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My Actor-Husband

<h3>CHAPTER XVII</h3> COMING out of the stage door after the performance one night shortly after the New Year, the back-door keeper met me with the information that a gentleman was waiting to see me. Before I could frame a reply a bulky figure emerged from the gloom. I recognized Mr. F. of Chicago. There was something akin to embarrassment in the way he proffered his hand, though his grip was not lacking in geniality. Of the two I was the more self-possessed. To my polite inquiries about his family he murmured something about their being all right, he guessed, and abruptly changed the subject by asking me to "come jump in a taxi and let's go somewhere for a bite of supper." I did not understand why I so readily acquiesced. On the way to Rector's—he himself having made the choice of restaurant—we exchanged amenities. I believe I deplored the fact that I was not dressed for the occasion, and he had replied with a flattering speech intended to salve my vanity. After he had ordered the most expensive items on the menu, he settled back in his chair, toyed with his fork, looked at me searchingly, then broke out laughing. The laughter was not pleasant to the ear; it left an unpleasant apprehension. He leaned across the table with a confidential air and smiled quizzically.... "Do you remember the last time we had supper together?" I nodded and coaxed a smile. "Perfectly," I responded. A silence, while Mr. F. traced strange hieroglyphics on the napery. After a while he tossed aside the fork with the air of one casting off unpleasant memories, and settled back in his chair. "Tell me about yourself," he commanded. "How is the world using you? What in the name of wonder ever took you on the comic opera stage? I couldn't believe my own eyes when I spotted you to-night, and, of course, the name on the programme meant nothing to me. I shook my friends as soon as the performance was over and interviewed the back-door keeper. He told me you were Mrs. Hartley in private life.... Well, what's the answer?" "There's nothing mysterious about my present occupation. Mr. Hartley hasn't been especially lucky this season, and when a chance to help out a bit presented itself I took it ... that's all.... I presume you know that we lost our boy...." "Yes—yes ... I knew, of course." His tone was curt, but I understood his reluctance to dwell upon the subject. The return of the waiter ended a painful silence. After that Mr. F. kept up a running fire of gossip and questions about stage life. But beneath the surface I sensed and lent him tacit aid in his effort to steer clear of the topic I knew to be uppermost in his mind. From time to time rumours of a fresh rupture with his wife had reached me. In fact, it was Will who had acquainted me with the news of their final estrangement. He confided the details of the lady's latest excursion into the realm of the illicit, with the sententious air of, "There! Didn't I predict what would happen?" and a shrug of the shoulders. I am not sure that it was not Will's intent to sympathize with himself as a victim of circumstances over which he had no control. Indeed, the occasional bursts of confidences which he thrust upon me, and in which he discussed quite frankly the indiscretions of certain lion-hunting ladies, were made, I felt, with the hope of impressing upon me the pitfalls with which a man in his profession is surrounded. Or was it vanity, or a desire to fan the old flame of passion he once had aroused—a passion, which, if the paraphrase is pardonable, was now "tame and waited on judgment?" In some way—I am not certain how it came about, since "made" conversation is at best disjointed and lacks in sequence—a random remark inspired a challenge from Mr. F., who offered to lay a bet that I was in the wrong. "O, no," I had replied, "I don't want you to lose; besides, you do not pay your gambling debts promptly. Do you know you never sent me that box of candy I won from you in Cincinnati? Mr. F.... you're not a good sport!" With a shock I realized I was in shallow waters.... He looked at me with his eyes narrowed to mere slits.... "Well, little woman, I can't say that of you, can I?... I can't say that you're not a good sport—after that performance in Cincinnati." ... I flushed but made a heroic effort to control my voice. "I don't think I follow you." Mr. F. beat up the bubbles in his glass and watched them come to the surface before he answered. "Of course you've heard about her latest affair with that Italian opera singer.... Well, I caught her with the goods this time.... For the sake of the children I'm letting her get the divorce...." He left off frowning and contemplated me with an amused smile. "Say, little woman, you did put it all over me there in Cincinnati, didn't you?... I suppose you're wondering how I got wise to it? Well, I wrung the confession out of her; I wouldn't let her get the divorce until she told me the truth, and then I checked it up through her sister, who's a pretty good sort.... All my life I've had a deep-rooted respect for a game sport.... When I look at that pretty little face of yours and think of the job you cooked up at a moment's notice—well, I take off my hat to you, that's all!... Look here, little woman: if anything ever goes wrong between you and handsome Bill—and by Gad! I thought it had when I saw you on the stage to-night—if ever you need a friend, just tap the wires. There's my club address ... and, little lady—don't be afraid that I'll ask anything in return—do you follow me? I'm not any better than the rest of my kind, but I think I know the real thing when I meet it." While donning my wraps in the cloak-room some time later, I was surprised to see my little friend Leila enter and present her coat-check to the maid. She flushed a little in surprise as she greeted me: "Why, Mrs. Hartley! I didn't know you were here! Where were you sitting? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?" "I didn't know myself. I found an old acquaintance waiting, and of course he wanted to see 'where the soubrettes hang out.'" "How funny! My coming was unexpected, too. I'll tell you all about it to-morrow." She hurried away, a little eagerly, I thought. As I passed out in response to a beckon from Mr. F. I saw Leila being helped into a handsome fur coat. I told myself it was none of my business; that Leila knew perfectly well what she was doing and that any amount of advice from me would not only not be acted upon, but would be resented. Already she avoided me. To my pleadings that I was lonely—would she not dine with me at my home?—she responded with ever-ready but piffling excuses and subterfuges. I would see her emerge from her dressing-room after the performance, prettily dressed, get into a waiting taxicab and be whirled away. The situation preyed on my mind. Once I took courage in both hands and called at her lodging-house only to be told that Miss Moore had moved away a month since. I got the new address from the back-door keeper, and when my little friend was out of the cast through illness I seized the opportunity to call on her. It was one of those smaller apartment hotels in the West Forties; I was taken up in the elevator without challenge. The coloured maid who cautiously opened the door said she did not know whether her mistress would see me. Something in my manner, however, caused her to stand aside and let me enter. The rooms were tastefully if cheaply furnished. Leila was lying on a couch, propped with pillows and clad in a dainty silk kimono. She was taken by surprise and flushed a little as she extended her hand. The maid placed a chair for me. "I—I thought you had forgotten me," she stammered as I offered the flowers I had brought. "How good of you!" "They're only seconds, Leila, but the best I could afford." And, compared to the big American Beauties reposing in a vase near at hand, they certainly did look shop-worn. "It's a beastly day, isn't it? Let me send for a cup of tea or maybe you'd like a high-ball...." I declined both. The maid disappeared. Leila squirmed about on her pillows.... "I'm sorry to see you ill, Leila," I ventured by way of breaking the ice. "O, I'm not really ill ... only a slight cold. I'm a bit run down and the Judge—that is—the doctor thought I should rest for a while. I'm not going back to the theatre this season.... It's awfully good of you to bother about me...." "Leila?" I said finally.... "Leila, is it worth it?" "Is what worth——".... "All this." I indicated the apartment, the piano, the silk négligée—and the ring on her finger.... "Is it worth the price you are paying?" I asked gently. She lifted her shoulders. "I don't know!" Her tone was half question, half defiance.... "I do know that the other way wasn't worth the sacrifices, the scrimping and mean pinching. I couldn't go on like that—I couldn't! I am young; I want some of the good things of life while I am still young ... and I was lonely. I didn't fit into my environment." "I understand, Leila.... Perhaps I appreciate the loneliness, the rebellion, better than you think.... You see other girls enjoying the good things of life and apparently happy. But, after all, happiness is purely relative, and what makes for their happiness might not make for yours. Leila, dear girl, couldn't you make up your mind to stick it out just a little while longer?... Things were sure to come your way—or, perhaps, you would meet the right man and marry and settle down in the little home of your own which you told me you have always craved." "The right kind of men don't marry chorus girls. The exceptions are rare. And what manner of men are they who do marry a girl out of the chorus? Old worn-out roués, almost senile from the debauched lives they have led. They crave something young and fresh as an elixir of life. Sometimes it's a young blood with money; a black sheep of the family who drinks and sports, and in the end there's divorce if nothing worse.... I couldn't marry a man like either of these.... It's a mistake to be too fastidious...." "Is—is—he married?" "He—O.... Yes, he's married—in a way. His wife and he have not really lived together for years. For the sake of the family they keep up appearances.... She doesn't understand him...." "Did he tell you that—and you believe it?" "But I know it's true! You'd believe it, too, if ever you were to see her. He married her when he was young and poor." "I presume they loved each other then; she probably pinched and scrimped in those days to help him—to help him get where he is to-day." "I don't know anything about that, of course. But I do know that I admire him; he has a wonderful mind. It's a privilege to be associated with a man like him. If you knew him, you would not think so badly of the—the arrangement." I left my chair to sit beside her on the couch. "Dear girl," I said, slipping my hand in hers, "Don't misunderstand me. I'm not sitting in judgment, neither am I criticizing you. But I want you to think of the future. Have you ever thought of the time when you will be no longer young? Have you never observed that type of woman one finds hanging around restaurants or hotel corridors, hoping to pick up a man, any man, it doesn't matter what kind of a man so long as he has a little money? These women are getting along in years, taking on flesh, hiding the ravages of time and dissipation with rouge, hair-dyes and more dissipation. They are fighting life and getting the worst of it, having put into life only their worst: thrown from one man's arms into another's: down the line—always down grade, lower and lower until—until what remains? The streets, the work-house, or suicide.... Have you thought of that?" "No! No! No!—and I don't want to think of it!" She pounded her fists vehemently together.... "I'm tired of thinking of the future! I've done nothing all my life but think and live in the future—and now I'm going to get what there is—all there is—out of the present, if it's only a pretty gown, only a bright flower! What incentive has a girl like me to be good? Go away! Go away, please, and don't bother about me!" ... As I walked up Fifth Avenue on my way home, the shops and various dressmaking establishments were disgorging their workers: pale girls, for the most part, poorly clad. Here and there one prettier than the rest, showing in her dress the innate love of display; passing the well-dressed saunterer along the way with a pert glance, an inviting eye; dreaming of the silks she had handled all day; longing for the comforts of life which money alone can buy.... After all, is it a question of morals or economics which leads these girls astray? As my little friend had put it, "What incentive have they to go straight?" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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