You’re all right, honey,” Cleeburg murmured huskily. - -Three hours later he let himself into the quiet office, switched on -the light and went to the desk. A broken paper knife lay near the -inkstand. He picked up the pieces, held them together with half a -smile, then let them drop from his hand into the waste basket. - -The chair he had pushed forward for Gloria stood as she had left it. -He drew it over, sat down, and with broad mouth firm but hands that -shook a little, pulled a sheet of foolscap toward him and took up a -pen. - -The pen moved across the sheet, sometimes hesitating, sometimes swift -as a comet. But the determined line of little ’Dolph’s mouth never -relaxed. - - _My dearest little girl_: - - I’ve been thinking a lot since dinner, and when a fellow has sort - of lost the habit of thinking about anything but his next show it - comes hard. But don’t you jump at the conclusion that what I’m - going to say is hasty or that it ain’t final. For years there was - a funny old feeling inside of me that I had something to tell the - world and no way to tell it. I wanted to put over something on - the stage that would sound like music or look like a beautiful - painting. Scenery wouldn’t do it. The women I had trained - couldn’t do it. I didn’t even know, myself, just what it was. I - used to tell myself often I was a poor nut. Then you came along - with that voice of yours and those eyes and the fire that hasn’t - any name, and did it all for me. If there hadn’t ever been - anything more for me than seeing those hopes come true, it would - have been enough. But I’ve had you for almost six years. You made - me happier than you know, kiddo. And what has a poor old dub like - me ever done to expect more than the happiness life has already - handed me through you? Why, that’s a fortune that makes the - Rockefeller millions look like thirty cents. If I try to hog - more, if I keep you from the thing you’ve got a right to, the - thing you gave me for six years, shooting’s too good for me. - - You don’t think I could let you stay on with me, knowing that you - and John belong together, do you? And you do belong together. You - know I always said you made a fine team. Why, kiddo, it would - finish me. I want you to be happy, that’s all. And I saw to-day - where that happiness is for you. - - I fixed it so that John couldn’t get off to-night. And I’m going - to fix it now so that you’ll play together the rest of your - lives. I’m sailing Monday to fix up those English contracts. When - I come back in the fall you’re going to be free. No, not free, - I’m wrong. I want to take you and John by the hands and say—Bless - you, my children! - - You remember, I called myself once your old back drop. Well, - being that is about the best thing that’s ever happened to me. - And I’ll keep on being that if you’ll let me, until you quit the - game. Let me go on putting you over just like always and I’ll be - O. K. Don’t you worry. - - God bless you, kiddo. - - ’Dolph. - -He folded the sheets without reading them, put them into an envelope, -sealed it carefully, went downstairs and looked up the head usher. - -“Take this to Miss Cromwell and give it into her hands yourself,” he -said. “And here, kid.” And he slipped the boy a dollar. - - - - -TWO MASTERS - -_ROMANCE_ - - -Love is a fantasy, a dream that only sacrifice can make come true. The -tragedy of it is not in dying, but in living without it. - - - - -TWO MASTERS - -CHAPTER I - - -Across Bryant Park, chilled and damp under a gray sky emptied of -stars, a man hurried. His overcoat collar was turned up. His soft hat -was pulled down. His eyes between the two were dark-circled and -deep-sunk. His feet covered the wet paths with the stumbling haste of -one pursued. - -To the east the faint gold streaks of an autumn dawn cut the clouds. -They reached up above the irregular skyline that is New York, -heralding the day some minutes after it was born. - -The man sped across Fortieth Street and mounted the steps of one of -the few brownstone houses, relic of an old aristocracy, that refused -to be crowded out by the bourgeoisie of business. He fumbled in his -coat pocket, brought out a key, dropped it in his anxiety, finally got -the inner door open and made his way, still stumbling, up the stairs. - -At an apartment on the second floor—for the house maintained its aloof -air of aristocracy only on the outside—he paused and squared his -shoulders. His whole body seemed to steel itself and then, very -softly, he inserted the key and entered. - -A gentle rustle came from the room beyond and a trained nurse with -finger against her lips met him on the threshold. - -“She—she’s all right?” he whispered, lips twitching. - -“Sleeping.” - -“I tried to get back earlier. We rehearsed until a few minutes ago.” -He threw hat and overcoat on a chair and sank into another. His head -went down into his hands. “God, those hours, when every minute I -thought—Miss Anderson,” he broke off, looking up to catch her -expression, “she hasn’t taken a turn for the worse! She’ll pull -through, won’t she?” - -She smiled, a little sadly, at the desperate, so familiar query. - -“She’s holding her own,” she answered with the formula equally -familiar. - -“Can’t you tell me she’ll get well? Can’t you give me the assurance?” - -“No one can do that, Mr. Moore. We can only wait and hope.” - -She took a hesitant step toward him, hand outstretched to comfort. -Then evidently realizing how futile such effort would be, she turned -and went back to her place at the foot of the bed that was a misty -blur in the darkened room beyond. - -He followed, precipitately yet with scarcely the sound of a footfall. -The room was full of shadows. A thread of sunlight, forcing its way -between blind and window, crept across the floor and gradually toward -the bed. But Frank Moore did not need its delicate finger-touch to -illumine the face that lay so still upon the pillow. He knew every -precious line of it, every contour, all the shades of modeling that -made it exquisite even though disease had in a few short weeks pressed -into a gaunt mask the curves of beauty. He stood looking down at its -stillness until a sudden broken cry came from him and he went quickly -into the other room. - -With no shame for his man’s tears, he flung himself full length on the -couch and gave way to the misery he must hide when the wistful gaze of -the eyes he loved was on him. Long days of rehearsal, long nights of -anxiety, had weakened his resistance. He lay shaking with all the -pitiable helplessness of the strong man gone under. - -On side streets and flashing under the reflectors on the big -twenty-four sheets along Sixth Avenue was his name in prominent black -letters. - - Kane Theatre - 45th Street - beginning - _November 5th_ - - OSWALD KANE - Presents - the New Drama - “THE LAUREL WREATH” - by - _Gaston Grisac_ - Featuring - FRANKLYN MOORE - -How often they had dreamed of the day when he and she could look up -and see that name as it stood out now, heralded, the featured one of -the season’s big production! How often had she pictured herself -stopping to read it each time it loomed before them, scanning it over -and over on her theater program, leaning beyond the rail of the stage -box to spur him to the success that must be his! - -And to-night—the night that was to have been the greatest in their -life, she would be lying there, while he— He sprang up, with quick -stride covered the floor, back and forth, back and forth, like a -prisoner in a cell. - -The day nurse arriving at seven, found him dazed and blank-eyed from -sheer weakness. As one feeds a child, she made him swallow some -steaming coffee, then led him without difficulty back to the couch. - -“You must rest, Mr. Moore, or you won’t be equal to the performance -to-night.” - -“I—can’t.” - -“But if I promise to call you when Mrs. Moore wakes up, won’t you try -to sleep a bit?” - -“I can’t, I tell you!” - -“Please—” - -She plumped up the pillows and he fell back among them, exhausted. He -did not sleep but a sort of numbness gripped him as if the blood had -been drained from his veins. And while his body lay still, his mind -moved with wonder. Ambition—hope—of what use? To-day for him, this day -that was to make all the days to come, there was just one reality. -That face in there with its lines of suffering, that frail body, that -soul that must live on for him. Nothing else was worth a -thought—nothing! All night long as he had rehearsed, perfecting under -the subtle guidance of Oswald Kane, the minutest detail of -characterization, the most delicate shading of the difficult rôle he -had mastered, he had been standing in reality at her bedside. Like a -well-ordered mechanism he had gone through the part. But the -indeterminate something that was Franklyn Moore had been in that -shadowy room—with her. Kane had noticed the lack. An anxious frown had -drawn his expressive brows momentarily together. But he had said -nothing until the dress rehearsal was over and the company had gone -home to sleep in preparation for the night’s performance. Then he had -linked his arm through Moore’s and drawn him into the darkness of the -wings. - -“Frank, I know this is an ordeal for you. If there were any way of -postponing the opening, I would do it. You know that. But it can’t be -managed. We’re all set. They could only conclude that something was -wrong with the play.” - -“Of course—I know. That’s all right.” - -“And, my boy, we can’t afford to let it fail because of this—this -misfortune that has come to you. It’s on your shoulders. We must come -through, Frank. We can’t stand a failure.” His anxiety was all too -evident. - -“I was rotten—I know. But don’t worry—” - -“I won’t. I depend upon you, my boy, that’s all. And so does -to-night’s success. Let me run you home.” - -“Thanks—no. I’d rather walk it. Want to be alone—you understand—pardon!” - -And he had stumbled out of the stage door into the new gray day. - -Now as he paced up and down, he wondered whether it would be humanly -possible to keep faith with the man who was giving him the opportunity -to blazon his name to the world. Could he go through with it? Could he -be depended upon? - -The nurse appeared in the doorway and beckoned to him. From the pillow -a pair of eyes, so large and dark that there seemed no other feature -in the small face, fastened on the door as he entered. He dropped on -his knees, laid his head beside hers. One hand strayed up and stroked -his thick brown hair. - -“How did it go, darling?” - -He answered with another question of greater moment. - -“Are you feeling better?” - -“Much. They gave me something to make me sleep. I must have slept a -long time. Is it morning?” - -“Ten o’clock.” - -“Really? What time did you get in?” - -“About half-past five.” - -“How did the rehearsal go?” she repeated. - -“Fine. Kane thinks it will be a knock-out.” - -“I’m sure it will.” - -He turned his face from hers for an instant of silence. - -The nurse moved about the room, lifting the blinds to the sunlight, -preparing it for the day. Then she came over to the bed. - -“As soon as I have Mrs. Moore fixed up, I’ll let you come back,” she -said. - -“You’ll let him tell me all about it, won’t you?” pleaded the voice -from the pillow. “I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.” - -“Yes—he can stay in here until—” - -“Until he’s ready to go to the theater. Please—please!” - -“If you don’t wear yourself out.” - -“I won’t—I promise.” - -The big dark eyes followed him out of the room. - -He stripped off his clothes, took a cold shower and in clean linens -tried to persuade himself that he felt relaxed. He telephoned the -doctor for a report on last night’s visit and was told Mrs. Moore was -about the same. If she had gained some sleep that was decidedly in her -favor. The doctor would be over at five and as Mr. Moore had -requested, would make arrangements to stay until his return from the -theater. - -The small face on the pillow was lifted eagerly as he reappeared. Two -long braids of pale gold fell over the shoulders and onto the white -spread. He had always adored that pale gold hair. It intensified the -dark of her eyes, making them almost black. It made her mediæval, an -Elaine of poetry. He called her “Elaine” which after all was not so -very far from her own name, “Helen.” - -“No, I want you here.” She pointed to the foot of the bed. “Where I -won’t miss a word or an expression. Now tell me—about everything.” - -In a low voice, without stress or excitement, he related the incidents -that always occur at a dress rehearsal. Props that had to be replaced -at the last minute. The leading woman’s gowns gone wrong. The house -cat sauntering across the stage during the big scene and its portent, -good luck! Kane’s decision to light him with white instead of amber in -the final act. All the little shadings, the quaint superstitions, the -unimportant incidents that make the stage the fascinating realm it is, -even to the initiated. - -She listened with lips parted and an occasional faint nod of the head. -It was her world, too, though the world in which she had failed. - -“I hope you weren’t too good, dear.” - -“I was rotten.” - -Her smile said she knew he couldn’t be that, but the lips told him:— - -“That’s good. A bad dress rehearsal is sure to mean a great opening.” -A sudden longing, uncontrolled, held her eyes. “How I’d love to see -it!” - -He bent down, lifted one of the white hands on the coverlet, pressing -it against his lips. - -“I don’t know how I can go through without you,” came in spite of him. - -Her eyes clouded. - -“You must, dear! You mustn’t even think of me.” - -“It’s too much to ask,” the broken voice plunged on. “To go out and -face that crowd with you—here! I can’t do it—I can’t!” - -“You must do it, my love.” The spirit so much stronger than the body -shone from her eyes. “I’ll be thinking of you and praying for you. -I’ll be with you all through the performance. I’ll follow each -line—every tiny bit of business. But you must put me out of your mind. -Only your part must count—only your success.” - -He was silent, pressing the little hand between his warm palms as if -to send the vitality from his veins into hers. But the only vitalized -part of her was the feverishly bright look of eyes that drew his. - -“Frank—” - -“Yes, darling—” - -“You know how I always loved the stage—how I always wanted to be a -great actress.” - -“I know, my Elaine.” - -The big burning eyes traveled into the past. Haltingly, with breath -uneven and the words only faintly spoken, she drifted on the tide of -memory back toward that horizon of hope so many see but never reach. - -“Frank—do you remember in the old stock days when we first met—how -jealous I was of you?” - -“Nonsense! You were just ambitious.” - -“No—jealous! Don’t you remember the time I wouldn’t speak to you for a -week—because you walked off with the big scene?” - -“Mine was the better part.” - -Two tears she pretended not to be conscious of gathered in the dark -eyes. - -“No, dear—it wasn’t in me. You tried to give it back to me—that -scene—at every performance.” Her voice trailed away a little wearily -and it was a full minute before the slow words came to her lips again. -“But I couldn’t take it away from you, no matter how hard I tried.” - -She had carried him with her back to the days of struggle and hope, -when success was a star at the top of the world and effort the ladder -from which so many rungs fell away as climbing feet sought a firmer -hold. The days when disappointments were shared with after-theater -sandwiches and the monument of ambition took the form of a dingy stock -theater on the Main Street of a small town. - -“And I felt like such a dog,” he reminisced. “That was when I began -loving you—when I was trying to heal the hurt of your disappointment. -That night when you walked out of the stage door in the pouring rain -and your umbrella turned inside out and I tried to make you take my -raincoat but you poked up that little head of yours and looked neither -to right nor left like a real Mrs. Siddons. And then an old cab came -jogging along and I scooped you up bodily and carried you into it, -broken umbrella and all. Do you recall how I held you in my arms all -the way to your boarding-house and kept telling you you had to marry -me?” - -“Take me in your arms now, dear. Let’s live those days over again.” - -He looked, anxiously yet with an eager plea in his eyes, toward the -nurse. She hesitated. - -“Frank,” came the voice from the pillow, “won’t you put your arms -around me?” - -The nurse nodded, coming quickly to the bed. She slipped her own arm -under the wasted body, lifted it. Then the man’s went in its place and -silently he cradled the precious burden against him, bending down so -that her position might not be changed. She gave a little sigh as his -lips touched the silk of her hair. - -“I feel better now,” she said. - -They were quiet a few moments while the man’s eyes fastened blindly on -a cornice of the ceiling. - -Her slim fingers curled round his. - -“We both love the theater so, don’t we?” - -“Yes—” But he was not thinking of her words. - -“Only I never had it, dear,—the spark. It is a spark—” - -“You have the greatest spark in the world, darling,—the love that you -give and inspire—that will live on when the theater has forgotten me.” - -“It must never forget you.” She stopped, then softly went on, “I—I -wanted so much for myself—at first. I could learn lines and be letter -perfect in a few days—and look pretty.” - -“You were always beautiful. You always will be.” - -She gave a little tired movement of dissent. - -“It doesn’t matter much—because—because—anyway—” - -“I love you so,” he said in a shaking voice. - -“I used to tell myself the other thing—the spark—would come. It took -New York to teach me that if you have the other thing—looking pretty -and being letter perfect in a few days aren’t important. But Frank—” - -“Yes, sweetheart—” - -“I didn’t marry you because I was a failure. I married you because I -loved you.” - -“You don’t have to tell me that.” - -“But I want to. Do you want me to tell you just when I knew I loved -you?” - -“Yes.” - -She had told it to him dozens of times but he waited with the eager -attention of one who had never before heard it. - -“Well, it was the time we both opened in ‘The Jungle-Beast.’ I had -just come to New York. You’d been here six months. But I was too proud -to let you know because I couldn’t get a job and was half starved. And -then we met one day—in Cleeburg’s office—and you made him give me a -part.” - -“He’d have given it to you without me.” - -“He would not. It was you who managed me. The best manager in the -world,” she murmured. - -He had an insane impulse to clutch her tighter, hold her so that no -power on earth or in heaven could drag her from him. But the muscles -of his arms merely tightened without movement. She lay within them, a -weight too pitifully light. - -“When we opened,” came at last, whispered so that the words were a -breath, “I tried so hard—I put every bit of me into the part.” - -“And you were great in it, too.” - -“No, the papers told the truth. I just—wasn’t. They didn’t even -mention my name—I was just an also-ran. But Frank—I was so happy—so -proud. My own failure didn’t count. That was when I knew I loved you, -dear,—belonged to you—for always.” - -“For always,” he repeated like an amen. - -“No matter what happens?” - -“No matter—” he could not go on. - -She lay there with eyes closed and a smile on her lips. A faint pink -like the touch of sunset spread its delicate color on her cheeks. But -only for the moment that had carried her into the past. When the eyes -opened and looked up to his, they were troubled. - -“What is it, my Elaine?” - -“Frank—since then I’ve poured all my ambition into you. All these -seven years—each step of yours up the ladder has been mine. And we -have been happy—every minute of them, haven’t we?” - -He put his inarticulate lips against her forehead. - -“Nothing can take that away. It’s ours—forever. It’s more than life -gives most people. And I’m not a real failure, because my longing has -been satisfied—in you.” The clouded eyes struggled to his. “Come -closer, dear. That’s why you mustn’t fail to-night. Tell me you -won’t.” - -“But the thought of leaving you—it—it’s too much. I can’t stand it!” - -“You must, Frank! Everything depends on it.” - -“Do you think anything that matters there—will count?” - -“But if I want you there instead of here—if it means everything to -me?” - -Her fingers twined feverishly through his. Her eyes were frightened. -Her voice gathered sudden strength. - -“I want to spur you to triumph, darling, not defeat. I want you to -ring the bell, so that—always—I can know I was a help not a -hindrance.” - -“Elaine—you mustn’t talk any more. You’re tired.” - -“No—I’m not. Let me tell you the thing I want to say. You can’t serve -two masters, dear, the theater and me. You love us both—but to-night -the theater must come first. It is your master—mine, too. You must let -it take you away from me when you want to stay. You must let it -absorb you—mind and body. You must forget that I’m ill—forget me while -I’m remembering you. No matter what happens! Frank—promise me—” - -“I can only—try.” - -Her two hands clung to his. - -“That’s not enough! Frank—I’d die now if I thought I was going to -cause you to fail. You must appear—you must make good. You must do the -best work of your career. After all, that will be serving me too, -darling. You’ll be giving me the thing I want—your name the greatest -on the American stage. No matter what happens, Frank—no matter what—” - -The nurse moved quickly to the bedside. - -“I can’t let Mr. Moore stay if you excite yourself. Take this—and -please lie quiet for awhile.” - -“You won’t make him go?” - -“Not if you do as I say.” - -She took the powder and, closing her hands round his to reassure -herself, settled back on the pillow. He remained in his cramped -position, half kneeling, half lying beside her, filling his eyes with -her, listening for every faint even breath that told him sleep had -once more laid relaxing fingers upon her. Like a miser counting gold, -he counted the minutes that gave them to each other, the minutes -before the master she said he must obey claimed him. He heard those -minutes being ticked away by the clock in the adjoining room with a -terror that laid cold hands on his heart. The day must not go! It must -not escape them so quickly! - -Once more he put his head down beside the pale gold one. For a long -time neither moved. Then the faint grip of her fingers loosened, -dropped away. But his arms stayed about her, numbed and tense. - -She awoke and lay smiling into his eyes, but neither made attempt to -speak. Sometimes he whispered her name. Sometimes she murmured his. -All the words that could have been spoken—all that he wanted to pour -out—all that he felt—choked him. But the futility of trying to express -it and the fear of weakening her held him silent. Theirs was a -communion deeper than speech. - -It was late afternoon when she lifted her head, a sudden light -illumining her spent eyes. - -“Frank—have they got your name on that billboard we can see from the -front window?” - -“Yes, beloved.” - -“Big?” - -“Yes.” - -“Almost as big as Kane’s?” - -“Yes, little lady of mine.” - -“Frank—I want to see it.” - -He started up with protest on his lips, but— - -“Impossible!” formed on the nurse’s before he could speak. - -“Please, Frank!” - -“I’m afraid it wouldn’t do, dear.” - -“If you’d wrap me in a blanket and carry me in. Just for a second—just -to see it—once.” - -“Mrs. Moore,” the nurse put it, “it doesn’t seem much and I’d like to -say ‘yes.’ But it would weaken you too much.” - -“No—no! It wouldn’t—it couldn’t! Why—it’s the thing I’ve been waiting -for! It would give me new life. I want to see his name all lighted -up. Please—please! Don’t deny me just this little thing.” - -Frank Moore’s gaze went desperately to the nurse’s. She stood locking -and unlocking her hands, nervous uncertainty battling with -professional caution. - -“We’ll wait until Dr. Griffith gets here. If he permits it—” - -With gaze fastened on her, Frank Moore knew that she was certain the -doctor would not permit it. Yet when he came at five and the dark eyes -went quickly to his with their anxious plea, he stood looking down at -them for a moment, prolonged by silence—then bowed his head in quiet -assent. - -The man who had been watching did not stop to question or consider -why. He saw only the light that like white fire came again to the eyes -he loved. Gathering her close, with head bent to hers, he carried her -to the window that faced the park. - -Dusk with its faint blue haze of beauty had settled and through it -glimmered the first sparkle of the evening star. A building off toward -Broadway, mysteriously illuminated from below, glowed moonwhite and -dreamlike. The city itself, at this weird hour between day and night, -seemed scarcely real. But it was not on the unreality of material -things that the dark eyes centered. Over the park they wandered and -above the long black trellis of the elevated. - -There it was, shining beyond its reflectors, the big twenty-four -sheet:— - - Kane Theatre - 45th Street - beginning - _November 5th_ - - OSWALD KANE - Presents - the New Drama - “THE LAUREL WREATH” - by - _Gaston Grisac_ - Featuring - FRANKLYN MOORE - -She gave a little joyful sigh. - -“Frank dear—it’s real—it’s real!” - -Her arms held closer round his neck. - -“I’ve asked Kane to keep your place vacant in the stage box,” came -from him finally. “I couldn’t bear to have anyone else in it.” - -“I’ll be with you—rooting for you—don’t forget! I’ll be with -you—always.” - -He put his face against hers. He could not speak. Through the dusk he -saw only those great dark eyes with their strange glowing light. He -stood with her so, while she read and re-read the name that spelled to -her love, ambition, life. Suddenly— - -“I can’t leave you—I can’t!” he broke down. - -“’Sh! You must go on and on, darling. Remember,—don’t try to serve -two masters. You will remember—won’t you? For me?” - -Their eyes held. - -“Yes,” came from him. - -“And Frank—” - -“Yes, my Elaine—” - -“Kiss me.” - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -A Kane opening is not an ordinary first night. It happens, at the -outside, twice a season at the two most artistic theaters in New York. -It is an event as important socially as theatrically. Weeks before, -the hum of it is in the air. The public palpitates with anticipation. -When Oswald Kane imports a play from Paris, it is the most chic, -effervescent and gay the winking eye of Paris has gazed upon. When he -produces a period play, he trusts neither to his own imagination nor -the costumer’s but enlists the advice of experts and dresses his -product with the care of a modiste turning out a woman of fashion. -Every member of his casts, down to the most minute part, is selected -with an eye to ensemble effect. Sometimes the effect is overdone, a -surface glazed too smooth to be startling. But it is never underdone, -and the New York first night audience is often hypnotized under the -hand of the magician into believing a mediocre piece of work an -outstanding masterpiece. - -Through the audience that flowed into the Kane Theater on the night of -November 5th, like an undulating stream of scented sparkling color, -drifted that murmur of eagerness which was breath of life to the -famous producer. In it he found all the satisfaction of a woman in her -beauty or a painter in the eyes lifted to his canvas. Glitter, the -incandescence of anticipation, they were the arclights along the path -of his greatness. He stood in the wings, a gentle, artistic hand -straying through the wavy black hair that fell across his forehead, -giving his attention to the final details of to-night’s opening. As -the actors assembled he gave each an encouraging word, the last moment -stimulus of a faith not always felt. - -The mirror in a dressing-room just a few yards beyond Kane’s point of -vantage reflected a face mask-like in its immobility. The man before -it sat staring at the reflection as if it belonged to another. A shirt -open at the neck showed muscles hard and tense. Even make-up could not -widen the tight red line of the mouth. The eyes were dulled as if -viewed through a curtain. Frank Moore went through his final -preparations like a machine correctly set in motion. When the last -touch had been given, he walked to the door and listened to the surge -of the incoming throng like the song of the sea on a smooth beach. - -Suddenly rebellion shook him. What right had they? Pleasure! That was -all they cared about. To make of him a puppet, a thing for their -amusement! God, what a joke! Those lights, the chatter, the -laughter—himself about to stalk on the stage! - -A few minutes later, as he made his entrance to an anticipatory round -of applause, he had an insane desire to step down to the footlights -and shout his thoughts to the upturned faces that came vague and white -out of the dark. Those gay seekers who were using him for an hour’s -diversion, why should they not know what that hour meant of anguish to -him? Why should the curtain that lifted to them lift only on illusion? -Why should their pleasure be permitted to surmount his pain? - -But those in front saw only a man going through his part with leaden -apathy. Frank Moore, the spontaneous, the man who with the lift of an -eyebrow or the flick of a little finger against a cigarette ash could -carry an audience into his mood, what had happened to him? A stir, -that faint but agonizing presage of dissatisfaction, sent its warning -up and over the footlights. Moore felt it with the rest but it -quickened neither fear nor blood in his veins. Only grim resentment -and dull indifference. He could not shake them off. He didn’t care. - -Backstage the sensitive fingers of Oswald Kane on the pulse of his -public trembled for the sum, always enormous, that would sink with the -swaying ship of the production. As the act drew to its close his -restless feet paced the boards, his black brows drew together. Yet -when the curtain fell and Moore came off, the manager showed no -anxiety. He approached the actor, gently taking his arm. Moore looked -up a trifle dazedly as if not quite sure where he was. - -“Wish I could do something for you, old man!” was all the other man -said. - -“Rotten, wasn’t I?” Moore answered with a tight smile. - -Kane said nothing. - -“Do my best this act,” Moore supplemented. - -“Shall I telephone and find out how things are? You might like to -know.” - -“No—don’t—don’t! I couldn’t—stand it!” His strained eyes closed. He -went quickly into his dressing-room and banged the door. - -Kane stood for a second, hesitant, then hurried out to the elevator -that mounted to his studio at the top of the building. - -In the lobby critics exchanged a few cryptic remarks, conservatively -trying to withhold snap judgment. But frankly puzzled, they asked each -other what was the matter with Kane. He was permitting an actor like -Franklyn Moore to walk through his part like an automaton. - -The auditorium darkened. The curtain lifted on Act II. Moore made his -entrance. He played a statesman, ruthlessly trampling under iron hoof -friends, family, wife, to reach the pinnacle of his ambition. But up -to that moment he had not been iron. He had been wooden. Not ruthless -force but numbed suffering marked his gestures, the intonation of his -deep voice. More than once his hand strayed with desperate weariness -to his thick brown hair. He managed to catch the gesture in time. But -even halted midway, it marked itself as strangely out of character. - -As he came off at his first exit Kane was in his path, pacing up and -down. Once more he took the actor’s arm, but this time his voice -shook. - -“Do you want to go home, old man? Shall I step out now and explain? We -can ring down the curtain.” - -“You mean I’ve flivved the whole thing, anyway. You mean there’s no -use going on.” - -“No!” Kane pulled down the hands that tremblingly covered the staring, -empty eyes. “No—don’t say that. But it was too much to ask of you. I -had no right.” - -“You—you weren’t the only one who asked it of me. I’m going through -with it, I tell you! I—I’ll get them yet.” - -A shout of laughter came from the auditorium. Kane could not control a -sigh. It was relief after the murmuring quiet that had marked the -play’s reception from the first. Moore looked up with a quick, -comprehending glance. He _had_ flivved the production. Failure was -upon his shoulders—his alone! He squared them determinedly. He waited -attentively for his cue. - -When he walked on the stage again, he looked out upon the vague faces -in that crowded cavern at his feet and then his gaze traveled to an -empty chair in the stage box. It rested there an instant and gradually -something was woven into the mauve velvet. Filmy and gauze-like as a -cloud across the sun, it took at first no form. Only white and gentle -and indefinite. But even before it floated into the folds of a woman’s -gown, he knew that above it two dark eyes were sending the flame of -inspiration into his, a silky blond head was bent forward with the -light of love gleaming from it. The lips were slightly parted as if to -call to him. Against the rail of the box rested transparent hands, -ready to lift in applause. She was so eager, so intent, so full of -faith and urge and hope that he did not realize his imagination had -put her there. Those other men and women must see her, too. They must -know now that the one he needed to help him onward had come because of -that need. - -His head went up. A light lifted the curtain of his eyes. A live look -loosened the tension of his mouth. He turned toward the leading woman -and again his glance swept the audience. Something electric passed -over them. Franklyn Moore had come to life. He was acting now. No, not -acting! For as his deep voice responded to the unvoiced call which -had come to him, it swept that waiting throng across the footlights. -Not illusion but reality made them move forward with the drama. To -them he was no longer an actor playing a part. He was a man living in -anguish because in tearing the laurel wreath from another’s brow, he -had torn down his own happiness. The wife he loved had turned to the -man from whom he had snatched it. - -“Of what use is the applause of the multitude,” he pleaded, “if I must -lose you?” - -And as he spoke the words only a few in that vast audience saw his -eyes fasten on an empty chair in the stage box. - -The dark eyes that met his shone. The shadowy hands came together in -applause. The white throat pulsed. She was so alive in all her -vagueness. She was sending out to him what he had always known she -would give him when the moment came, the spark she had said she -lacked, the power of love to leap the chasm of uncertainty, to know -the heights of achievement. - -His lips formed “Elaine!” He waited for the applause to die down. Then -with the man’s eyes still on that box, the actor crossed the stage to -the woman he had lost. - -“I ask you only not to leave me! Not now! Give me the chance to share -with you the success that has robbed me of—everything. One chance! -Just one!” - -And as she told him it was too late to ask anything of her and the -door shut behind her, he lifted his two arms and his voice broke with -the tragedy of the immortal tenor’s in “Il Pagliacci” as he cried -out:— - -“I am at the top—and I am alone.” - -Even before the curtain fell the bravos rang out. The force of them -was deafening. That drawing aside of the curtain of his soul, that -sudden springing to life of the fire of genius had an effect more -dynamic than would have been an easy success from the very beginning. - -It was like a clarion blast across a silent world. It galvanized the -sullen crowd to action. It carried them out of their seats. Through -the din and the repeated rise and fall of the curtain Moore did not -move. They clamored for a speech. He shook his head. But like -insistent children they shouted his name, and as the curtain remained -lifted, he stepped downstage. - -“There’s nothing I can say—the credit for this is not mine— It belongs -to one—” his voice halted. It broke. He stepped back. - -Construing his few words as a tribute to his illustrious manager, they -called for Kane—called and waited. He did not come. - -From the wings members of the cast scurried in search of him. It was -not like Oswald Kane on a first night to be far from the footlights at -the curtain of the big act. He was always close at hand, after eight -or ten calls, for a gracious speech of thanks. - -But to-night he could not be found. They sent a callboy to his studio. -He was not there. He had evidently left the theater. Discouraged by -Moore’s early failure, he had apparently given up all possible hope of -the ultimate overwhelming triumph that was his. - -The curtain descended finally after announcement had been made that -the manager could not be located. - -Keyed to his topmost effort, Moore changed for the last act. He had -come through! He had scored—nothing could alter that. And _she_ had -made him do it. It was her success! His Elaine’s! He had not failed -her. Two masters! She had said he must serve only one. Had he? And if -so was it not she, his beloved, whom he had served? - -He was on the stage, with that swift glance toward her place, that -prayer to a filmy figure of his imagination. And yet not quite. More -than his imagination—his spirit! They two were one, would be one for -all time. He knew that now. - -With the same fire of inspiration he went through the final scenes. -For her he played his part—to her he spoke his lines. “You’ve come -back to me!” he cried as the door opened and the wife of the play -entered. “You’ve come back. I haven’t lost you, dear.” And a vast -throng of seasoned New Yorkers responded, unashamed of their emotion. - -The play was done. As the last clatter of hot hands died away Frank -Moore covered with quick, precipitate steps the short space to his -dressing-room. His eyes were still lifted and alight. He caught hold -of the door knob and as he did so, another hand covered his. - -“Frank—” - -Oswald Kane was standing beside him. - -“I put it over!” came swiftly from the actor and with a breath of -triumphant relief. - -“I know!” - -“But I wasn’t the one who did it. She did!” - -“I know that, too!” - -“You—?” - -“I was there with her.” - -“You—?” Frank Moore repeated. - -“When I saw you were winning out, I felt she ought to know. I went -over to tell her.” - -“You saw her? You talked to her?” - -“Yes. She knew all about it. Frank—if you could have seen her joy! It -was like a light from heaven.” - -Moore pushed past him. - -“I’ll go to her—I’ll see it now!” - -“Frank—wait!” - -The actor paused under the shaky, detaining hand. - -“Frank—not yet!” - -Frank Moore looked up dumbly. - -“You will see a smile on her lips,” Kane went on. “It will be -there—always.” - -The man who heard him stood silent. One would have said no change had -occurred. Then very low, he brought out:— - -“Are you telling me—?” - -“Yes, my boy.” - -Quietly the hand dropped away from the door. He stood looking up into -the sympathetic face of the great manager. Then with slow, shuffling -steps, he went back to the dismantled boards that faced the dark -auditorium. With shoulders sagging and head bent he stood for a -moment. And then a stagehand, moving the last piece of scenery, saw -him lift his arms and stretch them out to an empty chair in the stage -box. - - - - -UPSTAGE - -_COMEDY_ - - -Like beauty, color is in the eye of the beholder. To one who looks -through shadows, white is—well, gray. To the uninitiated, a chorus is -like a game of roulette—rouge et noir. Yet even to play that game, -some of the chips must be white. - - - - -UPSTAGE - -CHAPTER I - - -“And I said to him: ‘My deah boy, don’t talk to me as if I were your -wife! And don’t imagine you’re the only twin six in town.’ And we -settled it right then and there.” The full pouting lips broadened into -a reminiscent smile. The pink and white cheeks dimpled. Miss Mariette -Mallard, accent on the last syllable, laid her trump card on the table -for the benefit of her listener whose black eyes sparkled with -gratifying interest. “And then he went out and bought me a big—” - -Just what the “big” was remained a question, for Miss Mariette halted -as a girl slid into the chair next to hers and stretched out a hand to -dust a film of powder from the face of her mirror. They formed a queer -assortment, those mirrors, all shapes and sizes, propped against both -sides of the rack that ran down the center of the long make-up table. - -Above them, on a wire stretching from one dusty white washed wall to -the other, was suspended a row of electric lights in a tin reflector. -Before them, dumped hodge-podge, were boxes of rouge and mascaro, -rabbits’ feet, puffs and eyebrow brushes. Into them gazed as many -types as there are flowers of the field, with just two traits in -common,—all were slender as birch trees, all young as Eve before the -serpent appeared. Except that to most the apple was no longer -forbidden fruit. - -At the moment there were some sixteen in various stages of preparing -for the costume, largely imagination, which the prettiest chorus on -Broadway wore in Scene I of “Good Night Cap.” It was one of those -musical mélanges commonly known as girlie shows, and advertised in red -splashes of poster as “A Bevy of Beauties All under Twenty.” Its -prescription is filled each season with merely a change of lights and -trappings to distinguish it from its predecessor. - -The bloods of New York patronize the Summer Garden with a loyalty that -brings them back at least once a week. The one theater in town it is -in which the chorus fraternizes with the audience, tripping down a -runway into the aisles to trill their syncopated love ditties into the -ears of selected members, or swinging overhead on ropes of roses, bare -knees perilously near bald heads. Buyers, politicians, traveling -salesmen, miners and perfectly proper tired business men with their -smiling better halves all enter the place with a twinkle of -anticipation and come out humming a medley of haunting tunes. - -On the night in question, one of early March, Miss Mariette Mallard’s -voluminous moleskin wrap was draped over the back of her chair and she -pulled it round her with a pretty baby shiver as she scanned the girl -who had just come in. Then she winked at the black-eyed one. - -“Well,” she observed, forgetting to go on with her story, “how is -mamma’s sparkler to-night?” - -The girl bit her lip, then turned with a grin that was not in her eyes -and flashed under Miss Mariette’s little nose the hand that had dusted -the mirror. On its third finger blinked a diamond, the size and -brilliance of which was breath taking. - -Miss Mallard promptly turned her attention to the black-eyed one. -“Gracie deah, suppose you had a block of ice like that—wouldn’t you try -to make your clothes live up to it?” - -The black-eyed one giggled: “And I wouldn’t be so upstage about it -until I did.” - -The object of their amusement set her teeth and turned back to the -mirror, addressing the reflection: “I pay cash for my clothes. That’s -more than some people can say.” - -The black-eyed one giggled again. “They look it,” she murmured -sweetly. - -Miss Mariette indulged in a smile still more saccharine. “They look as -if you paid nothing for them, my deah. Take my advice and pay cash to -get rid of them.” She gave a dismissing flourish of her small hand and -patted her pale blonde ringlets. - -The chorus girl of to-day buys her hats on Fifth Avenue and borrows -her manner from the same thoroughfare. She never forgets that a lead -awaits her if she’s clever enough to look and act the part. Not that -Miss Mallard had any ambitions in that direction. She was content to -be cute and cuddly and first on the left in the front row. But she did -try to live up to the moleskin cloak and the car that called for her -every night. Only at unguarded moments did Second Avenue scratch -through Fifth. “You don’t know how to manage him, my deah,” she -concluded, baby blue eyes fastened on the radiant stone. - -The girl’s lips opened, then shut tight. She had told them where the -ring came from—and they didn’t believe her. Besides, if she tried to -answer them she’d cry, and she’d die rather than let them see her do -that! It was the same struggle she went through every night and two -matinées a week—sometimes with bravado, more often in choking silence. -Somehow they made her ashamed, those two, that for her the apple still -hung high on the tree. If they wanted to think some man had given her -the diamond, so much the better! It would make her seem popular—less a -little fool! - -She downed the tears by vigorous motion.... She sprang up—a kick of -her heel sent her chair spinning—and ripping open her one-piece serge -dress, she tossed it on the hook in the wall where hung a plain brown -ulster and imitation seal turban—alley cat caught in the rain, Miss -Mariette had christened it. Then she gritted her teeth, pulled the -chair back into place and slashed on make-up. - -Sallie MacMahon, listed in chorus annals as Zara May, was one of those -who merited the splashing announcement of the red posters. Perhaps it -was her long mermaid hair with its glisten of sunset on the sea; -perhaps the fact that the lashes shading her deep blue eyes were the -same gold; perhaps the transparent quality of her skin with the swift -play of young blood under the surface; but whatever it was, Sallie’s -beauty held a luminous quality Sallie herself did not possess. Sallie -was just a girl, with a facility for doing what she was told. The -daughter of a Scotch father with somber eyes and an Irish mother with -laughing ones, both of whom had sailed the misty river into unknown -lands after a stormy sojourn together in this one, she had been left -at fifteen to take care of herself, with a love of the beautiful on -one hand warring against a sense of economy on the other. - -Sallie loved soft furs and clinging silks such as swept into the -chorus dressing-room nightly. But she had no desire to follow the -tortuous path by which such luxuries are achieved. However, the fact -that the Mallard girl and Grace assumed she had done so, did not at -all disturb her. It was their ridicule she feared, their jibes at her -clothes. Speeding across the stone floor under the Summer Garden stage -she tried to bring a smile to her lips. They merely trembled. - -There came the march of a military air and the girls filed up the -wobbly wooden steps and through a trap door. Sallie fluffed up her -abbreviated skirt, brought the smile to her lips, fixed it as if it -had been glued there. Her young, elastic body rippled through the -number under the changing lights. She loved the jazz, loved the stir -of rhythm, and had it not been for the ache in her heart whenever she -set foot in the theater, she would have loved the work. She was -nineteen. Music was in her blood. - -She danced through the varying scenes with swift changes of costume, -hurried dabs of powder, and little time to nurse her woes. A number -toward the end of Act II was her favorite. It was the one in which the -girls trooped down the runway and trilled to some not always -embarrassed male occupant of an aisle seat:— - - “Oh-oh-oh-oh-h-h-h-h— - Won’t you—smile at me?” - -Often as she swayed through it, it never failed to give her a thrill. -Likewise she never failed to get what she demanded. - -To-night, as she syncopated down the aisle, a light like blue fire -darted from her deep eyes. Kindled by the smouldering defiance of -earlier evening it was utterly unconscious of seeking an object. But -the gentleman in the particular seat that was her territory could -scarcely have been expected to know that. To him it constituted -challenge. - - “Oh-oh-oh-oh-h-h-h-h— - Won’t you—smile at me?” - -urged Sallie. - -The man’s lips parted. “You just bet I will!” came in a flash of white -teeth. - -Sallie’s mind was not photographic. It registered no definite -impression of the individuals occupying her particular aisle seat. -They came and went, vague as shadows. But this man’s response and his -quick flashing smile with its personal note, made her suddenly realize -that she had been singing to the same pleasant grin every night that -week. - -She was still wondering about him as Miss Mariette, at the close of -the performance, stepped into a short-waisted chiffon dress and, -pulling it over slender hips, slipped her arms through the spangled -shoulder straps. She and Grace were booked for a party, and the -latter emerged like a full-blown rose, black eyes dancing above a -gown of American beauty satin. Then both sat down and took some of the -make-up off their faces. - -Sallie was in the act of pinning on the alley cat. - -“Do show him to us, my deah!” persiflaged Miss Mallard. “Don’t be -so-er-close, even if he is.” - -Sallie jabbed the pin into her head, winced in pain and, with chin -trembling and eyes hot with starting tears, hurried into the corridor -followed by the familiar titter. Blindly she made her way up the -stairs to the stage entrance. - -Outside, a blaze of changing lights proclaimed that Broadway was -rubbing the sleep from her eyes and preparing to dance. A gold haze -lined the sky, veiling the night even to the silver-white buildings -that reared their heads high into the heavens. Lined up at the curb -was a row of taxis. The modern stage door Johnny no longer stands, -bouquet in hand. He remains discreetly in his cab or car and only when -the lady of his choice emerges does he do likewise. - -As Sallie started to cross the street someone called “Good-evening.” -But that being a familiar method of address, she passed on without a -glance. - -“I say,” pleaded the voice, “won’t you smile at me again?” - -Sallie turned then. Descending from a big yellow car which, had she -known more of auto aristocracy, would have stamped itself as of -prohibitive peerage, was the man of the aisle seat. - -He came nearer. - -Sallie turned flutteringly on her heel. - -“Wait, please,” he begged and his teeth gleamed as they had in the -theater. They were nice teeth in a boyish mouth, and upon Sallie they -had a disarming effect. In spite of an instinctive impulse to run, she -hesitated. The talon scratches inflicted in the chorus dressing-room -were still bleeding and the smile of the man who had ceased to be a -shadow was balm. - -He reached her, lifted his hat. - -Sallie shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other. - -“Come for a ride, won’t you?” he asked. - -“Oh, I couldn’t,” she answered promptly. - -“Why not?” - -“I—I just couldn’t, that’s all.” - -He gave her a curious, somewhat puzzled look. “Round the park—once?” - -“I—I—no, thank you, I couldn’t.” - -“Then let me drive you home.” - -“I—I don’t live very far. I always walk it.” - -“Well, ride it to-night. Please!” Again that disarming gleam. - -Sallie looked up with eyes clouded and a tremor on her lips. “It’s -nice of you to want to take me, but—” - -“But I’ve been coming here every night this week trying to make a hit -with you, and until to-night you never even knew I was alive. Don’t -you think you ought to be a little kind to a fellow who’s as devoted -as that?” - -“I—I’d like to, awfully—but—” - -“Then what’s to prevent?” - -She looked down, tracing a pattern with the toe of her boot. - -“Please—I—thanks just the same,” she brought out finally. - -She took a step toward the curb, away from him. - -And just then came one of those feathery gusts that send whirling the -wheel of fate. Miss Mariette Mallard and Grace issued from the stage -door, their exchange of glances telling too plainly that they were -still enjoying the laugh at her expense. At the curb waited a -limousine quite overshadowed by the gorgeousness of the big yellow -touring car. They drew near, still giggling. - -Swift as a bird, Sallie veered back to him. Instantly he was at her -side. - -“You can take me home”—it was breathless—“I’ll let you do that.” - -Eagerly he helped her in, took his place at the wheel. Sallie turned -with the air of royalty. With the sweetest of smiles, her head -inclined in the direction of the two girls. As the car sped round the -corner she saw them halt abruptly and, like Lot’s wife, stand rooted -where they stopped. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -To a woman, the discovery that events do not work out as she had -planned comes in the nature of a disappointment. To a man, the same -discovery adds zest to the determination to make them do so. The man -in the yellow touring car was amazed to find that Sallie actually did -permit him to drive her home and no farther. He had anticipated that -run round the park at least once—probably twice—possibly three times. -He had even anticipated a cozy supper at which, across a table not too -wide, he could drink deep of a pair of well-like blue eyes shaded with -gold. But Sallie gave him her address, ten blocks from the theater, -and though he urged with all the masculine dominance of which he was -capable, she got out of the car in front of a brownstone house sagging -as if with the weight of its own years. - -The man looked up the steep steps to where a flicker of gaslight -sifted on the broken mosaics of the vestibule. - -“Is this where you live?” he queried, still holding the hand by which -he had helped her. - -Sallie nodded, adding as she tried to withdraw the hand, “Thanks ever -so much.” - -“Here—just a minute!” He drew her back. “You haven’t told me your name -yet!” - -“Zara May.” - -“On-the-level name, I mean.” - -“Oh”—she flashed him a smile—“that one’s good enough.” - -“Peaches and cream would fit better!” came in quick response. - -She jerked her hand away. “Good-night, Mr.—Mr.—” - -“Patterson. Jimmie Fowler Patterson. You’ll notice I’m not so stingy -as somebody else!” - -She caught hold of the rusty iron railing. - -He sprang into the car. “Well, I can wait! See you to-morrow, Miss -Zara May.” - -Two emotions played havoc with her dreams that night—exultation over -the girls and fear. As through her narrow rear window she watched the -patch of dull blue mellow into dull gray, she assured herself that -to-morrow she would do nothing more than walk past the yellow car with -a pleasant “Good-evening.” - -But of course she didn’t. Not to-morrow—nor any other night that found -it waiting at the stage entrance. And that became every night. - -In the chorus dressing-room an aura of new interest surrounded her. -That car commanded respect. Miss Mariette even restrained her -inclination to persiflage until one evening some ten days later when -Sallie came in after the final act and caught her hunched on the -floor, back up, meowing with all her might while the alley cat reposed -over one ear. - -All the old wounds tore open. The blood gushed to Sallie’s head. She -grabbed the hat and slapped Miss Mariette’s face, leaving the latter -too startled to retaliate in kind. And when Mr. Patterson begged her -as he did each evening to drive out to supper, she stepped into the -car, throat too full for speech. - -He gave a broad grin. “Shall we make it up the Drive and back to -Montmartre?” - -“I’d just rather ride if you don’t mind.” - -They spun up Broadway, through Seventy-second Street and into the -enveloping shadows of Riverside. The moon was up, a new crescent -streaking its modest trail across the water. On the opposite shore the -chain of lights was a necklace of clustering jewels laid on the plush -of night. - -Sallie nestled into the deep leather-cushioned seat, somewhat to the -far side. A sharp wind lifted the curls from under the despised turban -and sent them flying across the man’s face. He stole a moment to turn -and gaze. - -“You’re a winner!” he murmured. - -Sallie scarcely heard him. She was lost in the intoxication of tearing -motor and racing March wind. Never had she experienced anything like -it. And gradually the turmoil of it soothed her own. She closed her -eyes. - -When they opened it was to meet a swift turn of road, the houses -mounted to a higher level and before them, far into the star-eyed -night, a stretch of wooded walk through which the Hudson shimmered. - -“What’s this?” she asked, hand grasping his coat sleeve as if to stop -the onward rush. - -“Lafayette Boulevard. You’ve been up here—haven’t you?” - -“Never!” - -He slowed down, eyes mocking her. - -“Honestly! I’ve never even heard of it.” - -“Good Lord!” he whistled and stared at her. - -“How long have you been in the show business?” - -“About a year.” - -“Well, what have you been doing all that time?” - -“Working, most of it.” - -“But after working hours?” - -“Oh, home right after the show. I’m pretty tired then.” - -He gave another low whistle, still regarding her curiously, that -puzzled, half-skeptical expression creeping into his eyes. - -“And Sundays?” - -“I visit the girls I used to work with.” - -“Where?” - -“You mean where did I work?” - -He nodded, still with that curious measuring of her. - -“In Brooklyn—in a department store. I was at the perfumery. And one -day Miss Barton, Bessie Barton—ever hear of her?” - -“Rather! Peach of a voice—in ‘Kiss Me Again.’” - -“Yes. She was playing over there last year and she came in to buy some -French extract—it’s awfully expensive—” - -“I know.” - -“I waited on her. And after she’d bought a big bottle—it was -eight-eighty an ounce—she asked me if I’d ever wanted to go on the -stage. She said I was—” Sallie paused. - -“Go on,” he put in quickly. “She said you were a beauty who didn’t -belong behind a counter.” - -“How did you know?” came wonderingly. - -“I don’t need blinders to make me see straight,” he remarked -succinctly. - -She gave an embarrassed, stammering laugh. “Well—you—you’re right. -That’s what she did say—and she’d have her manager give me a job if I -wanted it. So I went with them—twenty-five a week. It was a lot more -than I was getting at the store. And when she closed, they took me on -at the Summer Garden.” - -“And you still go round with the Brooklyn crowd?” - -Some note in his voice put her on the defensive. - -“They’re my old friends—why shouldn’t I?” - -He stared at her again. “Queer!” he remarked to himself. - -They dashed up a hill. - -“I guess we’d better be going back,” she sighed regretfully. - -“What’s the matter? Don’t you like this?” - -“It—it’s wonderful!” Luxuriously she nestled down, eyes half closing -again. - -“Then have a heart! I’ve been jitneying you from the theater for two -solid weeks! Be a little sympathetic, won’t you?” - -She laughed, a ringing laugh free as the March wind. “You must think -I’m an awful grafter.” - -“I think you’re a sweetness.” - -The laugh died down. “I guess we’d better be going back.” - -They swung round. “All right. But we’ll stop at Arrowhead first.” - -“What’s Arrowhead?” - -Once more that swift quizzical look, then his head went back with a -long chuckle. “By George, you are cute!” - -“What’s so funny about my asking?” - -“It’s called Arrowhead Inn, sweetness—and we’re going there for -supper.” - -“Oh!” - -“Now I guess you think you’re not hungry?” - -“No—I am hungry.” - -Her prompt and unexpected reply pleased him hugely. - -“Right! There you are!” - -They were flying up a drive, round a grass plot and under a -porte-cochère. Sallie saw a house girdled with glass that glowed, warm -and alluring. - -She went into the hall while her host parked the car. A mirror on the -wall reflected a face very different from the one she saw habitually -in the jagged glass of the dressing-table or the mottled one above her -washstand. Its eyes were glistening, red lips were laughing, and at -one corner a dimple danced. The blood surged under the smooth skin and -went singing through every vein. - -To a rotund observer standing nearby, the girl in the mirror looked -like a golden-haired sprite. To Sallie she looked nothing more than -happy. She proceeded to powder her nose critically and straighten the -alley cat on the shining curls. She was still engaged in the process -when Mr. James Patterson came in and bore her off under the rotund -one’s fat nose. Mr. Patterson had already achieved a proprietory air -that prohibited trespassing under penalty of the law. - -He refused the first table offered, selecting one close against the -window with an intimate little lamp shedding its blush over the cloth. -Sallie had never felt so important, not even the night of her stage -debut, for then she had been conscious solely of the fact that she was -dancing with no skirt on before a lot of people. - -The head-waiter helped her out of the ulster. Mr. Patterson then -seated himself and for the first time Sallie saw him under revealing -electricity. - -His hair, parted at the side and brushed straight from his forehead, -gave evidence of having been in boyhood the color affectionately known -as “carrots.” But frequent use of water and military brushes had -charitably darkened it. Remnants of freckles lingered where no amount -of hatless motoring could promote more than one coat of tan. Above -them gray eyes, not so young as they might have been, searched a world -with which they were well acquainted. Smiling, they were a boy’s. In -repose, as old as any frequenter’s of stage doors. - -Sallie’s gaze settled, not on his features but on his clothes. Patch -pockets slanted across the coat. The waistcoat was high and of the -same dark blue material threaded with a hairline of white. From the -sleeves she thought rather too short, he shook down blue silk shirt -cuffs matched by a soft collar. His blue Persian tie was held in an -immaculate four-in-hand by a small pearl scarfpin. The correctness, -the perfection of detail, were to Sallie positively thrilling. As he -picked up the menu she noticed that his hands were wide and muscular -with no shine on the nails. She was glad he wasn’t a dude. - -He proceeded to order with the casual ease of one who knows the chef’s -best dishes. Sallie pulled off her gloves, crossed her arms on the -table, leaned forward to listen with a kind of awe. He turned back and -as he did so his glance fell on her hand. It riveted there, then -slowly traveled upward accompanied by the same long low whistle he had -emitted as they drove uptown. - -“Whew, what a stone!” - -“Yes,” replied Sallie. “It used to be my mother’s.” - -He stared. After which came a knowing twinkle to his eyes and a laugh, -equally knowing, to his lips. He said nothing. - -“Honestly it was,” Sallie protested. - -His stare probed her—then came a faint flash of resentment. “I wasn’t -born yesterday—not quite,” he announced. - -Tears started to Sallie’s eyes. “Please—_please_ believe me!” - -“Your mother owned a stone like that and you had to work in a -department store?” - -“It does sound funny. But it’s true! We never had any money after my -father died. Nor before, either. He just saved and saved, and then -when he was gone mother just spent and spent. She went crazy spending. -She said he never gave us enough to eat when he was alive and she was -going to make the best of it now that he was dead. So she went to the -savings bank and took out every cent and had a wonderful time—for a -while. Hats and dresses and movies every night. She was awfully -pretty—” - -“I believe it,” came vehemently. - -“And she never did have a decent thing to wear while my father was -living. Then one day she came home with this ring. ‘Baby,’ she -said—she always called me her baby—‘there’s not much left and before -it’s all gone, I want to be sure you’re fixed. If I put it in the bank -I’ll take it out again, so this way we’ll always have something we can -hock if we need to.’” - -He chuckled. “And did you ever need to?” - -“Often.” - -Unwittingly, perhaps, his gaze shifted from the diamond to her dress -and hat. She needed no intuition to interpret that look. Experience -had taught her exactly what it meant. And where defiance had met the -girls in the dressing-room, a wave of shame now swept over her. - -Gazing at him in his immaculate perfection, her fingers twitched to -toss the alley cat out of the window. Yet she could not apologize for -it. She couldn’t explain that, being her father’s daughter, she was -banking such of her earnings as could be spared against the day when -the sapphire sparkle would fade from her eyes. - -As the ’busboy shook out the glistening white napkin, placing it -across her knees, she felt an absurd inclination to slide under the -table. - -Mr. Patterson’s attention, however, had turned to the silver dish of -frogs’ legs submitted for approval. He regarded them critically, -nodded to the waiter, and Sallie’s discomfort vanished in the thrill -of a new experience, though she wished he had ordered a nice thick -steak. - -When they were once more gliding down the Drive he leaned over, -quickly freeing one hand, and gave hers a squeeze. - -“You’re an adorable infant!” he whispered. “Don’t know just what to -make of you, but you’ve got me going!” - -Sallie looked up a little uncertainly. “My right name’s Sallie -MacMahon,” she stammered. - -“I don’t care what it is,” came tenderly. “My name for you is the same -as your mother’s—‘Baby!’” - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -“Gracie deah—will you gaze!” - -Miss Mallard’s wide, wondering orbs, accompanied by Grace’s, turned -toward the door. Sallie MacMahon had just entered, resplendent in -spring outfit. Above slim ankles billowed a skirt of silk the color of -her eyes. The ankles ended in slippers mounted with buckles of cut -steel. Her arms gleamed white through transparent clinging sleeves. A -necklace of pearls clasped her throat and over the golden head brimmed -a wide hat weighted with roses. - -She disrobed nonchalantly, hanging her garments against the sheet that -ran round the wall for their protection. She pretended not to see the -nudges of the girls but her heart sang a paean of triumph. - -Now they would stop laughing at her! - -Now they would treat her with respect! - -Yea—weep for her, ye wise ones! Sallie’s day had come. She had fallen -from grace. Worse, actually reveled in her downfall! That very -morning, without a struggle, she had gone to the bank and wantonly -depleted her little horde. There had followed a wild debauch of -spending such as her own mother had indulged in years before. Silks, -laces, chiffons, feathers! Shades of Scotland, the Irish had won out! - -And having recklessly started at high speed, she could not stop. She -had no desire to. Ridicule she might have endured indefinitely, but -nightly to sit opposite to Mr. James Fowler Patterson in his -perfectly tailored clothes, conscious of the variety and extent of -them, _that_ had been the straw that broke the backbone of resistance. - -Once and once only had Mr. Jimmie essayed the rôle of godfather. -Reaching home one evening after a long drive in the moonlight, he had -followed her up the ladder-like steps to the dim vestibule. Standing -there, he had clasped quickly round her wrist a narrow glittering -bracelet. - -“To match the ring,” he had whispered. - -Sallie’s gaze had fastened on the jewels that laughed up through -semi-darkness. - -“Oh—I—couldn’t!” she breathed at last. And don’t imagine it was easy. - -“Please! Just because I want you to.” - -“But I—I couldn’t, Jimmie.” - -“But if I ask you? I’m crazy about you, Baby. Never was so keen on a -girl in my life.” - -Sallie gulped hard and, without looking at it, unclasped the clinging -circlet. - -“Please,” he protested as she handed it back. “Please—dear!” - -She shook her head decisively. - -“But I want to see you in pretty things. I want you to have them.” - -“Thanks, Jimmie,—for wanting to give it to me. But you mustn’t—ever do -that again. It wouldn’t be right for me to take it.” - -And Jimmie had been forced to content himself with flowers and kid -gloves and perfume—French stuff at eight-eighty an ounce. - -That phrase of his, however—“I want to see you in pretty things”—clung -to her consciousness. She wanted him to see her in them. She wanted to -see herself in them. She wanted those girls to see her in them. - -After which the savings bank simply flew to meet her. - -“Well,” observed Miss Mallard, still devouring the new costume, “I’m -glad you’re learning how to handle him.” - -Sallie slipped into her chair. - -“May we inspect the dog collar, my deah?” Miss Mallard pursued. - -With large indifference Sallie handed over the necklace and watched -the blue eyes widen. Not hers to inform the lady that it had been -purchased at a near-pearl establishment, guaranteeing that “Our pearls -rival the real.” - -Miss Mariette fingered it lovingly, even to the tiny barrel of -brilliants that formed the clasp. “Atta boy!” she breathed and let -fall upon its possessor a look approaching homage. - -“Oh, that’s nothing,” Sallie found herself saying, drunk with the -dazzle of scoring at last against her enemies, “I’m going to get a car -of my own soon.” And promptly wondered _how_ she was going to get it. - -But feminine imagination, given full rein, took the bit between its -teeth and galloped beyond Sallie’s control. She spoke of champagne -supper parties and a house on Long Island and sables, with the -largesse of an “Arabian Nights.” She tasted the sweets of seeing baby -blue eyes and impudent black ones dilate with envy as the other girls -gathered round. She swept on, heedless of sharp turns ahead, and not -until the callboy shouted the half hour did she halt. - -At the curb that night she found a gray roadster barking its haste to -be off like a pert pomeranian. Mr. J. F. Patterson stepped out, then -stopped short with a gasp as he took in the glory of her. She gave him -her hand—and waited. To her amazement he said not a word, merely -helped her into the car. It snorted and raced up Broadway. Still not a -word! She snuggled into the low seat, turned to look up at him. He was -frowning. - -“What’s the matter, Jimmie?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Something is.” - -“Nothing, I tell you.” His tone was brusque. The frown settled deeper, -bringing brows together. - -Sallie’s eyes filled. She had pictured something so different—Jimmie -bounding with delight when he saw her! Jimmie covering her with -admiration! - -But his mood did not change. Throughout the ride he brooded, silent, -absorbed—though she tried desperately to make conversation. - -“Is this a new car, Jimmie?” - -“No.” - -“Why didn’t you ever come in it before?” - -“In the repair shop.” - -“Oh!” - -Silence. - -“I like it, Jimmie.” - -“Do you?” - -“Yes. It’s so—so cozy.” - -“Is it?” - -Silence. - -“Montgomery’s laid up, Jimmie. And the new lead’s made a big hit.” - -“Has he?” - -Silence—a long one. - -“Jimmie—I—I don’t want any supper.” - -“Why?” - -“I—I think I want to go home.” - -“Just as you say.” - -“Jimmie—what—what’s wrong?” - -His eyes scanned the beauty of her, steel buckles, silken dress, -rose-laden hat. They ended on the glossy pearls and his lips which had -opened for speech snapped shut. - -He drove her home, without a word lifted his cap. - -“Jimmie—please—please don’t act that way.” - -“What way?” - -“So—so queer.” - -He gave a short laugh. - -She clapped a hand over her mouth, stared at him, eyes swimming, then -fled up the steps. - -The following night Mr. Patterson was late for the first time. He -swung round the corner just as Sallie appeared. She was wearing a -violet suit, fluffy lace collar and cuffs, and a hat of violets. They -made her eyes the same color. During a night of tearful and bewildered -groping she had arrived at a conclusion. Jimmie hadn’t liked the way -she looked! He wasn’t pleased with her dress or hat or something. -Maybe he didn’t think they were becoming and hadn’t wanted to hurt her -feelings. A lighter color, perhaps, something gayer! After which she -rolled over with relief, stole a few hours’ sleep, and later embarked -on another shopping tour. - -But the violet, apparently, made no more satisfactory impression than -the blue. He handed her almost roughly into the car. They shot like a -cannon ball into the darkness. - -There were no stars. The moon had reached the full, dwindled and -slipped round to smile upon the other side of the world. - -Sallie gulped, groped for a fitting subject and finally burst out: - -“Jimmie, tell me about yourself. You never have told me much.” - -“Nothing to tell.” - -“How does it feel to have so much money?” she proceeded for want of -something better to say. - -The effect was electric. He turned on her. The car jerked to the other -side of the road. “You ought to know!” - -“I? Stop kidding!” - -“Yes, you!” - -“But—” - -“Look as if you’d come into a Rockefeller income!” - -“Well, I haven’t.” - -“No?” - -“You know it.” - -“I don’t know anything about women.” - -“Well, you ought to know all about me.” - -“Yes—I ought to.” He gave the same ugly laugh of the night before but -in his eyes was real pain. “But who knows what to expect of a chorus -queen.” - -“Jimmie!” - -“Oh, what’s the use?” came in husky desperation. “Let’s be merry!” - -Sallie stared, choked and bewildered, into the darkness. She didn’t -know how to answer, how to act. This new Jimmie, this—this nasty one! -He was a stranger. Small teeth settled into her lower lip. She felt -like slipping to the floor of the car and crying her eyes out. - -For three nights they followed the same program—Sallie bewitching in a -new costume chosen tearfully to conciliate the mysterious male—he -taciturn, unresponsive, answering her labored conversation with husky -monosyllables or hard cynicism that hurt without enlightening. Twice -during those three days it drizzled and, instead of suggesting supper -in the neighborhood as was their habit in bad weather, he drove the -short ten blocks to the weary brownstone house and left her there. - -“As if he was anxious to get rid of me,” sobbed Sallie into her -pillow. - -To dust and ashes in her mouth turned the sweets of her triumph over -the girls. Though she continued to weave stories for their benefit, to -elaborate on gifts in the past and the car in the future, to flash her -diamond and twirl her pearls, the tang had gone out of it. - -By Friday she felt she couldn’t stand it another minute. What had she -done? Under the glimmering stars she gazed up first in mute pleading, -then— - -“Jimmie,” she choked, “take me home. I—I—guess I’d better—” - -The roadster snarled at the tug that sent it round the corner. - -“Oh—another date!” - -“Maybe!” His tone had brought defiance into hers. - -“H’m! Thought so!” - -“You—you’re horrid!” - -“And he’s all to the good—what?” - -“Who?” - -“Well—can’t blame you! What chance has a mean little bracelet against -a string of oyster tears like that?” The volcano which had been -rumbling all week sent up a sudden blinding glare. “Gad, what an ass -I’ve been!” it spat out. - -“Don’t talk like that—don’t!” - -“I mean it,—a saphead! Swallowed that diamond yarn whole—hook, line -and sinker.” - -“It wasn’t a yarn.” - -“You’ll tell me next your mother bought the pearls, too.” - -“No—I did.” - -The volcano roared a warning. “God!” A pause while his breath caught. - -“It’s true, I tell you! I bought them myself—they’re imitation.” - -He flung back his head. His laugh frightened her. - -“Oh—won’t you believe me?” - -“No!” - -“Won’t you—please?” - -“And I put you above them—way on top.” The volcano erupted with -thunderous crash. “But you’re like the rest of them! Price—a string of -pearls—a diamond! Rotten—that’s what—! Sit down! Sit down, I say!! -I’ll get you home quick enough!” - -White and terrified, she subsided. Words rushed to her lips, clung -there. - -He crashed on. - -“But you did put it over! Had me going so that I’d have staked my life -on you. Got me with the baby stare stuff. ‘Baby’—huh! It’s a lesson—I -won’t be such a damn fool next time!” - -“Jimmie,” the voice struggled to keep steady—“I swear to you—!” - -“I wouldn’t believe you on a stack of Bibles! Down on your -luck—thought you had an easy mark! Then something better—pearls!—came -along—” - -“I—I’ll never forgive—you!” - -“That’s right! Injured innocence—” - -“I—I could die this minute!” - -“It’s tough, though, when the first time a man really—cares—more than -he ever thought—” The words halted painfully. - -“Oh, _won’t_ you listen? Jimmie—you—you had _so_ much—” - -“But the other fellow’s got more! Like all the rest—” - -They stopped with a jump that made the roadster snort in protest. - -“You—you don’t understand.” The sobs clamored to her lips. -“To-morrow—please—please listen—” - -She sprang out of the car and up the steps, clinging to the iron rail. - -But to-morrow when she hurried out of the stage entrance, eyes darting -to the curb, Mr. James Fowler Patterson was not there. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -“My deah—what has become of the orange motah?” Miss Mariette turned -her round stare on Sallie. - -“What—d-do you mean?” - -“Well, the yellow peril doesn’t seem to be on duty any more.” - -“Oh! He—he’s out of town.” - -“M’m! Been ‘out’ some time, I take it.” - -“F-four weeks.” Sallie found it impossible to talk these days without -a quiver. And the wells that had been her eyes were wept dry. - -“When does he return, my deah?” - -“Oh s-soon now, I g-guess.” - -“H’m!” Merciless blue eyes took in the small white face, listless -shoulders and drooping mouth, while their owner hummed low and -languorously, “When I Come Back to You.” After which she proceeded: -“And the cobbles, my deah?” - -“What?” - -“Pearls! The dog collar?” - -“Oh! I—I p-put it away.” - -“Ah?” - -“I—it—I thought I’d better not wear it round all the time.” - -After a moment of slow scrutiny Miss Mariette cast her eyes -heavenward. “You were a wise child not to let him get back the -diamond, too,” she drawled. - -“I d-don’t know what you’re talking about.” - -“Oh—d-don’t you? My deah, do I look as easy as that? It’s plain he’s -gone his merry way tra-la.” - -Like a whip Sallie snapped round at her. “He hasn’t!” - -“Tra-la, tra-la-la!” - -“Don’t you dare—” - -“Then where’s the car, tra-la?” - -“I told you—” - -“The car he was giving you, I mean.” - -Grace, who had entered in time for the last words, tittered with all -the old enjoyment. - -“Poor little car skidded on the way, Gracie deah,” announced Miss -Mallard. - -Sallie’s throat closed in a hard knot. Her head almost dropped on the -table. But not quite. Pride kept it up. Pride and the determination -never to let them know how right they were. - -Yet Miss Mallard, having resumed her tactics of warfare allowed to -slip no opportunity for attack. She teased and tormented and tra-la’d -with purring delight, sharp little talons inflicting new wounds. - -Sallie began to slink into the dressing-room as if to hide from -insinuating smiles. And coming out of the stage door, she fairly ran -round the corner to escape the torturing vision of that line at the -curb. - -The pearls she had recklessly let go. After what _he_ had said, she -couldn’t bear to touch them. They curled in her hand like some -wriggling reptile. Her first impulse had been to toss the necklace -into an ashcan, but eventually she found herself back at the -near-pearl shop. A suave salesman after much fingering and testing -reminded her that they did not refund on merchandise but added that he -might be able to resell at a loss if she cared to leave it. Sallie -even hated the money—something more than half the amount she had -paid—which his smooth hands finally counted into hers. - -One thing, though, she did determine in the long nights. There must be -a car! Never must they be certain that Jimmie had gone for good! The -savings account had long since gone the way of all flesh. And cars, -like Pegasus, soar winged in the clouds. June had come gliding into -the arms of May while Sallie suffered and waited, lived on bread and -milk, and hopelessly priced the cheaper makes. - -Other lips, mustached, clean-shaven, young, and not so young, answered -Sallie’s plea of “Won’t you smile at me?” Sallie did not hear them. -Other eyes sought hers from motors at the curb. Sallie did not know -they were there. - -She was in her room balancing accounts at 11:30 p. m. When she did -sleep, figures whirled through her dreams; figures and Jimmie’s face. - -Then in the murky dawn of one June day came an inspiration. Yesterday -she had seen a second-hand runabout painted a beautiful blue for only -two hundred and fifty dollars, with a week’s trial before buying. Her -diamond! She could get enough for that! A few months in which to tear -up to the stage entrance and spring out; to display the shining blue -body to startled eyes; to make them believe he had come back! -Jimmie—who never would! She gazed out through the streaky window pane -and for a time the car was forgotten. - -When the chorus had assembled for the Wednesday matinée, a ring -dropped tinkling to the dressing-room floor. Sallie picked it up, -proclaimed that the stone had come loose and wore it no more. - -Later, behind a window barred like a prison, Sallie MacMahon’s lips -clung together and she looked away as her most precious possession -passed into other hands—probably for all time. - -At last the night arrived when the girls sighted at the curb a little -car blue as the heavens. One of them stepped lightly from the stage -entrance, fetched a key from her bag, bent down, then sprang in and -took the wheel as though running a motor were a daily pastime. - -Miss Mallard stopped in the center of the pavement. - -“I’ll tell the world!” she breathed, forgetting Fifth Avenue. “She -wasn’t lying, Grace,—she wasn’t!” - -Sallie MacMahon smiled upon them, put her foot on the self-starter, -heard the cheerful chug chug of the engine responding and, with terror -chasing down her spine, spun round the corner. - -As she disappeared, Grace’s reply wafted on the breeze: - -“But he’s a piker, anyhow. It’s as big as a minute!” - -Up Broadway, eyes starting with fear, heart pounding, went Sallie. And -every instant’s progress petrified her. Buildings descended. Motor -trucks loomed up. Trolleys tore, gigantic, within an inch of the blue -mite that held her. It was completely, totally swamped. Alone in it -for the first time, she clung wildly to the wheel while all Broadway -danced. - -Never had she traveled a distance to equal those ten blocks. Never -before had the thought of the sagging brownstone house been a welcome -one. A century later she reached her own street, turned in. Then -something snapped. The blue runabout stood stock still. Sallie tried -to recall the varied instructions of the garage man who had taught her -to drive it. Without his guiding hand they were Greek. - -She fled in the direction of a passing policeman, caught his arm. -“Please, would you mind? Something’s happened. It—it’s stuck.” - -He grinned as he took in the blue mite. “Better go and phone your -garage, Miss. I’ll take care of it till you get back.” - -Sallie dropped his arm. - -“Why, I—I haven’t any—” - -“What?” - -“Garage.” - -“What do you do with it at night? Take it to bed with you?” - -“N-nothing. It—it’s new. I—I never thought—” - -“Then find some place to put it—quick. They’ll send you a man—” - -Sallie stood stock still as the car, then turned on her heel and -dashed in the direction of the brownstone house. On the top step she -dropped. - -Not a cent in the world! Diamond gone!! Car that was no good!! And no -place to put it!!! - -Early in her career as a motorist she had discovered that cars have a -way of gathering expense like dust by the wayside. There had been -extra tires and repairs even while you were learning to run it. It -fairly ate up gas. You needed twice as much as she had reckoned. - -And now—this! - -Helplessly she gazed at the point far down the block where the -policeman stood guard. From time to time his glance roved -impatiently—and when at last he swung on his way, leaving the blue -mite unprotected, Sallie knew there was nothing left but to sit there -and watch it all through the night. - -Then it was that the wells which had run dry filled once more, -overflowed. Huddled in a corner of the stoop, she fastened her wilted -gaze on a spot of blue parked close to Broadway and wondered what she -was going to do with it when morning arrived. - -She came to drowsily as a clock struck one and something heavy -descended on her shoulder. It pulled her upright, shook the sleep from -her eyes and a cry from her lips. The policeman! - -“What are you doing out here?” - -She strained forward. - -“Jimmie!!!” - -“What are you doing, I say?” - -“Jimmie—is it—is it—you?” - -“Answer me!” - -“I—oh, I can’t believe it! You—_you!!_” Then panic seized her. -“Jimmie—don’t—don’t go again! Wait—let me tell you! I’ve been praying -you’d give me the chance to tell you. I—it was true,—I _did_ buy all -those things myself. I did—I did! I was afraid you’d be ashamed of -me.” - -He stood glaring silently down at her and when his voice did come, it -was thick and tense. - -“Didn’t you know it was just those old clothes of yours that convinced -me the story you gave me was straight?” - -“But the girls always made fun of them—and I wanted to look right for -you. And you thought—oh, Jimmie, what you thought has nearly killed -me!” - -“What could a man who knew his Broadway think when you appeared all of -a sudden in a million dollars worth of finery?” - -“But it wasn’t true! I took all my money out of the bank to look nice -just for you. Jimmie—if you go again—the way you did—I—I’ll die!” - -He gave no direct answer. Instead he gripped her shoulders until they -ached. - -“What are you doing out here this time of night? Answer me that!” - -The car! Her eyes raced down the block. There it stood, untouched. - -“I—I hocked my diamond, Jimmie, and bought a car. I made the girls -think you were going to give me one and I didn’t want them to know -that you—you—” She turned away. “So I hocked the ring—and—and -got—that!” - -He followed her eyes to where a spot of blue reposed near the corner. - -“And now it won’t go and I haven’t any money to put it anywhere. -They’ve been keeping it where I bought it and I never thought about -garaging. So—so when it broke down I just had to sit here and watch it -all night.” - -The rushing words halted. She looked up at the face bent over hers. If -Mr. James Fowler Patterson had a sense of humor—and he had—the comedy -of the present situation failed to bring it to light. He stood and -gazed down into the small tired face lifted with such desperate -appeal. - -“I—” - -“Jimmie, won’t you believe me this time—please?” - -He bent closer. “If I tell you I could take a gun this minute and blow -out what little brains I’ve got, will _you_ believe _me_? Will you?” -He did not give her time to answer. “I deserve it—shooting’s too good. -Why, even if you dressed up like a Christmas window, only a saphead -who’s wasted all his life chasing up and down Broadway could have made -such a mistake. What’s love, anyhow? And sweetheart—I do love you. -These weeks without you have proved how much.” - -She closed her eyes as the words came. - -“Why,” he plunged on, “my dad had given me up as a bad job—said he was -through! And six weeks ago I went to him and told him I’d found the -girl who could make a man of me—asked him to take me on at the -Patterson Iron Works, I didn’t care in what capacity. He thought I was -joking—but I put on overalls and rolled up my sleeves. Because I -wanted to be good enough for you. That was just about the time you -showed up in all that gorgeousness. And I let the idea get hold of me— -Don’t cry, honey,—I can’t stand it!” - -There was an instant of potent silence, then: - -“How did you happen to come past here to-night—Jimmie?” came -smothered. - -“I’ve been coming past here every night.” - -“Then why—why did you stay away from the theater?” - -“I didn’t—for long. Wanted to—but couldn’t! I’ve watched you come out -from around the corner—” He broke off. “Sweetness—you’ve been looking -awfully sick.” - -“I’ve been awfully lonesome.” - -He lifted her chin. - -“Baby—” - -“Yes, Jimmie—dear—” - -“Will you forgive me?” - -“Jimmie—” - -“Yes, Baby—dear—” - -“Will you wait here till I get into my old rig, then take me for a -ride in my new car?” - - - - -CURTAIN! - -_MELODRAMA_ - - -It consists not in shouts, the leveled gun, the drawn sword, the -flashlight in the dark. The quiet moment of decision that means -happiness or wreck; the hesitant hand moving toward a doorknob that -may open upon joy or the misery of revelation; two people waiting in -stillness for the pendulum of uncertainty to swing—that is melodrama -as it is played every day within the four walls that enclose your -next-door neighbor. - - - - -CURTAIN! - -CHAPTER I—ACT I - - -John Shakespeare’s son remarked once in a play he lightly invited us -to take “As You Like It” that all the world’s a stage. He told us that -men and women have their exits and their entrances, that one man in -his time plays many parts. But John Shakespeare’s son did not refer to -the acts that make up this drama of living. The first act of -introduction, the second of conflict, the third of revelation, the -fourth of readjustment. Not that all lives can be so simply -subdivided. To some dramas there are ten or twelve scenes, -swift-changing, tense, terrifying. But whether few or many, live in -acts we do—each with its conflict, its climax, each beginning a new -problem, a new turn, a new development, until the final curtain is -rung down that leaves the house of life in darkness. - -Partly because of this and partly because Nancy Bradshaw’s story is -essentially of the theater, it seems but natural so to divide the -telling of it. - -The first scenes had been that old familiar struggle of the young girl -trying to convince managers that even though she has had her -theatrical training somewhere west of Broadway she really can act. She -had encountered and combated the habitual have-to-show-me look until -one day in Jerry Coghlan’s office while the latter regarded her over -horn-rimmed specs, she gave him a disarming smile and said quietly: - -“Yes, Mr. Coghlan, I know you’re from Missouri, but how can I show you -unless you give me a chance?” - -Coghlan, being Irish, had tossed back his head with a roar of approval -and given her what she asked. He had never regretted it. - -Nancy possessed two qualities that register with an audience more -quickly than genius—charm and personality. I might better say, -personality alone, because that includes charm, doesn’t it? By the -time she had reached the place of leading woman and the age of -twenty-six, she had a following many older and more experienced -actresses envied. She was never idle. When Coghlan, who had her under -contract, was unable to find a play or part for her, he loaned her to -other managers who featured their good fortune in advance notices and -electrics. - -Nancy had what Broadway calls class. She was supple and slender with -an airy slimness that seemed more spiritual than of the body. She -could curl up in a couch corner with child-like grace or stand tense -and supplicating or sway with emotion. But whatever she did, one felt -the spirit ruling the flesh. She had heavy gold hair that fell in deep -sweeping waves over ears and forehead. The brows that mounted above -gold-brown eyes were straight and black as were the lashes shading -them. Her mouth, a bit too large for beauty, had a fascinating upcurve -when she smiled but in repose was strangely firm and chiseled. One -found oneself puzzling as to whether it belonged in a face whose charm -lay in the fact that its actual features eluded one. I’ve called her -eyes gold-brown. They weren’t always. At times across the footlights -they looked green, at others hazel, and often in some scene of fury -they went burning black. - -Audiences loved her in all her moods—the matinée girls because she -might have been one of them; older women because she might have been -their daughter; young men because she was so much a girl they wondered -how much a woman she might be; and old men because, for a fleeting -moment, she gave them back their youth. - -It looked pretty much as if Nancy’s drama of living were to flow -smoothly to its final scene with no more conflict than a pastoral -comedy. And then she met Richard Cunningham. - -She had seen him once when lunching at the Ritz with Ted Thorne, -author of the play in which she was rehearsing. Thorne had returned -the nod of a man several tables away and Nancy asked who he was. - -The young playwright’s eyes snapped as he answered: “You, too—eh? -Never saw a woman yet who didn’t want to know Dick Cunningham.” - -“Oh, I don’t want to know him,” Nancy defended herself. “I just want -to know about him.” - -“Amounts to the same thing, my dear. Well, when the papers speak of -Cunningham, they call him a clubman—whatever that may mean—and -turfman. He keeps a string of blooded horses at his place on Long -Island that are the envy of exhibitors all over the country. He has a -shooting box in the Adirondacks. He’s second Vice-president of a -railroad or two, is a regular first-nighter, has more money than any -one woman could spend, and no one woman has so far succeeded in -annexing it. Men like him and women feel toward him much as they do -toward original sin—they love and fear him at the same time.” - -“Thank you,” Nancy imitated his crisp tone. “After that, I really -don’t think I care to know the gentleman.” - -“You will—sooner or later,” drawled Thorne. - -Nancy turned indifferently from the object of discussion, but in that -one short glance she could have told you exactly what he looked like. -Ted Thorne in a way was right. Cunningham was one of those men whom -women sense the instant they enter a room, not so much for height, big -shoulders and powerful dark head, as for a certain dynamic force that -stimulates fear and curiosity at once. In Cæsar’s day he might have -been a Marc Antony, but I doubt whether Cleopatra could ever have -persuaded him to abandon his armies for her dear sake. More likely the -devastating Egyptian would have descended from her throne, laid her -dainty olive hand in his and followed where he led. - -For a man with manifold interests, Cunningham had few hobbies—two, to -be exact—his horses and the theater. Actors, managers, dramatists, -press-agents, all the busy bees in that hive of Broadway, knew -him—some by sight only, others well enough to call him by his given -name. No first night was complete without him. His familiar shoulders -swung down the aisle at eight-thirty sharp, hand stretched here and -there in greeting. - -It was said his love of the theater far exceeded his interest in -women. In the same way, though in lesser degree, they were necessary -to his happiness—for amusement. They entertained him. But as the play -is done in a few hours and one seeks new diversion, so they had a way -of revealing themselves to him that after a short period became a -bore. He grew to know them too well—and the glamor was gone. To-morrow -another play! To-morrow—! - -And then he met Nancy Bradshaw. - -It happened the opening night of Thorne’s comedy just at the time -Coghlan surprised Nancy by elevating her to stardom. - -What a difference one little preposition makes! Stepping out of a taxi -into dripping rain at the stage entrance, Nancy heard a shriek and saw -her colored maid drop a hatbox on the wet pavement to point wildly at -the electric sign outside the Coghlan Theater. - -Instead of:— - - “THE GAMESTER” - with - Nancy Bradshaw - -she read:— - - NANCY BRADSHAW - in - “The Gamester” - -It blinked and smiled at her, that dazzling announcement. She shut her -eyes in ecstasy that hurt. When she opened them, shameless tears were -streaming down her cheeks and a prayer was in her heart. - -Coghlan was waiting at the door of her dressing-room. She rushed at -him, arms flung recklessly about his neck, and wept into the stiff -white collar that held up his double chin. - -“You deserve it!” he told her, his own eyes a bit moist. “You deserve -it. Never asked for it. Never nagged me for anything. Just worked like -hell—and waited. How old are you, kid?” - -Nancy looked up. “T—twenty-three for publication.” - -“But on the level?” - -“Almost twenty-eight.” - -“Well, by the time you’re thirty-three, you’ll be the greatest actress -in the country. Take it from me—Jerry Coghlan knows what he’s talking -about!” - -With his prophecy singing in her ears, Nancy made her bow to New York -as a star. The audience was with her from the first, sharing her joy, -her triumph, eyes shining with hers, tears flowing when hers did. She -took it all modestly enough, even dragging on the leading man to take -the curtains with her. When finally they brought her out alone, she -stood a bit left-center and one could plainly see her whole body -shake, her lips tremble like some unaccustomed schoolgirl’s. - -It was at this moment that a man with towering shoulders and the -stride of authority left his seat and made for the lobby. There he -cornered Coghlan and without preamble made his point. - -“Jerry,” he said as they shook hands, “present me to Miss Bradshaw, -will you?” - -“Sure!” said Jerry proudly. - -And thus brought about the climax to the first act of Nancy’s life -drama. - -Cunningham wanted to give a supper party that night. But she told him -friends were entertaining her and Thorne at one of those crowded and -supposedly exclusive restaurants known as “Clubs.” He calmly followed -them and with two other men managed to procure a table near theirs. -Cunningham could procure anything anywhere. - -Nancy saw him instantly and wished he hadn’t come. Not that he gave -any sign of deliberate interest in her. In fact, one would have said -he did not know she was there. His eyes—non-committal, steel-colored -eyes they were, the sort that read without permitting themselves to be -read—scanned the menu. Supper ordered, he turned their full attention -to his companions. But his presence made Nancy self-conscious. -Probably, she concluded, because of what Ted Thorne had told her! - -As they recognized her, men sauntered from various parts of the room, -white mustache to beardless youth, clamoring congratulations. And -beside that sweet intoxication of dreams realized, the champagne set -frankly before her was as plain water to the fountain of eternal -youth. She drank in every word, hearing the same ones repeated many -times. - -When Thorne managed to break through the circle with her and spin into -a one-step, those they passed nudged each other. About the graceful -figure in cloudy silver with light hair tumbling over dark eyes and -lips curving in laughter, filmed the aura of the theater, fairyland of -illusion, the one magic world that makes children of us all. - -As they went back to the table, she caught Cunningham watching her -with an unlit cigarette between his lips and around them rather a -puzzled look, as if he might be asking himself some question he could -not answer. - -“So you’ve met,” whispered Ted, as Nancy returned his bow over the -plumes of her black feather fan. - -“Yes, to-night. J. C. brought him back.” And added casually: “He’s -asked me to make up my own party for supper some night. Will you -come?” - -“I will that!” rejoined Thorne. “But before it happens, I’ll ask you -to marry me.” - -“Don’t be a goose, Ted,” she laughed—and wondered why a frown replaced -for a flash the twinkle in the sharp eyes behind Thorne’s glasses. -They smiled again as he raised his champagne. - -“Here’s to you, Nancy girl—and the future. May it be a knock-out for -you always!” - -Cunningham, however, did not wait for the date she had set. The -following night he sent word to the theater, inviting her to ride next -day. He had his horses in town for the Show and wanted her to try his -pet stallion. His messenger would wait for an answer. - -There was a tone of assumption in the brief note that Nancy resented. -She couldn’t tell exactly where nor what it was but she had a feeling -that, though couched in terms of invitation, it had been written with -the assurance that she would not refuse. At first she was tempted to, -but anxiety to see his horses—at least that explanation she gave -herself—made her compromise by writing that he might telephone her in -the morning. - -By the time he called her, she had on her habit and half an hour later -glided uptown in his car. Through the park, fairly purring as it sped -over the smooth roads, it veered West and out at a street in the -Sixties and pulled up before what appeared to be a two-story house. -Potted dwarf firs stood at either side of the big arched door on a -level with the street. Across the front above it were three windows, -each with its green window box from which ivy trailed over the dull -red brick. A saucy little building it was in the midst of drab flat -houses, like a French cocotte dropped by mistake into a New England -village. - -Nancy gazed, puzzled and curious, when the heavy iron-hinged door was -drawn back and she stepped into the unmistakable pungent odor of the -stable. - -Cunningham came to meet her. His hands, tingling with vitality, sent a -glow through hers as he held them an instant. Then he led the way -toward the rear. The floor was covered with a sort of porous rubber -that gave to the step and Nancy felt an absurd inclination to bound -into the air as she walked. Along the walls were cases filled with -blue, red and yellow ribbons, each rosette with its streamers as dear -to the sportsman as if it had been pinned upon him instead of an -equine representative. Prints of blue ribboners with famous jockeys up -hung between the cases. Several of the originals stamped at that -moment in the stalls downstairs. Cunningham helped her down the run. - -“I want you to meet my best friends,” he said, stopping before the -nearest stall. “Permit me—Lord Chesterfield!” - -With approved good manners his Lordship settled his velvet nose in her -outstretched hand. - -“Chawmed, M’lord,” she smiled. Her wondering eyes went the length of -the place. - -It was daintily white as a woman’s boudoir, each stall bordered in -brilliant blue and bearing its occupant’s monogram in the same color. -A border of blue ran round the white walls. Even the water buckets and -feed boxes were white with horse’s heads painted on them. - -There was a rush forward and eager heads poked out as Cunningham went -down the line. Satin bodies swaggered, priming themselves for -approval. - -“No wonder they’re your friends!” Nancy observed. “You treat them so -well.” - -“Do you think friendship has to be won that way?” he put quickly. - -“No. It’s usually given first and earned afterward.” - -“That’s not _friendship_ you’re speaking of.” The look he bent on her -was disconcerting. Nancy turned to follow a groom who was leading two -horses, saddled, toward the run. - -A few moments later they swung through the wide doorway into the -autumn sunshine. Nancy had never ridden any but academy horses and the -sense of the fine, spirited animal under her with his rearing head and -shining coat made her blood dance. Flying down the bridle path was -like soaring heavenward on Pegasus. Poetry was in the air, in her -eyes, in the crack of the gravel under their horses’ feet. The man -beside her sat his mount, a bay of sixteen hands, as if part of it. -His muscular hands barely touched the reins. - -“How did you know that I rode?” she asked. - -“I recalled seeing your picture in riding habit in one of the -magazines.” - -“But that doesn’t prove anything. It’s the privilege of an actress to -be photographed in habit, even if she wouldn’t go near enough to a -real horse to feed him a lump of sugar.” - -He laughed, looked down at her slim straight body in its tan coat, at -the graceful limbs swung across her mount, at her glossy gold hair and -the light of the sun in her eyes. “Well, I should have known you did -anyway. There’s nothing vital you couldn’t do.” - -He put it not as a question but directly, as if giving her the -information. She found no answer. This man left her strangely -speechless. For no reason at all her cheeks went red with a deeper -flush than the exercise had brought to them. - -She said little during the two hours of their ride. He told her of the -fascination the theater had for him. Then her eyes shone through their -black lashes and she told him it was her life. She loved it not as an -artist loves his work but with the passion one gives a human thing. - -“That’s why you’ve made good,” he answered promptly. “Because you’ve -given yourself completely.” He paused, then with the usual startling -abruptness: “Do you know, I had an actual sense of pride last night, -watching that crowd swarm round you. Odd, that—isn’t it—in a man who -had just met you?” - -“Yes.” She did not meet the gaze she knew was turned on her. - -When they dismounted and he was handing her into the car, he bent down -and into his non-committal eyes came a warmth that enveloped her like -a flame. - -“And to think that I flipped a coin last night whether to go to the -Show or go to see you!” - -She rode with him every day after that. He arranged it as a matter of -course. He had a direct way of taking things into his own hands just -as he had a direct way of looking and speaking. Often it made her gasp -but at the same time possessed the attraction male dominance always -holds for the primitive in woman. Particularly to the woman who has -fought her own battles is there something hypnotic in having decision -taken out of her hands. - -At the end of two weeks she called his horses by name; had fed them -more sugar than was good for them; had dined and danced with him; and -knew, though to herself she denied it, that tongues quick to wag, were -busy with their names. Nancy Bradshaw, popular star, and Dick -Cunningham who, in the eyes of the world, could like Joshua command -sun and moon and stars to stand still! - -When his friends—men who made the nation’s pulse throb—stopped at -their table in a restaurant or, as was frequently the case, joined -them at his invitation and gave to Nancy the homage a charming actress -always receives from men a bit jaded, Cunningham’s probing glance -warmed and a smile softened his sharply determined mouth. - -He sent her flowers and books as a matter of course. Wherever they -went he surrounded her with an atmosphere of unconscious luxury that -was like a narcotic. - -And finally at the house of the fir trees, instead of that -diamond-lighted district bounded by the Forties, he gave the -supper-party they had planned the night of their meeting. Ted Thorne -was there and Lilla Grant, ingénue of the company, a sinuous little -thing with pert nose, full Oriental lips and eyes that might have come -from Egypt. She had begged Nancy to let her meet Cunningham. - -“She’ll get there, that kid,” Jerry Coghlan had once remarked. “Don’t -know yet whether her name used to be O’Shaughnessy or Rabinowitz. But -take it from me, she’ll make her mark—maybe because it used to be -both.” - -Lights shone in the upper windows as the four stepped from the car, -not the brilliant light of electricity but one gentle and golden. They -went up the flight of steps leading to the unique apartment above the -stable. - -“Make yourselves at home. I’ll send a maid.” Cunningham opened the -door to a room done in gray and rose, with enameled dressing-table and -pier-glass, and rose brocade chairs, divan and hangings. - -Lilla dropped her frou-frou of cloak from bare shoulders and, taking -the center of the floor, gazed round with glistening eyes. - -“What a duck you were to ask me!” she cried. “I’ve been just crazy to -see this place.” - -Nancy turned. “You’ve heard of it?” - -“Heard of it! My dear, there have been _some_ parties given here!” - -Swift indignation swept the color into Nancy’s cheeks. The insinuating -tone more than the words angered her. “Don’t talk like that!” Her eyes -flashed black as they sometimes did in a big scene. - -Lilla looked up wickedly. “Crazy about him, aren’t you?” - -The color went, leaving her white. “Of course not.” - -“Well, don’t let him know it—that’s all I have to say.” - -She powdered her nose, head perked to one side, guided a brush over -hair dense-dark as velvet, added a touch of mascaro to her lashes, and -turning to the maid who had just come in asked whether her dress was -hooked all the way up the back. - -“I do envy you, Nancy,” she frowned, taking in the other girl’s -graceful figure in swathing black satin, relieved only by a splash of -green fan. “One of these days—soon—I’m going to have a maid and not -break my neck gathering myself together after the show.” - -As they went out Lilla linked her arm in Cunningham’s. - -“Do you live in this heavenly place?” she asked. - -“No. But I like to have people here—the people I like, I should say. -That’s why I fixed up the second floor—for parties like this one. -There’s a fully equipped kitchen at the back. And here’s my banquet -hall.” - -The short corridor ended in the room of the three windows. They might -have been entering an Italian Villa. Paneled oak stretched straight to -the ceiling. At either end yawned a marble fireplace with logs -sputtering the faint scent of fir. A refectory table, with couch the -color of purple grapes backed against it fronted one. Drawn close to -the other stood two old Medici chairs. On both mantels and smaller -tables were candlesticks with thick yellow candles. The silver set for -supper on the long table gleamed under the glow of branching -candelabra. - -Cunningham watched Nancy’s face as she paused in the doorway. Her eyes -had dreams in them. - -“Makes a great stage setting for you,” he whispered. “I’ll want you -here all the time now.” - -A manservant passed cigarettes. They sat and chatted while they waited -for the other guests, Mr. and Mrs. Courtleigh Bishop and several -friends who were coming in from the Opera. Nancy was in a chair by the -fire; Lilla nested in the couch depths, her somber gaze lidded as if -heavy with secrets, following her host; and Thorne springing up every -now and then to wander about the room, examining its treasures. - -Lilla watched and listened to the others, much as she watched and -absorbed every word of the director at rehearsals. She had advanced by -wits rather than wit and was clever enough to know the value of -silence. Only when Cunningham brought her the spray of orchids he had -supplied for each of the women did she look up from under thick lids. - -“You do everything just right,” she murmured, pinning them into the -orange chiffon at her waist, “and I guess never anything wrong.” - -In her somnolent eyes was an obvious dare to which several weeks ago -Cunningham would probably have responded. Now he smiled down amusedly -at the round soft form sunk in the couch cushions and went back to -Nancy. The somnolent eyes went after him. - -They persuaded Thorne who, unlike a number of writing men, hated to -talk about himself, to tell the plot of his new play. - -“I’ve tackled a big problem,” he said. “Woman’s rights in love!” - -“You’ve tackled the universe,” came from Cunningham. “Fifty years ago -it could have been summed up in one beautiful word, ‘Submission’. -To-day—” He flung up his hands. - -Nancy smiled. “And you’re just the type a submissive woman would bore -to death.” - -“Don’t you believe it,” chimed in Lilla. “He’s apt to fall for some -baby doll who’ll tell him what a great big wonderful man he is and do -exactly what he wants—when he’s around.” - -“You don’t subscribe to the fifty-fifty theory then, old man?” -suggested Thorne when the laugh died down. - -“No, I believe in ninety-nine-one. At least women can make it that if -they know how to handle us. Just as Miss Grant says, we’re nothing but -a bunch of boobs.” - -“That’s what you like to make us think,” Nancy corrected. “And the -unfortunate part of it is, we want to deceive ourselves just as much -as you want to deceive us.” - -Cunningham blew a ring of feathery cigarette smoke and studied her -through it. “I didn’t know you were such a cynic.” - -“Did you think dealing with theatrical managers had taught me -nothing?” she laughed. - -At twelve Mrs. Bishop bubbled in commandeering a group of light-voiced -women and husky-voiced men. - -She apologized for being late and wailed at the length of Russian -Opera. - -“Courty can sleep through it all,” she sighed. “But the noise keeps me -awake.” - -She caught Nancy by both hands, drawing her out of the chair. - -“I’ve been so anxious to know you, my dear. I begged Dicky to bring -you to see me but he said you were the mountain—Mohammet would have to -come to you.” - -All through the elaborate supper they gushed over her, with just that -touch of patronage position assured permits itself toward those of the -stage. - -But though conversation was light and general and Cunningham the -perfect host, he might have been alone with the young star, so -completely did his eyes disregard the others. They seemed to send -their gaze round her like a cloak. She felt it unmistakably and a glow -radiated from her eyes and voice, from her whole body. - -When the dregs of Crème de Menthe and Benedictine had settled in -little green and gold pools at the bottom of cordial glasses, and -candle flames gleamed faint blue in the dripping tallow; when laughing -voices mellowed into distance and cars had slid off into darkness, two -figures stood at the curb in front of the little house. The door swung -slowly shut behind them. The woman looked up, the man down, and there -flashed between them that secret look of understanding that can pass -only when words no longer have value. - -The last car drove up. He helped her in. The door slammed. Without a -word he took her to him. Just as his gaze had encompassed her, so his -arms enclosed her now. Her lips trembled against his. For a moment, -endless because of all time, there was silence—that intense beating -silence that chokes. - -Then his voice came with a ring of triumph. - -“You know I want you.” And he waited for no answer. “You knew I wanted -you that night we met.” - -“Yes—I knew.” - -“You’re the first woman I’ve ever wanted—for my wife.” - -The word danced into the soft gloom of night merging into day, out -across the wraith-like Park, up to the sky where pale stars spelled it -before her. She murmured it, and he bent closer. - -“Mine! Nancy—you don’t know how much it’s meant, seeing them gather -round you and knowing that you were going to belong to me.” - -Their lips were one again. At the moment she took no count of the -assurance that had brooked no denial. She only throbbed to the -strength of him and smiled into the eyes so close to hers. - -The car sped past shadowy trees, past lamps paled against the rising -dawn, through a world unreal not because light had not yet come but -because these two were in a world apart. They spoke low, as lovers -will though no one is there to hear; in short phrases, saying little -yet so much, she seeking to hold close this wonder thing, he with the -claim of the possessor. - -“Why do you love me, Dick?” came finally the eternal question. - -He told her the tale men have told women for centuries and will -continue to tell them as long as the world shall last. “I love you -because you’re different from other women. There’s no one like you.” - -“How—different?” - -“Why analyze it? You’re _You_, complete, apart—wonderful.” - -“But what attracted you—first? What made you—want me?” - -“Well, seeing you there in the center of that stage with a first night -audience wearing out its hands, you looked so beautiful and -frightened—give you my word I wanted to go up then and there and take -you in my arms.” - -“It was the glamor of the stage then?” - -“No. You’re not the first actress I’ve known, dear. But you’re the -only one in town that scandal has never touched.” - -She drew back a bit. - -“That’s not fair, Dick. We’re a much-talked-of profession but half the -stories you hear aren’t true.” - -In the semi-gloom of the car she did not see the smile play about his -knowing lips. - -“What does it matter?” was his reply. “You’re in the theater, yet not -of it—sought after, made much of, yet unspoilt. And I’ve won you—for -myself.” - -“Yes, you’ve won me.” - -He drew her close. “How much do you love me?” - -“Before all the world.” She closed her eyes as if to shut out all -other vision. - -“I’m going to take you to Hawaii,” he whispered. “That’s the land of -lovers—green lapping waters and purple hills and palm trees with music -in them.” - -“You’ve been there?” - -“Yes. Then to China and Japan—and if you like, India. We’ll make a -year of it.” - -She opened her eyes slowly and into them came a ray of amusement. - -“You mustn’t take me too far away, for too long, or the fickle public -will forget me.” - -“They’re going to.” - -“Going to?” - -“Yes. I’m a jealous brute. You’ve got to belong to me exclusively.” - -“Dick”—she pulled away then, groping dazedly for one silent -second—“Dick—you don’t mean—you can’t mean you want me to give up the -stage?” - -“Yes.” - -She stared at him, unbelieving. But his face was nothing more than a -blur against the darkness. As the car rolled out of the Park, it -rolled out of Eden. - -“But—but it’s my career—my life!” - -“I’ll make a new career—a new life for you.” - -“But it’s the biggest—the best part of me.” - -“The new life will be all of you.” - -“No, Dick! I couldn’t—I couldn’t!” - -He caught the hands that were raised to push him from her, caught them -in both of his. “I want you for myself. I’m not satisfied with part of -your time.” - -“But dear—can’t you see—” - -“Can’t _you_ see that if you remain on the stage, your evenings and -part of your days will go to the public. I’ll still be going round -alone—just as I am now. If you’re my wife you’ve got to take your -place with me.” - -“But I can—except for a few hours. Dick, you say I’m different. Let me -stay different!” - -“You’ll always be that. Let’s look at it sensibly. Dick Cunningham’s -wife earning her living—why, it’s a joke!” - -“Every one would know it’s not a question of money.” - -“Then why do it? Give some one else a chance—some one who needs it.” - -“But it’s my life,” she repeated desperately. “And now, when success -has just come—” - -“You said—‘before all the world’ awhile ago.” - -“Yes—and I meant it. I do love you, before everything. You know that. -You’ve swept me off my feet. I can’t reason.” And then her hands came -together and she cried out: “Oh, why did this have to happen—why?” - -“It had to happen,” he repeated huskily. - -“Why couldn’t you have cared for some one in your own set?” - -“I want you.” - -“Dick,” she said after a moment’s harsh stillness, “don’t make me -choose. It—it’s too—it hurts too much. I couldn’t! I simply can’t do -it. If you make me give up the stage, you make me tear out my heart. -You wouldn’t ask that?” - -“It’s a question of which means more. I’m merely asking what any -normal man has the right to ask of the woman he marries—first place.” - -“But you’ll have that.” - -“No. You won’t be free to give it to me.” - -“It’s queer”—her voice came shakily. “I’ve dreamed of love as every -girl does. But I never dreamed it would mean this—this sacrifice.” - -“It won’t mean sacrifice to you. I’ll fill your life, Nancy. I’ll make -you forget there ever was any other bond. Sweetheart—don’t you believe -I will?” - -She swayed toward him—then just as quickly pulled back. - -“Haven’t I the right to ask it?” he urged. - -“Dick—” - -“Haven’t I?” - -“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know!” - -“Consider my side.” - -“I only know it’s everything you’re demanding—everything!” - -“I’m giving everything in exchange.” - -She closed her eyes with a very different expression from that of a -few moments before. Then it had been to let him fill her vision. Now -it was to shut him out. - -Vaguely it came to her that he couldn’t realize the enormity of the -thing he was asking. Vaguely she repeated aloud: - -“No—I couldn’t! If I mean to you what you say, you won’t ask it.” - -He lifted her face so that the eyes opened to meet his. Even through -the shadows he could read their anguish. - -“It’s because you mean what you do, that I can’t let you go on.” - -Her hands closed tight on each other and she turned to fasten her gaze -on the awakening streets. - -“No, Dick—there’s no use. I couldn’t.” - -“Does what I offer balance so little that you can thrust it away -without even stopping to consider?” - -“If I stop to consider—” - -“You’ll do what I ask,” he put in quickly. “Ah, I thought so! Nancy, -can’t you see? The woman in you is greater than the actress. You won’t -always be young and worshipped by your public but love—” - -“Will love last always?” And as his arms went out to answer: “No—no! -Don’t try to influence me—don’t, please! I must think it over alone. -It’s my whole life—just everything.” - -His arms dropped. They did not again reach out to her. He said -good-night with the usual handclasp and left her at the door of the -apartment house, haunting white, her dark eyes strained toward the -first flicker of sun as it came haltingly out of the east. - -A month later she sent for him. In all that time he gave her no word, -not even the message of a flower. He waited cleverly in silence—a -silence that made the battle she fought all the more difficult. And in -the end she sent for him, so completely had he absorbed her will. Not -once during those weeks of struggle did her mind hark back to the -fragment of conversation at the supper party. Because she could care -with the intensity of the big woman and because she was in love, she -did not realize that in sending for him she bowed before the god she -had scorned—Submission. - -And so the curtain fell on Act I of Nancy Bradshaw’s life drama. - - - - -CHAPTER II—ACT II - - -Out Long Island way on the North Shore where Newport goes to stretch -her tired limbs after a busy season, there’s a house set like a long -white couch on a green carpet that spreads straight to the Sound. - -The place is called Restawhile—and having some twenty rooms, not to -speak of servant quarters, is known modestly as a cottage. - -Here Dick Cunningham brought his bride following their honeymoon trip -through the Orient. Here they spent the greater part of each year. For -with its kennels and stables, Nancy loved it next to the house of the -fir trees which would always be her castle of romance. Besides, it was -not too near Broadway, not near enough for whisperings of the Rialto -to tug at the heart or fill the eyes. Or if the dull ache of longing -too deep for tears did come, it was a place to hide them from a -curious public. - -The announcement of Nancy’s marriage and retirement from the stage had -come as a shock to the social world and a bomb to the theatrical. -Broadway buzzed, Fifth Avenue bristled, and poor Jerry Coghlan almost -went crazy. But as the calcium of the society column replaced her -beloved footlights, the star of the theater became a star of the -social realm and another nine days’ wonder became memory. - -The column told of her dinners and dances, of her trips to Florida, -her visits to Newport. It listed her with her husband among -inveterate first-nighters and usually added: “The one-time Nancy -Bradshaw whose romantic marriage robbed the stage of one of its most -promising young actresses.” - -Eventually it announced with clarion blast the arrival of Dick Junior -and later Nancy the Second, quite as if a chubby Dick and Nancy -Cunningham were more important than the same weight John and Mary -Smith. - -A fairy tale come true even the most caustic observer would have -remarked, had he known the history of the beautiful woman seated on -the stone-paved veranda of Restawhile one April afternoon five years -after the curtain descended on Act I. - -She wore a short white skirt, green sweater and white sport shoes. -Strands of hair had been tossed across her eyes by a romp on the lawn -with young Dicky. He sat at her feet now, pink legs outstretched, and -mobilized between them a regiment of wooden soldiers. - -Ted Thorne and her former manager had driven out to read Thorne’s -latest drama, written with Lilla Grant in mind. She was the season’s -new darling and her hybrid little face with its eyes from the Orient -and nose from Erin’s Isle decorated many a magazine cover and -wood-cut. It might also have been seen at the Ritz lunching daily with -varied and various conquests. She had acquired an air and no longer -spoke of her profession as “the show business.” Her gowns were the -talk of fashion editors, her hats the despair of imitators. She was -colorful as a Bakst drawing and as decorative. - -The woman in white skirt and sweater that matched the lawn sat -listening at one side of the tea table, while Coghlan at her right -measured three fingers of Scotch against two of soda and the -playwright’s voice sounded vibrant against the sweet spring stillness. -It was a tense elemental story suggested to him by Nancy, with -Hawaii—land of love—as a setting. Finally he closed the script and -looked across at her. - -“What do you think of it?” - -“The best thing you’ve done, Ted,” she announced instantly. - -“Of course, it’s only in the rough. But I wanted your opinion. Am I -like that fellow who knows all about the Himalayas because he never -got there?” - -“Just like him—an authority,” she retorted. - -“But straight—how does it strike you?” - -“I love it! You’ve never written anything with greater emotional -possibilities.” - -“How do you like Lilla for the lead?” - -“Just the type. And good from a box-office standpoint, too—she’s made -such a hit this season.” - -“Some kid!” put in Jerry, tinkling the ice pleasantly against his -glass. “Always said she’d make her mark. And take it from me, Jerry -Coghlan knows what he’s talking about.” - -Nancy smiled. “You couldn’t find any one better to play an Hawaiian.” - -“Oh yes, we could!” came from Thorne. - -“Who?” - -“You.” - -She laughed and in her laughter the men detected nothing but mirth. - -“Don’t you ever have a hankering for the old game, Nancy?” Coghlan -demanded. “Don’t the theater ever get in your blood?” - -She bent and lifted young Dick suddenly to her knees. - -“Here’s my theater,” was her answer. - -The playwright’s gaze traveled over the two gold heads to the father’s -eyes that smiled from the baby face into his mother’s. Fat arms wound -round her neck and she sank her lips in the fluffy curls. - -“You’ve got a part that suits you to perfection,” he said in a low -voice. - -“Say, there ain’t any part Nancy couldn’t play! Always said she had -class. And take it from me—” - -“It’s good to know you haven’t forgotten us,” Thorne interrupted, -still in that low tone. “Whenever things get balled up I say to -myself: ‘Here goes for a run out to Restawhile. Nancy’ll help me -straighten them out.’” - -“It’s good to know you feel that way. You see”—she held Dicky -closer—“I can give you the viewpoint of the audience now.” - -That night she told her husband of the play. They had dined at the -Courtleigh Bishop place, some five miles distant, and during the drive -home Nancy had been unusually quiet. She walked up the wide staircase, -head bent, her long velvet cloak pulled close around her as if for -protection against the country chill of April. But as he followed into -her boudoir with its amber lights and drapes of cornflower blue she -dropped into a chair, let the wrap slip from her shoulders and leaned -forward, speaking rapidly. - -“Tell me something of your doings to-day, Dick. You haven’t yet.” - -He recounted the day’s activities—certain complications that had -arisen in his Western interests. Cunningham, in spite of wealth or -perhaps because of it, was not a waster. She listened eagerly to every -word. - -“And, by-the-way,” he added, much as an afterthought; “I lunched with -a former friend of yours, Lilla Grant. Met her as I was going into the -Ritz. She was alone—so was I. So we joined forces.” - -She leaned back with a deep sigh. - -“I’m glad you told me that.” - -His reply held a note of surprise. - -“Why?” - -“Because Mary Bishop made it a point to inform me to-night that she’d -seen you there. ‘Dicky still has a penchant for the theatrical -profession,’ she said, ‘I saw him lunching to-day with a stage -beauty.’ Of course, it amused me but I just had a feeling that I’d -like to hear about it from you.” - -“It was of no importance. I might not have thought of mentioning it.” - -“No. Still—I suppose I’m silly and feminine—but if you hadn’t, I think -it would have hurt.” - -“Do I demand to know every time Thorne comes out here?” - -“You don’t have to, Dick.” Her eyes were still intent on him. - -“I’ve lunched with Lilla Grant other days and haven’t thought of -mentioning it.” - -“I know that, too.” - -His eyebrows shot up. “How?” - -“Other women.” - -He laughed. “How they do love each other!” - -She laughed with him. “It’s all right now. You’ve told me. I just -didn’t want to think you’d deceive me.” - -“But, my dear girl, an omission like that is not deliberate deceit.” - -“Omission,” came softly, “is often twin sister to commission.” - -His lips went tight. “Does that mean you’d ever let anything as cheap -as suspicion of me enter your mind?” - -She got up, brushing her mouth across the hard line of his. “If I love -you as much as I do, it’s reasonable to suppose other women might.” - -And that was when she gave him the story of Thorne’s play—more to -change the subject than anything else—with eyes shining and slim -jeweled hands sending sparks into the room’s golden shadows. He -listened, watching her, the light on her face, the blaze of enthusiasm -under the thick lashes. - -“It’s a splendid part for Lilla,” she ended. “She’ll be fascinating in -it, don’t you think?” - -“Great!” And after a moment, “Nancy—does seeing so much of Thorne and -old Jerry ever tempt you to go back on the stage?” - -She went close to him as if his bigness were a shelter. - -“It’s a temptation I’d never acknowledge, dear heart—not even to -myself.” - -“But you haven’t answered me.” - -“I did that when I made my choice—when I married you. I couldn’t be -disloyal to that. Besides”—and all the woman of her went into the -words—“you and the two little yous fill my life. I’ve no time for any -other devotion.” - -He looked down at the head, reddened under the amber lights, at the -graceful line of throat and shoulder, at the proud lips that were his. -And his arms swept up and round her. - - * * * * * - -Drama moves swiftly. No pause for explanation once the wheels are set -going, no rambling into far corners for side lights as in the novel, -but a tornado-like gathering of incident that hurls itself without -notice into crashing storm. Life crowded into a few short hours, just -as a few short hours so often crowd life into one crashing crisis. -Without warning, or at least without warning heeded, one answers the -doorbell or opens a telegram or takes up a telephone receiver. And -behold, the face blanches, the heart stops beating, to beat again with -hammer stroke too horrible to bear! - -It happened that Thorne’s roadster drew up under the porte-cochère one -May day and, removing dusty goggles, he announced that he had come to -talk about a scene that stumped him. - -“I’ve traveled to Mecca to consult the Oracle.” - -Nancy shook hands enthusiastically. Dick had been away for several -days; her favorite mount, Lord Chesterfield, had been taken to town by -the head groom for treatment under a famous “vet”; and endless dinners -had bored her to a state of loneliness known only to those whose lives -have hummed with activity. Her husband would not be back until -to-morrow and to put in a few hours with Ted in the atmosphere of the -theater was a welcome diversion. - -When they had discussed pros and cons and the kick in the big scene; -when the playwright in hushed voice had told Dicky the usual pirate -tale, and the three had lunched together under the trees, Nancy jumped -up. - -“Ted, will you run me into town this afternoon? I want to have a look -at Lord Chesterfield. He went lame last week, you know.” - -Thorne beamed. - -“Bully! It’s a whale of a day. Why not stay in? We can dine and I’ll -run you out early.” - -But she refused. The kiddies were put to bed at six-thirty and she -wanted to be back before then. - -“I’ll take the train back. Don’t bother about that.” - -She came downstairs presently buttoned into a gray topcoat. From under -a tight little turban the sunset hair waved, held by a gray veil. - -They tore out of the grounds, along roads of glass at a pace that left -both breathless. Nancy felt the sluggishness of the past few days -lashed out of her blood. It flew happily to her cheeks, tingled to her -finger tips, sent the laughter into her lips as the man beside her -gave the latest bits of Broadway gossip, the latest funny story from a -region teeming with them. She stored them up for Dick, picturing his -enjoyment when on his return next day she should give them with all -her embellishment of mimicry. - -The first pungent scent of summer, clover and sweet grass and -occasional great mounds of hay, rose from the meadows as they sped -past. The vault above was intensely turquoise and without a cloud. It -would be a heavenly night with a young silver moon etched against the -sky and all things filmed by its light. She wished Dick were going to -be home. They could have taken a tearing ride like this with all the -countryside to themselves. - -The breezes became sultry. City smoke crept in. The car jerked over -cobbles, dodging barelegged youngsters and wedging at last into the -clatter of Queensboro Bridge. Nancy’s nose crinkled. She had come to -hate the city with its odors and noises and strained faces and heavy -air, all the elements which had passed unnoticed when she was part of -it and a struggler. - -From the cluttered Eastside they went through the district whose -boarded doors and windows like the blank eyes of the blind proclaimed -it fashionable; then the dust-covered green of the Park and out at the -street in the Sixties where down the block three windows blinked -coquettishly. - -Nancy descended, held out a hand. “Good luck, Ted. And let’s hear it -when you’ve got it ready.” - -His alert gaze was bright with satisfaction. “You’ve set me on the -right track. You always do.” - -She waved as he drove off, then rang the bell beside the big door. It -swung back slowly, heavily, and the head-groom stood in the opening. -She caught the look of surprise that swept over his face, passing as -quickly after the manner of well-trained servants who are supposed to -have no emotions. - -“How is Lord Chesterfield?” she inquired, stepping out of the -sunlight. - -“He’s not been so fine to-day, madam. I think there’s pain in the left -forefoot.” - -“I want to have a look at him.” - -“Yes, madam.” - -He closed the door, led the way to the run. But Nancy started toward -the stairs. - -He turned. “Is there anything I can do for you, madam?” - -“No, that’s all right, Jarvis. I’ll just leave my coat and come down.” - -“I can take it.” He stepped forward hastily, with rather a note of -apology. “The painters are up there, madam. The rain of two days ago -made a leak in the roof and I had to have them in. The place is in -something of a mess.” - -But Nancy was already halfway up the stairs. “It doesn’t matter.” - -She disappeared, dropped her coat on the divan in the gray room, and -looked ceilingward. No sign of repairs there. Probably the leak was at -the front of the house. - -Turning into the hall she noticed that Jarvis had followed her. - -“Pardon me, madam—will you be coming down to see Lord Chesterfield -now?” - -“Just a minute.” - -She threw open the double oak doors at the end. And her breath stopped -as she did on the threshold. - -A stream of sunshine flecked with motes came through the far window -and centered on the couch. Lounging there in a position of uttermost -comfort was Dick and at his feet, hatless and cross-legged like some -willing slave of the harem, Lilla Grant. A look of flame was in his -non-committal eyes and in her heavy ones, languor. The ripe red lips -were raised. From her fingers a cigarette dangled as he leaned close -and struck a match. All too evident, though, that it was not to light -the cigarette those lips were lifted. - -Nancy’s hand went to her throat. That was all. Went to her throat and -clung there. - -The two started at the sound of another’s presence. The match halted. -Cunningham looked up. He straightened, sat for an instant without -moving, then got to his feet. - -The provocation faded from Lilla’s lips. A moment before she had had -the unmistakable air of being perfectly at home. Now as she followed -the man’s sharp glance she stiffened. Uneasily she too rose and, as -neither of the others spoke, gave a nervous little laugh. - -“Why, Nancy, this is a coincidence! We’ve been expecting Ted Thorne -for tea and only half an hour ago tried you on the phone to get you, -too.” - -Nancy made no attempt to refute the glib lie. She simply stood gazing -at her husband as if her eyes were touching him. Then she turned away. - -“I think—I won’t wait,” she managed to say and went out, closing the -door. - -At the other side she stopped, hands pressed tight to her lips, and -waited for courage to go forward. - -Partway down the stairs she saw Jarvis looking up. Fright grayed his -face. - -“I’ll see Lord Chesterfield now,” she told him and followed to the -run. - -With gaze straining through the train window an hour later at meadow -and woodland she did not see, she was carried back to Restawhile, to -the babies waiting for her. - -The moon rose, as she had pictured it, paling the trees outside her -room and the lawn beneath. - -At last her door opened. Cunningham entered, closing it softly, -switched on the lights and saw her sitting hunched in a chair, with -eyes bewildered as if they could not realize the thing they had -revealed. He spoke her name—once, twice. She did not even glance at -him. - -“Nancy, answer me!” - -She turned slowly. - -“I ask you not to jump at conclusions. Nancy—” - -“Yes!” - -“Why didn’t you wait?” - -Her gaze locked with his incredulously. “You think I could have -waited?” - -“I understand,” he put in hastily. “That’s why I made no attempt to -detain you. The situation was awkward.” - -She laughed. It might have been a cry from the soul. - -“Awkward, nothing more!” he hurried on. “I admit, it looked damning. -I, myself, would have judged as you did. But I give you my word—” - -She swept it aside. - -“Jarvis tried to keep me from going up. That alone proves—” - -“Jarvis is a servant, with the view point of his class.” - -She uttered the thought that had been spinning round in her brain. “He -would scarcely have tried to protect you if that had been her first -visit.” - -“Why not? He concluded because a woman happened to be there with -me—alone—Bah,” he broke off, “that end of it’s not worth considering! -What you think is all that concerns me. And what you think is only too -evident.” - -“What I think—what I think!” Her hands clasped and unclasped -incessantly. Her voice came strangled. - -He had been pacing up and down. Now he pulled a chair close to hers. - -“But you’re wrong, dear. It’s circumstantial evidence and worth as -much. I came back to-day unexpectedly, looked in at the uptown office -before going home and found a message from Lilla, asking me to see her -this afternoon without fail. I called her hotel and arranged to meet -her at the stable. Jarvis had notified me that Lord Chesterfield was -seedy and it occurred to me that by having her come there, I’d save -time.” - -“You—” the words came haltingly as if difficult to speak—“you didn’t -seem in haste when I saw you.” - -“Come now—be sporting, dear.” He tried to make a laugh cut the -tension. “You know my interest in the theater.” - -“Yes—I know.” - -“Well, Lilla’s consulted me any number of times about one thing or -another. And she has a Bohemian way of establishing palship that you -don’t understand.” - -“Don’t I?” - -“No. I wouldn’t want you to. But the fact remains that Lilla on the -floor with a cigarette in her mouth means no more than another woman -at the tea table.” - -She made no reply. - -“Of course she lied when she said we were expecting Thorne,” he -pursued. “You knew that, didn’t you?” - -“Yes. He was out here to-day and motored me in. But I’d have known -anyway.” - -“Can’t understand why it’s so much easier for women to lie than tell -the truth.” - -“Perhaps men teach them it’s easier.” - -There was a breath without words. - -“For instance,” she went on monotonously and her eyes dropped to the -hands clenched against her knees, “you’re going to tell me I’ve no -right to misjudge either you or Lilla.” - -“Why, my dearest,” Cunningham lifted her lowered face, looked long -into it. “There’s nothing mysterious in the whole affair. Kane offered -to star her in a new production if she’d get him the backing and she -wants me to put up the money. That’s the long and short of it. I had -every intention of consulting you.” - -She drew away, looking at him straight and direct. Her lips opened but -closed without speech. She had been on the point of asking how it -happened that he had arrived in town a day ahead of time without -letting her know, why he had failed to telephone. But she could not -bring herself to question him. And he gave little time. - -Lifting both her hands he unlocked them, drew them to his breast and -met her eyes unwavering. - -“Lilla and I are nothing more than good pals, like—like you and -Thorne. I want you to believe that.” - -“It’s impossible, Dick—after what I saw to-day.” - -“Why? Have you ever before had cause to doubt me?” - -“No.” She hesitated a bit before admitting it. - -“Then why seize on the first occasion?” - -“Seize on it? Seize on it?” She gave another low breathless laugh. -“That—that’s funny! Seize on my own misery—seize on the shattering of -all I hold dear!” - -“You’re nervous and hysterical now and things look monstrous. But I -know you too well to think this mood can last.” His hands crept toward -her shoulders. All through the interview there had been no conflict on -his part, no man-woman antagonism, just an assumption of honest effort -to convince her. And now he adroitly resorted to the means by which he -had won her, a man’s most convincing way of setting himself right, the -lover’s. He drew her, resisting, out of the chair—enfolded her in his -arms—bent his lips, whispered: “No other woman could mean anything -while I have you. Don’t you know that?” - -A moment passed, longer than any she had ever lived through. Then, so -low that he could scarcely hear: “I’m going to believe you, -Dick—because I want to believe you,” she said. - -Neither of them referred to it again. As if by mutual agreement the -matter was sealed. Whatever scar the experience had left so far as -Nancy was concerned, her lips were closed as the lips of the dead. - -When eventually she heard through Thorne that along the Rialto it was -whispered Lilla actually was considering an offer from Kane, she felt -immensely relieved. Dick had told her the truth then about that end of -it. Why was the rest not true as well? - -And as if to assure her, his devotion duplicated that of their -honeymoon. Her happiness seemed the thought paramount, her peace of -mind his topmost concern. It continued so until business called him -West, the tangle that for some time had been knotting his California -interests. The letters he sent, when they were not of her and the -children, spoke of his boredom after affairs of the day were done -with, of the humidity and discomfort of the rainy season and -emphasized his eagerness to return. They came from various coast -cities—San Francisco, Sacramento, Santa Barbara, Los Angeles. - -“It’s possible you may not hear from me the next few weeks,” a final -communication told her. “I find it necessary to go to New Mexico to -look into a railroad proposition. For a time I may be located miles -from any post office. But know that I’m safe and thinking of you, my -dearest, and expect me back sometime in September.” - -Nancy packed when it arrived and left to visit the Bishops at Newport. -Stopping overnight in town, she ran into Coghlan on his way to the -Knickerbocker Grill, daily trysting place of managers. - -“Say, what d’you think of Lilla?” He chortled in the midst of pouring -out plans for the coming season. “Gone to Hawaii to get atmosphere -before she signs up for that lead. Atmosphere! Can you beat it? Paying -her own expenses, too. Told her she was crazy, but nothing to it—had -to go. Developing too much temperament for her own good, that kid!” - -Nancy had not yet brought herself to the point of hearing Lilla’s name -without wincing. But she managed a smile and asked: “When does she -return?” - -“Next month sometime. Told her rehearsals begin the fifteenth whether -she’s on the job or not. So you can bank on it, she’ll be here.” His -appraising yet impersonal glance ran the length of Nancy’s graceful -figure, from the wide hat shading her eyes to the narrow brown pumps -and slim ankles. “All to the good, Nancy,” he sighed regretfully, “all -to the good! Just home and mother stuff too! And, by golly, five years -ago I guyed myself into thinking I’d turn you out the greatest actress -in America!” - -She wondered vaguely as she sped toward the worldly paradise whose -gates had swung wide to her whether old Jerry was right. Would she -have become a great actress or just the darling of a few fickle years? -That girl with her wild dark eyes and swirl of golden hair, would the -public she had loved have wept and laughed with her to-day? She -wondered and smiled reminiscently, a smile with a tear, like some -bittersweet memory of the dead. - -At the station she was met by her host, otherwise known as Mary -Bishop’s husband, and in a supremely groomed car was driven through -supremely groomed streets, ultra as the leaders who dwelt there. -Courty Bishop sat back beside her, caressed his waxed mustache and -regaled her with choice bits of news, just as Coghlan had regaled her -the day before. After all, she told herself, there wasn’t much -difference in the two worlds. Appraisingly, but with a look not quite -so impersonal as that of her former manager, the sophisticated eyes -turned to scan her beauty while his facile tongue rambled on. - -“I say—you top ’em all, Nancy! What a risk that boy, Dick, -takes—leaving you alone so long!” - -“Not so much of a risk,” she laughed, mentally placing her husband -next to the little man. - -“But what the deuce takes him such a distance this time of year?” - -“Oh, railroad stuff.” - -“Bore—the tropics in midsummer!” - -“Tropics?” - -“Well,—that’s what I’d call the Hawaiian Islands. One of my men, -McIntyre, met him on the way out. Wrote that if Cunningham didn’t kick -at going, guessed he couldn’t. But why in hades—” - -The woman beside him heard no more. Hawaii!! Like some giant machinery -against her ears, his words became a whirr. She smiled mechanically, -as so many women have done, while the world stood still. - -Fate had lifted the prompter’s hand and slowly the curtain descended -on Act II of Nancy Bradshaw’s life drama. - - - - -CHAPTER III—ACT III - - -The hum of arrival in that great hive, the Grand Central, kept up an -incessant drone. Scurrying figures swarmed like bees from the gates to -disappear into the night. Red caps raced back and forth, elbowing one -another in the rush for spoils. City husbands reached out eagerly from -roped-off lines to country wives and sunburned youngsters. Embraces -and laughter and inarticulate efforts to tell everything in one moment -kept the air abuzz. Life, centralized in one small area of space, was -at its busiest. - -Into this hubbub from the Lake Shore Limited swung a man in tweed -suit, the porter at his side laden with the trappings of a long trip. -His big shoulders pushed through the throng into the lighted terminal -and he looked around. Rapidly his glance traveled from face to face, -then back along the congested line and once again its length. A look -of annoyance that brought brows together followed the swift scrutiny -and he made for the telephone booths. Impatiently he gave the operator -a number, concentrating his gaze on her while she made the Long Island -connection. When some three minutes later he emerged from the booth, -the look of annoyance had changed to anger. - -With characteristic stride of authority he moved across the crowded -stone floor, bounded up the steps and waited, peering at his watch in -the outer gloom as taxis unloaded their burdens and took on others. -When his turn came he sprang in, gave the address of a small select -hotel off Fifth Avenue and all the way there sat staring fixedly out -at the lighted shops, his lips a thin, angry line. - -The line had not disappeared as he stepped from the elevator to the -door of a suite and imperatively rang the bell. It was opened by a -girl in nursemaid’s cap who gave a start when she saw who it was. He -pushed past with the same look he had cast about the station. Then he -turned abruptly, sending at her a volley of rapid-fire questions. - -Madam was not there, she answered. Yes, the children were, but -Mrs. Cunningham had gone to dinner and the theater. No, she did not -believe any telegram had been received from him. Madam, she was sure, -had not expected him to-night. They had been in town since the -beginning of the week. No, Mrs. Cunningham had not gone out with any -one. To The Coghlan Theatre, she believed. - -Her curious gaze followed him as he went down the hall to the -elevator. Then softly she shut the door. - -At ten minutes to nine he strolled into The Coghlan Theater, the last -of a fashionably late audience. - -The place was packed and he leaned leisurely against the rear -balustrade to wait for the curtain before trying to locate his wife. - -Across the footlights palm trees swayed, recalling the land of secrets -he had left behind. Something about the sensuous atmosphere so -realistically reproduced made him turn away. Then his eyes took in the -woman who held the center of the stage. Her voice—low, beautifully -modulated—rolled toward him. Her eyes, burning black, turned in his -direction. He gripped the rail, bent over it. - -Nancy!! In spite of the dark wig and olive tinted skin, there was no -mistake! Nancy—on the stage of The Coghlan! The sudden sharp crackle -of a program broke the stillness. - - NANCY BRADSHAW - in - “Broken Wings” - -There it was—Nancy Bradshaw—staring at him from the sheet he had not -troubled to read. - -Nancy! Mrs. Richard Cunningham! - -He made the lobby like a bull gone mad. Generations of training, years -of the will to control, were as if they had never been. He was the -outraged male, bent on destroying the thing which had defied him. - -Outside he found Coghlan who, from the box-office, had glimpsed him -sauntering in and evidently anticipated precisely what had happened. - -Jerry’s good-natured face with its row of chins was hard as an iron -mask as he blocked Cunningham’s onrush. - -“Hello, there,” he said genially, reaching out a hand. - -Cunningham’s fists clenched white. - -“I’ve got to see my wife.” - -“Well, can’t see her from anywhere but in there until after the -performance. Nobody goes backstage—strict orders.” Then smiling -broadly, “Made a hell of a hit! You ought to be damn proud of her.” - -“I’m going to see her _now_!” - -Jerry grinned serenely. “Don’t blame you. Should have been here Monday -for the opening—sensation, old man! Always said that in five years -she’d be the greatest actress in the country. And take it from me—” - -From within, a swelling volume of applause told the fall of the -curtain. - -Cunningham made a lunge to pass the figure that blocked him. - -“Careful, careful, old boy!” came firmly from the manager. “Hold tight -there! They’ll be coming out—take it easy.” - -The other man’s face was set. - -“I’ve told you—” - -“And I tell _you_! This is my theater! Anybody who causes any -disturbance gets out!” - -A prominent clubman sighted Cunningham at this juncture and hurried -across the lobby. From that moment Nancy’s husband was forced to -assume an easy pride calculated to disarm gossip, forced to become the -center of a throng bent upon congratulating him on his wife’s success. - -During the ten minutes of intermission he bore it with a smile -chiseled on his handsome face, then left the theater as the lights -went low. Back to the hotel he tramped, turned and retraced his steps -like some madman muttering to himself. Then up and down the dark alley -of the stage entrance, watching for signs that the final curtain had -fallen, unable to consider the sane and sensible alternative of -waiting for his wife in the privacy of her own rooms. - -When at last they stood face to face under the brilliant lights of -her dressing-room it was evident Coghlan had warned her. - -She was alone. In the little room where they had met five years ago -they met once more. And to-night as that night a flame like a living -thing darted between them. Then it had been white and warming. Now it -filled the place, a devastating fury. But in the face of it she stood -calm. - -It would have taken an observer less self-absorbed to note that her -hand trembled as it grasped a chair-back, that her breath came -quickly. In silence they measured each other. In silence she waited, -her eyes never leaving him. - -At last he spoke and his voice was as hard as that of a judge -pronouncing extreme penalty. - -“Well—have you anything to say for yourself?” - -She shook her head and not defiance but sadness was in the look she -sent him. “Nothing I _want_ to say.” - -“You realize, of course, that I’m going to put a stop to this business -here and now.” - -Again that look—half regret, half sorrow. - -“You can no longer put a stop to anything I do.” - -In his unreasoning wrath the actual import of her words missed him. - -“I don’t care what contracts you’ve made—to-night finishes them.” - -“Suppose we try to talk this over quietly”—she gave a slight gesture -of weariness as she sat down before her dressing-table—“if it must be -discussed.” - -“Must be discussed? Good God! I come back after three months, ring my -home, find that my wife has moved into town without a word to me—” - -“You forget—you had overlooked giving me your address.” - -“And come up against the fact,” he rushed on, “that she’s taken -advantage of my absence to put over— What’s your explanation of this -damned outrage?” he broke off hotly. - -Her eyes, tense and brilliant, held his. He gave a short laugh. - -“I assume you and Coghlan have concocted one.” - -“Coghlan has no idea of my reason for doing it. He merely knows that -in July I sent word to him that I would take this part if Lilla Grant -refused it. He didn’t wait to find out, though she cabled him a week -later saying Kane was going to star her.” - -“And you thought I’d let you get away with it! After five years of -living with me you thought I’d stand for anything like this!” - -“It doesn’t matter whether you stand for it or not.” - -He had been pacing up and down, hands thrust into his pockets, ready -to plunge through the walls. Now suddenly he veered about, stood -rooted. - -“I mean it.” Softly she answered his amazement. “I’m back on the stage -because I realize how little my leaving it meant to you.” - -He went close to her then, threat in every line of his big frame. - -“You’re my wife—the mother of my children.” - -“Yes—that’s all.” - -“All?” - -“I bore your name, I bore your children. I gave up the stage to do -both. And in giving it up, I sacrificed your love.” - -Her back was turned but out of the shadows of her triple mirror gazed -a face white with pity of him, with suffering for the thing which, -through him, both had lost. - -“Sacrificed my love?” he began as a man feels his way along paths he -is not sure of. “What in heaven’s name gave you that idea?” - -“Please,” she stopped him with a swift gesture, “please—don’t speak of -it! I can’t bear it!” - -“Look here, Nancy,” came somewhat more calmly, “this is nonsense—silly -woman stuff. I’m not saying you didn’t think you had some rational -excuse for doing this thing. But it’s out of the question. It simply -can’t continue. I made that clear when I married you. Boredom or -restlessness or the sort of unreasoning mood that gets hold of women -probably drove you to it.” - -“You drove me to it,” she answered quietly. - -“What’s got over you?” he came back sharply. “You talk like a mad -woman.” - -“No—I’m quite sane. I see quite clearly—too clearly. I’ve had plenty -of time to go over it—to face the truth. I thought when I married you -that you loved the woman in me. Now I know it was the actress. You -loved me for the thing I gave up because I loved you—the glamour of -the stage. Popularity—the fact that I was conspicuous made me -desirable. You demanded that I sacrifice all that. And when I did, I -became the same to you as hundreds of women you’d known, women you -were tired of. You cut me off completely from my old life, except as -a spectator—then sought in that old life the thrill and interest I -could no longer give you.” - -She paused. Her hand went to her throat as it had that day in the -house of the fir trees. - -“All these five years when I’ve longed for a glimpse of it—just a -glimpse—to become part of it again if only for a little while, I’ve -felt guilty, almost as if I’d been untrue to you. I’ve thrust the -thought aside as something unworthy. I’ve let you fill my life. Well,” -she paused, “now I’ve gone back to it. I’ve gone back to the thing -that made you love me. And I’ve gone—to stay.” - -Defiance at last leaped at him. It tore from her, as they stood -measuring each other, like a panther from some rustling jungle. It -gripped his throat. - -“Woman excuses!” he brought out at last. “Without rhyme or reason to -back them! Well, they won’t answer. I’m still waiting for a straight, -rational explanation. Suppose you let me have it—now.” - -“All right, I will. I didn’t want to, but since you demand it you -shall have it. I’ve given you my reason, my motive. I’ve told you what -sent me back to the stage. But the thing that brought me to my senses, -that made me realize the truth, can be summed up in just three words: -Hawaii—Lilla Grant.” - -She spoke as if merely voicing them were tearing open a wound -unhealed, spoke them so low that they came like a breath. - -And hearing, he straightened, stood silent, too stunned to think of an -answer. - -The noise of slamming doors and scurrying feet beat instead against -the stillness, all the echoing movements that strike bare walls when -the play is done. - -“It was rather funny—wasn’t it?—that I should have believed you that -first time,” she went on. “But I told myself what I had seen was -impossible; that if I had given up the thing that was life to me, -surely you wouldn’t go back to it for the fascination of grease-paint -and footlights. Surely you couldn’t seek in another woman the thing -you had denied me! That’s why I accepted your half truths—eagerly. -Because I wanted to—and one does so many foolish things when one wants -to. That’s why it was so much harder when I did find out.” - -“Nancy—” he began. - -“Please don’t try to explain this away!” came breathlessly. “It can’t -be set right. It’s done! And I’d like to go on being friends, because, -you see, I _did_ love you.” - -“Then—” he seized on the note in her voice. - -“No! Never!” - -They were just two words, low as a conscience whisper. But they closed -the gates of what had been with the grim certainty of fate. His -steel-colored eyes—habitually so sure of themselves—wavered. His fists -gripped against an enemy unknown. And only the woman whose gaze locked -with his knew that the enemy was himself. - -He looked down at the blonde head round which the lights of the -theater glimmered once more; those lights he had torn away to make her -entirely his. - -“You mean that?” he brought out at last. - -“Yes.” - -“Finally?” - -“It can’t be otherwise—now.” - -He turned swiftly on his heel and went the length of the room, then -back to where she stood. He pulled up sharp and his lips snapped -together. - -“All right. But you leave one item out of the reckoning. As long as -you bear my name, you respect it! If you persist in this—I’ll divorce -you.” - -“The name is yours. I am Nancy Bradshaw again.” - -“What do you mean by that?” - -“Only what I said. You can have it back any time you want. I won’t -make a move to stop you. You can have everything you’ve ever given -me—everything. The one thing I had a right to keep—you’ve taken away. -So what else matters?” - -She walked slowly over to where her clothes hung behind a cretonne -curtain, took down a black hat and pulled it over her shining hair. -She stood there, shoulders drooping, head bent. - -Outside the soft shuffle of the old watchman’s feet told he was going -the rounds. Good-nights had been tossed from one to another of the -departing company. That heavy quiet of night in a darkened theater -rolled backstage. The world of make-believe had vanished. Only the -shell remained. - -Cunningham leaned a bit heavily against the door. For the first time -life had thwarted, left him impotent, and a new sensation, when -unpleasant, is difficult to handle. - -The woman he had loved and desired, the woman who had stirred him, who -had been his, came toward him as to a stranger. - -“I’m afraid I must go,” she said. - -He roused himself to a final stand. - -“You realize,” came hoarsely, “that I’ll fight this—fight it to a -finish? You realize as well that the children will come to me?” - -Pain for what had been and what might have been; memories, all that -had made these moments a requiem, vanished from her voice. She went -close to him. Like his own her body went taut, her hands tense, her -head high. Primitive even as himself, she met him, ready for combat. - -Suddenly something in her answering gaze, in the black of her eyes -that could flame up like two live things, made clear the writing on -the wall. - -“I don’t think you’ll try to do that. I shan’t attempt to keep them -from you, of course. But they’re mine, you know,—and _I_ haven’t -forfeited the right to them.” - -Without another word, she stood waiting for him to step aside. He -hesitated, made as if to speak, then turned abruptly and the slam of a -door resounded like thunder. - -One by one she turned off the lights. Out across the familiar boards -she went to the center of the stage, set for to-morrow. Face lifted to -the darkness, she stood where had come to her the struggle -eternal—success, conflict, love, renunciation. And to her lips came -the question woman will always ask, the question always unanswered: -“Why?” - -And so the curtain descended on Act III of Nancy Bradshaw’s life -drama. - - - - -THE CURTAIN FALLS - - -The lights of the auditorium flame high. The audience rises. It has -stepped down from the footlights. It moves in undulating tide toward -the wide-flung doors. - -Beyond those doors is night, the world of care. The brief hours of -living in a house of dreams is over. Forgetfulness gives place to -memory. The spirit of the theater lifts its magic touch from tired -eyes. - -Backstage all is dark and wondering. Have we played our parts as an -audience and sensed its heartbeats? Have we smiled its smiles? Teased -its vanity? Gained its approval? We of this little play—have we -succeeded in our striving to make a critical throng throb to it? Back -of the swaying curtain, before which one of asbestos has dropped -heavily, all is wild hope, eager prayer, despairing question. - -The house of dreams is empty, the soft-armed chairs shrouded as if -each held a pale ghost. Is it to be alight or dark? Do we live or die? - -To-morrow holds the answer. - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber’s note: - -A small number of clear typographic errors have been corrected. - -Consistent period spelling has been retained, as has inconsistent -hyphenation. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FOOTLIGHTS*** - - -******* This file should be named 60950-0.txt or 60950-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/0/9/5/60950 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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