Part 12 (1/2)

”Not a bit of it ... we're running along converging lines. The stage is the mart for the prettiest and most magnetic of women. A pretty woman may be moral, but the chances are against it. Every man looks upon her as so much legitimate loot. They differ only in their methods of getting away with it. Sometimes they effect a legitimate sale: this is what our social system calls marriage. More often the rate of exchange is usurious on the part of the man. It varies from a bottle of wine and a few pretty clothes to a diamond necklace and equally brilliant promises.... Now here's where our lines converge. The stage is a good place to show goods. Our eternal chase bids us go in and look 'em over--and--if you are in a mood to trade--to say nothing of having the price--you'll find a bevy of ambitious beauties with a keen eye to business.”

”You infer, then, that the society lady sins for love only--and that the actress bestows her affection for purely mercenary motives?”

”I don't make any such broad distinction as that--but I believe the actress has always an eye on the main chance and that she wouldn't let a little thing like love interfere with business.... The society woman, on the other hand, usually goes wrong because she's unhappily married and tries to make up for what's missing by stealing a little happiness on the side.”

”Then I am to believe that the stories one reads about lovers who present other men's wives with bejewelled gold purses and other little feminine gew-gaws are wholly fict.i.tious; pure emanations from the brain of newspaper reporters--or the French dramatist ... and from the divorce records?”

The doctor threw back his head and roared like a lion....

”Perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me under what head you cla.s.sified me--being neither a love-lorn society lady nor an ambitious actress with an eye to the main chance....”

The doctor sobered to the point of anger. ”I have told you that I am sorry.... I have apologized.... After all, what are we rowing about?

You've proved an alibi--you're not like the rest--so let's forget it.”

”I _can't_ forget it.... You are judging a whole cla.s.s by a few individuals who share your perverted ideas ... individuals who would be immoral in a nunnery.... Would any of the women of your set--name any one of them--would she--_could_ she be less moral on the stage?

Impossible! I don't believe you when you say none of them would 'go the limit!' Women who drink as much as they do; women whose tongues are furred with vulgar stories; women who proclaim they are '_on_ to their husbands' and that their husbands are _on_ to them and still continue to live under the same roof, occupy the same beds; women who write other women's husbands love letters and arrange places of a.s.signation ... do you mean you do not _know_ these women 'go the limit'?” ... My indignation and resentment had swept me like a storm and left me weak and bedraggled. The doctor made no response.... I felt that he was watching me. After a while I proceeded more quietly....

”The trouble with you, doctor, is that you form your opinions from the newspapers. The man who writes the head-lines believes it is his bounden duty to accentuate any and everything pertaining to the stage. The most obscure chorus girl is 'an actress.' Every divorcee whose antics have emblazoned the hall of ill-fame expects to become an actress and the newspapers record her aspiration in large type. A police court magistrate in New York once told me that three-fourths of the women arrested on the streets for accosting men gave their occupations on the police blotter as 'actress.' Do you think any yellow sheet ever let an opportunity like that go by?... If all the petty affairs of your clients or your friends and casual acquaintances, both scandalous and innocuous, were printed from week to week, do you think there would be an appreciable difference between the standard of morality of the doctors, the dentists, the butchers and bakers and that of the actor?... I don't think you take into consideration that the actor's life is public property. He is denied the right of privacy in all matters. Nothing is too trivial, too delicately personal, to be shared with the public.”

”And who's to blame for that, my lady, but the player himself? Publicity is his stock in trade. He's got to advertise, or drop out.... If ever I want a divorce, I'll dig up an actor as co-respondent: not because there may not be others, but because the actor would appreciate the advertis.e.m.e.nt.” ... The doctor leaned toward me to better enjoy my discomfiture, then laughed tormentingly.

I rose to my feet; he accepted his conge lingeringly.

”Well, at any rate I've done you good; your face has got back its colour.” ... He stood contemplating me for a second.

”You know ... you've got a good deal of think works under that dusky head--only don't think too much.... It's bad business for a woman of your temperament.” He turned to pick up his coat. Boy had fallen asleep upon it, nestling close to the warm fur. ”What a shame to disturb him--don't do it. I can do without the coat until I get home.” I lifted Boy gently and carried him still asleep to the bedroom beyond. The doctor followed to the alcove and stood watching while I covered the child. Then he picked up his coat and threw it over his arm.

”I guess you're equal to holding Handsome Bill by the leading strings, all right.... Hartley's a fine chap; one of the nicest actors I ever knew, and I'm downright fond of him.” ...

I could not repress a sneer in the safety of the twilight. It was not lost on the doctor.

”I know what you are thinking about,” he said quietly, ”but you know as well as I that where there's a woman in the case there's about as much honour among men as there is among thieves.” ... He stretched out his hand. ”Good-bye, little girl.... I'm glad to have had this talk with you; it's better than dodging each other and arousing suspicion. Aren't you going to shake hands?... O, well if you look at it in that light ...

just the same, I'm yours to command whenever you feel the need of me.”

... Exit doctor.

CHAPTER XII

Toward the end of the engagement in Chicago it became expedient that I undergo a minor operation. Will suggested I enter a private hospital near at hand, that he might be in daily communication with me. I preferred, however, to return to New York, and place myself under the care of our family physician. Our apartment being still occupied, I decided on one of the smaller hotels, which abound on the cross streets between Twenty-fourth and Forty-fifth. Will's company was booked for a week in Cleveland following the Chicago engagement.

I received daily letters from Will telling me how lonely he was without Boy and me, and every other day he wired me some nice little greeting.

The operation was simple and, as Experience was permitted to bring Boy to visit me during given hours of the afternoon, the time pa.s.sed quickly.

By the end of the week I was able to leave the hospital and I had apprised Will of my intention. Consequently I was not surprised to find a telegram awaiting me at the hotel. Experience said it had probably been delivered while she was on the way to fetch me. I waited until I had made myself comfy in a big arm chair which Experience had ready for me, and while she made a cup of tea over our alcohol lamp I settled back to enjoy Will's message. It was a long one, I saw at a glance.

Experience turned enquiringly at my e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n. The telegram had been sent from Cincinnati, where Will was now playing, following Cleveland.

It read: ”Come at once if you are able to travel. Not ill, but need your presence. Have wired money to bank. Best train Big Four Limited leaving at six-thirty p.m. New York Central. Telegraph on departure. Love, Will.”