I
So much depended upon every one's utter lack of nervousness and
embarrassment that Shaw, the stage manager, decided that my presence at
the final rehearsal would only add to the tension, and was therefore
unnecessary. The "star" complained that her efforts to interpret my
lines to my satisfaction were wearing her thin, while the "leading man"
declared that he could not enter naturally into the spirit of the comedy
so long as he knew I was watching from across the front.
To tell the truth, I was not unagreeable. There were many things I
wanted to change, and I knew that if I once got headway I should have to
write the play all over; and that was not in the contract. My room was
better than my company. So Shaw gave me a card to The Players and left
me there in the care of a distinguished fellow dramatist.
We had a capital dinner, and our exchange of experiences would have made
a book equal in length to _Revelation_. What a time a fellow has to get
a manager to listen to a better play than he has yet produced! I'm
afraid that we said many uncomplimentary things about actors in general
and managers in particular. The actor always has his own idea, the
manager has his, and between them the man who wrote the play is pretty
well knocked about. But when the play is produced every one's idea
proves of some use, so I find.
In spite of the good dinner and the interesting conversation, I found
myself glancing constantly at my watch or at the clock, thinking that at
such and such a time to-morrow night my puppets would be uttering such
and such a line, perhaps as I wanted them to utter it, perhaps as they
wanted to utter it. It did not matter that I had written two successful
novels and a popular comedy; I was still subject to spells of diffidence
and greenness. Much depended upon this second effort; it was, or it was
not, to establish me in New York as a playwright of the first order.
I played a game of billiards indifferently well, peered into Booth's
room and evoked his kindly spirit to watch over my future, smoked
incessantly, and waited impatiently for Shaw's promised telephone call.
The call came at ten-thirty, and Shaw said that three acts had gone off
superbly and that everything pointed to a big success. My spirits rose
wonderfully. I had as yet never experienced the thrill of a curtain
call, my first play having been produced while I was abroad. If they
called me before the curtain my cup was full; there was nothing left in
the world but to make money, all other thrills having come and departed.
All at once I determined to run up town to the theater and steal in to
see the last act. So I called for my hat and coat, apologized to my
friend, and went forth into the night--and romance!
Gramercy Park is always still at night, quiet even in the very heart of
turmoil. Only an indefinable murmur drifted over from the crowded life
of Broadway. I was conning over some lines I thought fine, epigrams and
fragmentary philosophy.
"Hurry! We have only half an hour!"
The voice, soft and musical, broke the silence ere my foot had left the
last step. Amazed, I looked in the direction whence came this symphony
of vocal allurement. A handsome coupé, with groom and footman, stood at
the curb. A woman in evening gown leaned out. I stopped and stared. The
footman at the door touched his hat. I gazed over my shoulder to see if
any one had come out of the club at the same time as myself. I was
alone.
"Hurry! I have waited at least half an hour. We haven't a moment to
waste."
Some one in the upper rooms of the club lifted a shade to open a window,
and the light illuminated her features. She was young and very handsome.
A French wit once said that the whisper of a beautiful woman can be
heard farther than the loudest call of duty. Now, I honestly confess
that if she had been homely, or even moderately good-looking, I should
have politely explained to her that she had made a peculiar mistake. I
was somebody else. As it was, with scarce any hesitation I stepped into
the carriage, and the footman closed the door. To this day I can not
analyze the impulse that led me into that carriage: Fate in the guise of
mischief, Destiny in the motley and out for a lark, I know not which,
nor care.
"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," said I.
"I thought you would never come."
Thought I would never come? The coupé started off at a rate likely to
bring us under the vigilant eyes of the police. We pared the corner
neatly and swung into Broadway, going up town. The theaters were
emptying, and here and there the way was choked with struggling cabs;
but our driver knew his business, and we were never delayed more than a
moment. Not another word was spoken till we reached Thirty-fourth
Street. I was silent because I had nothing to say.
"One after another they came out. I thought you would never, never come.
I had all I could do to keep from going into the club after you!" She
tore off her long, white gloves and flung them (savagely, I thought)
into her lap.
Going into the club after me? Heavens! What a scandal I had escaped!
What the deuce was it all about, anyway? Who was I? What was expected of
me? My nerve lost a particle of its strength, but I could not back out
now. It was too late. I was in for some sort of excitement. I had always
been skeptical about mistaken identity. This was to be my conversion.
"You will never forgive me, I know, for waiting outside a club for you."
She snuggled over to her side of the carriage.
"Yes, I will!" I replied with alacrity. Who wouldn't forgive her? I
moved closer.
The blue light of the arc-lamps flashed into the window at frequent
intervals. Each time I noted her face as best I could. It was as
beautifully cut as a Cellini cameo, and as pale as ivory under friction.
You will laugh. "They are always beautiful," you will say. Well, who
ever heard of a homely woman going a-venturing? Besides, as I remarked,
it wouldn't have been an adventure if she had been homely, for I
shouldn't have entered the carriage. To be sure, I was proving myself a
cad for not enlightening her as to her error in the matter of
identification; but I was human and young, and rather fond of my
Stevenson, and this had all the charm and quality of the New Arabian
Nights.
"It is all so terrible!" Her voice was tense; there was a note of agony
in it that was real. She was balling her handkerchief, and I could see
that her fingers were long and white and without jewels, though I caught
the intermittent glimmer of a fine necklace circling an adorable throat.
What a fine chance for a rascal!
I wondered if she would have me arrested when she found out? Was I
married, single, a brother, a near friend? What the deuce was her
trouble? Ought I to kiss her? My double was a fortunate duffer. How I
envied him!
"Women are so silly sometimes. I do not know why I was dragged into
this," she said.
Dragged into what? Had a crime been committed, or had some one run away
with another man's wife? Heavens! we might be eloping and I not know
anything about it! I shivered, not with fear, but with a strange
elation.
"How could I have done it? How could I? Terrible!"
"It must be," I admitted readily. No, a woman does not elope in her
ball-gown. Perhaps we were going after the trunks.
"To think that he would force me into a thing like this!"--vehemently.
"I see that there is nothing left for me to do but to punch his head." I
thought I was getting on famously.
She gave me a swift, curious glance.
"Oh, I am brave enough," said I. I wondered if she had noticed that I
was a passably good-looking man, as men go.
"What is done is done,"--wearily. "Retrospection will do us no good."
"What do you wish me to do?" I asked presently.
It was like writing a composite novel, no one knowing what the other
chapters were about. I had already forgotten that I had written a play
which was to be produced the following night; I forgot everything but
the potent charm of the mystery which sat beside me and which I was
determined to unravel, as they say in detective stories.
"What do you wish me to do?" I repeated.
"I will tell you when the time comes. For your own sake, be advised by
me and do nothing rash. You are so impulsive."
For my own sake do nothing rash: I was so impulsive! My hand wandered
toward the door-latch, and fell. No! I would stick it out, whatever
happened.
"You are not afraid, are you?" she asked.
"Afraid of what?"--adroitly.
"I was right in waiting for you,"--simply.
Maybe; that remained to be seen.
We crossed under the Sixth Avenue "L," and the roar of a passing train
silenced us for a time. Who was I, anyway? Where were we going? Why
didn't she call me by some first name? So far she hadn't given me a clue
to anything. An idea came to me.
"Are you wise in taking me there to-night?" I asked. This was very
cunning of me.
She coughed slightly and peered from the window. "Ten blocks more! Oh,
if only we dared go faster, faster, and have it all over with!"
"A policeman would delay us no inconsiderable time," I cautioned. "And
think of its being reported in the papers! That wouldn't help matters.
They are bad enough as they are." Doubtless they were!
She said nothing.
"Courage, courage!" I said; "all will end well." At least I sincerely
hoped it would end well. I reached over and touched her hand. She
withdrew that member of an exquisite anatomy as suddenly as if my touch
had stung her. Once more I found myself in a maze. Evidently, whoever I
was, I did not stand on such terms with her as to be allowed the
happiness of holding her hand. And I had almost kissed her!
Then a horrible thought scorched me. I had more than a thousand dollars
in my wallet. I snuggled over to my side of the carriage. The newspapers
were teeming with stories of new bunko-games, and this might be one of
the classics of getting-rich-quick on other people's money. I slyly
buttoned up my coat. Anyhow, it was chilly.
On, on we rolled; light after light flashed into the window, gloom
followed gloom.
More than a thousand dollars was a large sum for an author to be
carrying about; and if the exploit turned out to be a police affair I
might be seriously questioned as to how an author came by so large a
sum. Yet, as I thought of her necklace, I felt my cheeks grow red with
shame. It's so hard to doubt a beautiful young woman! Still, the jewels
might not be real. There were many false gems in New York, animate and
inanimate. If her jewels were genuine, two years' royalties would not
have purchased the pear-shaped pearl pendant that gleamed at her throat.
If she was really an adventuress she was of a new type, and worth
studying from the dramatist's point of view. Had she really mistaken me?
Quite accidentally I touched her cloak. It was of Persian lamb. Hang it,
adventuresses don't go around in Persian lamb: not in New York. Ha! I
had it. I would find out what she was.
I leaned over quickly and kissed her cheek. There was not a sound, only
I felt her shudder. She wiped with her handkerchief the spot my lips had
touched. I was a cad and a wretch. When she did speak her tones were
even and low.
"I did not quite believe that of you."
"I could not help it!" I declared, ready to confess that I was an
impostor; and as I look back I know that I told the truth when I said I
could not help it. I didn't care where the carriage went, nor what the
end would be.
"And I trusted you!" The reproach was genuine.
I had nothing to say. My edifice of suspicions had suddenly tumbled
about my ears.
"I am sorry; I have acted like a cad. I am one," I said finally.
"I was helpless. One after another the men we trust fail us."
"Madam, I am a wretch. I am not the gentleman you have taken me for. I
have had the misfortune to resemble another gentleman."
"I never saw you before in all my life, nor any person that resembles
you."
I gasped. This was what the old dramatists called a thunderbolt from
heaven. I felt for my wallet; it was still in my pocket. Inconsistently,
I grew angry.
"Then, what the devil--!"
"Do not add profanity to ill-manners," she interposed. "Perhaps I have
no right to complain. There is the door, sir; you have but to press the
button, stop the driver, and get out. I am in a terribly embarrassing
position to-night, one which my own folly has brought me to. It was
absolutely necessary that a gentleman should accompany me in this
carriage to my destination. When you came forth from your club--the only
club the exact location of which I am familiar with--you appeared to be
a gentleman, one I could trust to accompany me. To attract your
attention, and at the same time arouse your curiosity, I had to resort
to equivocal methods. It is an adventure, sir. Will you see it to the
end, or shall I press the button?"
"Permit me to ask a question or two!" I was mightily confused at the
turn of things.
"Perfect confidence in me, or I shall open the door."
"In any other city but New York--"
"Yes or no!"--imperiously.
"Hang it, madam!"
Her hand went toward the electric button.
"To the end of the world, and no questions asked."
Her hand dropped. "Thank you,"--gently.
"Curiosity is something we can't help; otherwise I should not be here,
ass that I am! Chivalry isn't all dead. If you are in trouble depend
upon me; only I must be back in New York by to-morrow night."
"You will not leave the city. You have no fear?"
"I should not be here else."
"Oh, but you must be imagining all sorts of terrible things."
"I am doing some thinking, I'll admit. How easily a woman can make a
fool of a man!"
"Sometimes."
"I am a shining example. How you must have laughed at me! A pretty woman
has more power over a man's destiny than all the signs of the Zodiac put
together. And it's natural that he should want to kiss her. Isn't it?"
"I am not a man."
"A saint would have tripped. Put yourself in my place--"
"Thank you; I am perfectly satisfied."
"A beautiful woman asks me to enter her carriage--"
"And, thinking that I had mistaken you for some one I knew, you kissed
me!"--derisively.
"I wished to learn where I stood in your affections."
"A very interesting method of procedure!"
"And when I touched your hand you acted as if mine had stung you."
"It did."
"There's no getting around that,"--resignedly. "Shall I tell you frankly
what I at one time took you to be?"
"If it will relieve your mind."
"Well, I believed you to be some classic adventuress."
"And you are sure I am not?"
"Positive now. You see, I have considerable money on my person."
"Wouldn't it be wise for you to hand it over to some policeman to keep
for you till to-morrow? Do not take any unnecessary risks. You do not
dream into what I am leading you."
The carriage suddenly stopped.
"The journey is at an end," she said.
"So soon?"
A moment later the door opened, and I stepped out to assist her to
alight. She waved me aside. We stood in front of some millionaire's
palace. It was golden with illumination. Was it a wedding and was I to
be a witness? Or was some one making his will? Perhaps it was only a
ball or a reception. I stopped my cogitations. What was the use asking
myself questions? I should soon know all.
"Follow me," she said, as she lightly mounted the steps.
I followed.... Here, in New York, the most unromantic city in all the
wide world! I was suddenly seized with nervousness and a partial failure
of the cardiac organs to perform their usual functions.