Part 18 (1/2)
”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 circ.u.mstances 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 pa.s.sion he once had aroused--a pa.s.sion, 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 negligee--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 roues, 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....”