death-warrant. That may have something to do with it, but--but, damn
it!--I conquered that once. She promised ... was in my arms ... I'd won
her.... She loved me; there wasn't any make-believe about it. If there
were any foundation for that poppycock, I'd be a dead man now--instead
of a man damnably ill-used!... No: somebody has got hold of her, worked
on her sympathies, maligned me...."
"Do you object to telling me whom you have in mind?"
"The man you suspect as well as I--the one man to whom her allegiance
means everything: the man you named to me the night we met for the first
time, as the one who'd profit the most by keeping her from leaving the
stage!"
"Well, if it's Max, you'll know in time. It won't profit him to hide the
light of his star under a bushel; he can only make money by displaying
it."
"I'll know before long. As soon as he gets back in town--"
"So you've been after him?"
"Why not? But he's out on the Pacific coast; or so they tell me at the
theatre."
"And expected back--when?"
"Soon."
"Do you know when he left?"
"About the middle of July--they say in his office."
"Then that lets him out."
"But it's a lie."
"Well--?"
"I've just remembered: Max was at the Fiske place, urging her to return,
the night before you caught Drummond at the bungalow. I saw them,
walking up and down in front of the cottage, arguing earnestly: I could
tell by her bearing she was refusing whatever he proposed. But I didn't
know her then, and naturally I never connected Max with the fellow I
saw, disguised in a motoring coat and cap. Neither of 'em had any place
in my thoughts that night."
Ember uttered a thoughtful "Oh?" adding: "Did you find out at all
definitely when Max is expected back?"
"Two or three weeks now, they say. He's got his winter productions to
get under way. As a matter of fact, it looks to me as if he must be
neglecting 'em strangely; it's my impression that the late summer is a
producing manager's busiest time."
"Max runs himself by his own original code, I'm afraid. The chances are
he's trying to raise money out on the Coast. No money, no
productions--in other words."
"I shouldn't wonder."
"But there may be something in what you say--suspect, that is. If I
agree to keep an eye on him, will you promise to give me a free hand?"
"Meaning--?"
"Keep out of Max's way: don't risk a wrangle with him."
"Why the devil should I be afraid of Max?"
"I know of no reason--as yet. But I prefer to work unhampered by the
indiscretions of my principals."
"Oh--go ahead--to blazes--as far as you like."
"Thanks," Ember dryly wound up the conference; "but these passing
flirtations with your present-day temper leave me with no hankering for
greater warmth...."
Days ran stolidly on into weeks, and these into a month. Nothing
happened. Max did not return; the whispered rumour played wild-fire in
theatrical circles that the eccentric manager had encountered financial
difficulties insuperable. The billboards flanking the entrance to the
Theatre Max continued to display posters announcing the reopening early
in September with a musical comedy by Tynan Dodd; but the comedy was not
even in rehearsal by September fifteenth.
Ember went darkly about his various businesses, taciturn--even a trace
more than ever reserved in his communication with Whitaker--preoccupied,
but constant in his endeavour to enhearten the desponding husband. He
refused to hazard any surmises whatever until the return of Max or the
reappearance of Mary Whitaker.
She made no sign. Now and then Whitaker would lose patience and write to
her: desperate letters, fond and endearing, passionate and insistent,
wistful and pleading, strung upon a single theme. Despatched under the
address of her town house, they vanished from his ken as mysteriously
and completely as she herself had vanished. He received not a line of
acknowledgment.
Day by day he made up his mind finally and definitely to give it up, to
make an end of waiting, to accept the harsh cruelty of her treatment of
him as an absolute definition of her wishes--to sever his renewed life
in New York and return once and for all to the Antipodes. And day by day
he paltered, doubted, put off going to the steamship office to engage
passage. The memory of that last day on the lonely island would not
down. Surely she dared not deny the self she had then revealed to him!
Surely she must be desperately ill and unable to write, rather than
ignoring him so heartlessly and intentionally. Surely the morrow would
bring word of her!
Sometimes, fretted to a frenzy, he sought out Ember and made wild and
unreasonable demands upon him. These failing of any effect other than
the resigned retort, "I am a detective, not a miracle-monger," he would
fly into desperate, gnawing, black rages that made Ember fear for his
sanity and self-control and caused him to be haunted by that gentleman
for hours--once or twice for days--until he resumed his normal poise of
a sober and civilized man. He was, however, not often aware of this
sedulous espionage.
September waned and October dawned in grateful coolness: an exquisite
month of crisp nights and enlivening days, of mellowing sunlight and
early gloamings tenderly coloured. Country houses were closed and
theatres reopened. Fifth Avenue after four in the afternoon became
thronged with an ever thickening army--horse, foot and motor-car.
Several main-travelled thoroughfares were promptly torn to pieces and
set up on end by municipal authorities with a keen eye for the
discomfort of the public. A fresh electric sign blazed on Broadway every
evening, and from Thirty-fourth Street to Columbus Circle the first
nights crackled, detonated, sputtered and fizzled like a string of cheap
Chinese firecrackers. One after another the most exorbitant restaurants
advanced their prices and decreased their portions to the prompt and
extraordinary multiplication of their clientele: restaurant French for a
species of citizen whose birth-rate is said to be steadfast to the ratio
of sixty to the hour. Wall Street wailed loudly of its poverty and
hurled bitter anathemas at the President, the business interest of the
country continued to suffer excruciating agonies, and the proprietors of
leading hotels continued to add odd thousands of acres to their game
preserves.
Then suddenly the town blossomed overnight with huge eight-sheet posters
on every available hoarding, blazoning the news:
JULES MAX
begs to announce the return of
SARA LAW
in a new Comedy entitled FAITH
by JULES MAX
Theatre MAX--Friday October 15th
But Whitaker had the information before he saw the broad-sides in the
streets. The morning paper propped up on his breakfast table contained
the illuminating note under the caption, "News of Plays and Players":
"Jules Max has sprung another and perhaps his greatest surprise on
the theatre-going public of this city. In the face of the rumor
that he was in dire financial straits and would make no productions
whatever this year, the astute manager has been out of town for two
months secretly rehearsing the new comedy entitled 'Faith' of which
he is the author and in which Sara Law will return finally to the
stage.
"Additional interest attaches to this announcement in view of the
fact that Miss Law has authorized the publication of her intention
never again to retire from the stage. Miss Law is said to have
expressed herself as follows: 'It is my dearest wish to die in
harness. I have come to realize that a great artiste has no duty
greater than her duty to her art. I dedicate my life and artistry
to the American Public.'
"The opening performance of 'Faith' will take place at the Theatre
Max to-morrow evening, Friday, October 15. The sale of seats opens
at the box-office this morning. Despite the short notice, a bumper
house is confidently expected to welcome back this justly popular
and most charming American actress in the first play of which Mr.
Max has confessed being the author."
Whitaker glanced up incredulously at the date-line of the sheet. Short
notice, indeed: the date was Thursday, October fourteenth. Max had
planned his game and had played his cards cunningly, in withholding this
announcement until the last moment. So much was very clear to him whose
eyes had wit to read between those lines of trite press-agent
phraseology.
After a pause Whitaker rose and began to walk the length of the room,
hands in his pockets, head bowed in thought. He was telling himself that
he was not greatly surprised, after all; he was wondering at his
coolness; and he was conning over, with a grim, sardonic kink in his
twisted smile, the needless precautions taken by the dapper little
manager in his fear of Whitaker's righteous wrath. For Whitaker had no
intention of interfering in any way. He conceived it a possibility that
his conge might have been more kindly given him, but ... he had received
it, and he was not slow to recognize it as absolute and without appeal.
The thing was finished. The play was over, so far as concerned his part
therein. He had no doubt played it poorly; but at least his exit would
not lack a certain quality of dignity. Whitaker promised himself that.
He thought it really astonishing, his coolness. He analyzed his
psychological processes with a growing wonder and with as much, if less
definite, resentment. He would not have thought it credible of himself.
Search as he would, he could discover no rankling indignation, no
smouldering rage threatening to flame at the least breath of
provocation, not even what he might have most confidently looked forward
to--the sickening writhings of self-love mortally wounded and impotent
to avenge itself: nothing but some self-contempt, that he had allowed
himself to be so carried away by infatuation for an ignoble woman, and a
cynic humour that made it possible for him to derive a certain
satisfaction from contemplating the completeness of this final
revelation of herself.
However, he had more important things to claim his attention than the
spectacle of a degraded soul making public show of its dishonour.
He halted by the window to look out. Over the withered tree-tops of
Bryant Square, set against the rich turquoise of that late autumnal sky,
a gigantic sign-board heralded the news of perfidy to an unperceptive
world that bustled on, heedless of Jules Max, ignorant (largely) of the
existence of Hugh Whitaker, unconcerned with Sara Law save as she
employed herself for its amusement.
After all, the truth was secret and like to stay so, jealously husbanded
in four bosoms at most. Max would guard it as he would a system for
winning at roulette; Mary Whitaker might well be trusted never to
declare herself; Ember was as secret as the grave....
Returning to the breakfast table, he took up the paper, turned to the
shipping news and ran his eye down the list of scheduled sailings:
nothing for Friday; his pick of half a dozen boats listed to sail
Saturday.
The telephone enabled him to make a hasty reservation on the biggest and
fastest of them all.
He had just concluded that business and was waiting with his hand on the
receiver to call up Ember and announce his departure, when the door-bell
interrupted. Expecting the waiter to remove the breakfast things, he
went to the door, threw it open, and turned back instantly to the
telephone. As his fingers closed round the receiver a second time, he
looked round and saw his wife....
His hand fell to his side. Otherwise he did not move. But his glance was
that of one incuriously comprehending the existence of a stranger.
The woman met it fairly and fearlessly, with her head high and her lips
touched with a trace of her shadowy, illegible smile. She was dressed
for walking, very prettily and perfectly. There were roses in her
cheeks: a healthful glow distinguishable even in the tempered light of
the hallway. Her self-possession was faultless.
After a moment she inclined her head slightly. "The hall-boys said you
were busy on the telephone. I insisted on coming directly up. I wish
very much to see you for a few moments. Do you mind?"
"By no means," he said, a little stiffly but quite calmly. "If you will
be good enough to come in--"
He stood against the wall to let her pass. For a breath she was too
close to him: he felt his pulses quicken faintly to the delicate and
indefinite perfume of her person. But it was over in an instant: she had
passed into the living-room. He followed, grave, collected, aloof.
"I had to come this morning," she explained, turning. "This afternoon we
have a rehearsal...."
He bowed an acknowledgment. "Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you." Seated, she subjected him to a quick, open appraisal,
disarming in its naive honesty.
"Hugh ... aren't you a bit thinner?"
"I believe so." He had a match for that impertinence: "But you, I see,
have come off without a blemish."
"I am very well," she admitted, unperturbed. Her glance embraced the
room. "You're very comfortable here."
"I have been."
"I hope that doesn't mean I'm in the way."
"To the contrary; but I sail day after to-morrow for Australia."
"Oh? That's very sudden, isn't it? You don't seem to have done any
packing. Or perhaps you mean to come back before a great while?"
"I shan't come back, ever."
"Must I believe you made up your mind this morning?"
"I have only just read the announcement of your opening to-morrow
night."
"Then ... I am driving you out of the country?"
Her look was impersonal and curious. He prided himself that he was
managing his temper admirably--at least until he discovered that he had,
inexplicably, no temper to speak of; that he, in fact, suffered mostly
from what seemed to be nothing more than annoyance at being hindered in
making the necessary arrangements against his departure.
His shoulders moved negligently. "Not to rant about it," he replied: "I
find I am not needed here."
"Oh, dear!" Her lips formed a fugitive, petulant moue: "And it's my
fault?"
"There's no use mincing matters, is there? I am not heartbroken, and if
I am bitterly disappointed I don't care to--in fact, I lack the
ability--to dramatize it."
"You are taking it well, Hugh," said she, critical.
Expressionless, he waited an instant before inquiring pointedly:
"Well...?"
Deliberately laying aside her light muff, her scarf and hand-bag, she
rose: equality of poise was impossible if he would persist in standing.
She moved a little nearer, examining his face closely, shook her head,
smiled almost diffidently, and gave a helpless gesture.
"Hugh," she said in a voice of sincerity, "I'm awfully sorry--truly I
am!"
He made no reply; waited.
"Perhaps I'm wrong," she went on, "but I think most women would have
spared themselves this meeting--"
"Themselves and the man," he interjected dryly.
"Don't be cross, Hugh.... I had to come. I had to explain myself. I
wanted you to understand. Hugh, I--" She was twisting her hands together
with a manner denoting great mental strain. Of a sudden she checked and
dropped them, limp and open by her sides. "You see," she said with the
apologetic smile, "I'm _trying_ not to act."
"Oh," he said in a tone of dawning comprehension--"so that's it!"
"I'm afraid so, Hugh.... I'm dreadfully sorry for you--poor boy!--but
I'm afraid that's the trouble with me, and it can never be helped.
I was born with a talent for acting; life has made me an actress.
Hugh ... I've found out something." Her eyes appealed wistfully. "I'm
not genuine."
He nodded interestedly.
"I'm just an actress, an instrument for the music of emotions. I've been
trained to respond, until now I respond without knowing it, when there's
no true response here." She touched the bosom of her frock.
He said nothing.
With a half sigh she moved away to the window, and before she spoke
again posed herself very effectively there, looking out over the park
while she cleared her mind.
"Of course, you despise me. I despise myself--I mean, the self that was
me before I turned from a woman into an actress. But it's the truth: I
have no longer any real capacity for emotion, merely an infinite
capacity for appreciation of the artistic delineation of emotion, true
or feigned. That ... that is why, when you showed me you had grown to
love me so, I responded so quickly. You _were_ in love--more honestly
than I had ever seen love revealed. It touched me. I was proud to have
inspired such a love. I wanted, for the time being, to have you with me
always, that I might always study the wonderful, the beautiful
manifestations of your love. Why, Hugh, you even managed to make me
believe I was worth it--that my response was sufficient repayment for
your adoration...."
He said nothing. She glanced furtively at him and continued:
"I meant to be sweet and faithful when I left that note for you on the
yacht, Hugh; I was grateful, and I meant to be generous.... But when I
went to the Waldorf, the first person I met was Max. Of course I had to
tell him what had happened. And then he threw himself upon my
compassion. It seems that losing me had put him in the most terrible
trouble about money. He was short, and he couldn't get the backing he
needed without me, his call upon my services, by way of assurance to his
backers. And I began to think. I knew I didn't love you honestly, Hugh,
and that life with you would be a living lie. What right had I to
deceive you that way, just to gratify my love of being loved? And
especially if by doing that I ruined Max, the man to whom, next to you,
I owed everything? I couldn't do it. But I took time to think it
over--truly I did. I really did go to a sanatorium, and rested there
while I turned the whole matter over carefully in my mind, and at length
reached my decision to stick by Max and let you go, free to win the
heart of a woman worthy of you."
She paused again, but still he was mute and immobile.
"So now you know me--what I am. No other man has ever known or ever
will. But I had to tell you the truth. It seems that the only thing my
career had left uncalloused was my fundamental sense of honesty. So I
had to come and tell you."
And still he held silence, attentive, but with a set face that betrayed
nothing of the tenor of his thoughts.
Almost timidly, with nervously fumbling fingers, she extracted from her
pocket-book a small ticket envelope.
"Max was afraid you might upset the performance again, as you did on my
last appearance, Hugh," she said; "but I assured him it was just the
shock of recognizing you that bowled me over. So I've bought you a box
for to-morrow night. I want you to use it--you and Mr. Ember."
He broke in with a curt monosyllable: "Why?"
"Why--why because--because I want you--I suppose it's simply my
vanity--to see me act. Perhaps you'll feel a little less hardly toward
me if you see that I am really a great actress, that I give you up for
something bigger than just love--"
"What rot!" he said with an odd, short laugh. "Besides, I harbour no
resentment."
She stared, losing a little colour, eyes darkening with apprehension.
"I did hope you'd come," she murmured.
"Oh, I'll come," he said with spirit. "Wild horses couldn't keep me
away."
"Really, Hugh? And you don't mind? Oh, I'm _glad_!"
"I really don't mind," he assured her with a strange smile.
"But ... would you mind excusing me one moment? I've forgotten
something very important."
"Why, certainly...."
He was already at the telephone in the hallway, just beyond the
living-room door. It was impossible to escape overhearing his words. The
woman listened perforce with, in the beginning, a little visible wonder,
then with astonishment, ultimately with a consternation that shook her
with violent tremblings.
"Hello," said Whitaker; "get me Rector two-two-hundred....
"Hello? Rector two-two-hundred? North German Lloyd?... This is Mr. H. M.
Whitaker. I telephoned you fifteen minutes ago about a reservation on
the _George Washington_, sailing Saturday ... Yes.... Yes.... Yes, I
promised to call for the ticket before noon, but I now find I shan't be
able to go. Will you be kind enough to cancel it, if you please....
Thank you.... Good-by."
But when he turned back into the living-room he found awaiting him a
quiet and collected woman, perhaps a thought more pale than when she had
entered and with eyes that seemed a trifle darker; but on the whole
positively the mistress of herself.
"Why did you do that?" she asked evenly.
"Because," said Whitaker, "I've had my eyes opened. I've been watching
the finest living actress play a carefully rehearsed role, one that she
had given long study and all her heart to--but her interpretation didn't
ring true. Mary, I admit, at first you got me: I believed you meant what
you said. But only my mind believed it; my heart knew better, just as it
has always known better, all through this wretched time of doubt and
misery and separation you've subjected us both to. And that was why I
couldn't trust myself to answer you; for if I had, I should have laughed
for joy. O Mary, Mary!" he cried, his voice softening, "my dear, dear
woman, you can't lie to love! You betray yourself in every dear word
that would be heartless, in every adorable gesture that would seem
final! And love knows better always.... Of course I shall be in that box
to-morrow night; of course I shall be there to witness your triumph! And
after you've won it, dear, I shall carry you off with me...."
He opened his arms wide, but with a smothered cry she backed away,
placing the table between them.
"No!" she protested; and the words were almost sobs--"No!"
"Yes!" he exclaimed exultantly. "Yes! A thousand times yes! It must be
so!"
With a swift movement she seized her muff and scarf from the chair and
fled to the door. There pausing, she turned, her face white and blazing.
"It is not true!" she cried. "You are mistaken. Do you hear me? You are
utterly mistaken. I do not love you. You are mad to think it. I have
just told you I don't love you. I am afraid of you; I daren't stay with
you for fear of you. I--I despise you!"
[Illustration: "I do not love you. You are mad to think it"]
"I don't believe it!" he cried, advancing.
But she was gone. The hall door slammed before he could reach it.
He halted, turned back, his whole long body shaking, his face wrung with
fear and uncertainty.
"Good God!" he cried--"which of us is right--she or I?"
XXI
BLACK OUT
Toward eight in the evening, after a day-long search through all his
accustomed haunts, Ember ran Whitaker to earth in the dining-room of the
Primordial. The young man, alone at table, was in the act of topping off
an excellent dinner with a still more excellent cordial and a
super-excellent cigar. His person seemed to diffuse a generous
atmosphere of contentment and satisfaction, no less mental than physical
and singularly at variance with his appearance, which, moreover, was
singularly out of keeping not only with his surroundings but also with
his normal aspect.
He wore rough tweeds, and they were damp and baggy; his boots were
muddy; his hair was a trifle disorderly. The ensemble made a figure
wildly incongruous to the soberly splendid and stately dining-hall of
the Primordial Club, with its sparse patronage of members in
evening-dress.
Ember, himself as severely beautiful in black and white as the
ceremonious livery of to-day permits a man to be, was wonder-struck at
sight of Whitaker in such unconventional guise, at such a time, in such
a place. With neither invitation nor salutation, he slipped into a chair
on the other side of the table, and stared.
Whitaker smiled benignantly upon him, and called a waiter.
Ember, always abstemious, lifted his hand and smiled a negative smile.
Whitaker dismissed the waiter.
"Well...?" he inquired cheerfully.
"What right have you got to look like that?" Ember demanded.
"The right of every free-born American citizen to make an ass of himself
according to the dictates of his conscience. I've been exploring the
dark backwards and abysm of the Bronx--afoot. Got caught in the rain on
the way home. Was late getting back, and dropped in here to celebrate."
"I've been looking for you everywhere, since morning."
"I suspected you would be. That's why I went walking--to be lonesome and
thoughtful for once in a way."
Ember stroked his chin with thoughtful fingers.
"You've heard the news, then?"
"In three ways," Whitaker returned, with calm.
"How's that--three ways?"