IX

Of a sudden Miss Daley missed her mentor's voice, his counsel and

encouragement, and in the middle of a sob ceased to cry precisely as she

might have shut off a tap.

In a moment of uncertainty, still confronting the clicking camera, still

bathed in that withering blaze, she cast about blankly for her runagate

director. Then discovering that he had, just like a man! deserted her in

her time of trouble to follow a band, outraged womanhood asserted

itself, in a twinkling she cast her passion like a worn-out garment and

became no more the broken plaything of man's fickle fancy but once again

the spoiled sweetheart of the screen.

As Lucinda saw it, there was something almost uncanny in the swiftness

and the radical thoroughness of that transfiguration, the fiery creature

who sprang to her feet with flashing eyes and scornful mouth was hardly

to be identified with the wretched little thing whom she had seen, only

a few seconds since, grovelling and weeping on the floor.

The cameraman stopped cranking and, resting an elbow on his camera,

turned with a satiric grin to observe developments. And following a

sharp, brief stir of apprehension in the ranks of the professional

element, there fell a dead pause of dismay, a complete suspension of all

activities other than those of the musicians and their volunteer leader,

and of the calloused carpenters, who, as became good union laborers,

continued to go noisily to and fro upon their lawful occasions, scornful

of the impending storm.

As one who finds the resources of her mother tongue inadequate, Miss

Daley in silence fixed with a portentous stare the back of King

Laughlin, who, all ignorant of the doom hovering over his devoted head,

kept on swaying airily to and fro, smiling his ecstatic smile and

measuring the music with fluent hands.

One of the Daley feet began to tap out the devil's tattoo, she set her

arms akimbo, her eyes were quick with baleful lightnings, her pretty

lips an ominous line; an ensemble that only too clearly foretold: _At

any minute, now!_

With a smothered grunt Mr. Culp heaved out of his chair and lumbered

over to his wife, interposing his not negligible bulk between her and

the unconscious object of her indignation--and in the very nick of time,

or Lucinda was mistaken.

What he said couldn't be heard at that distance, the sour whining of the

violin, the lamentations of the 'cello, and the tinkle-tinkle of the

tinny piano conspired to preserve inviolate those communications between

man and wife which the law holds to be privileged. But Lucinda noticed a

backward jerk of the Culp head toward the group of which she made one,

and caught a glance askance of the Daley eyes, oddly intent and cool in

contrast with the guise of unbridled fury which her features wore. And

whatever it was that Mr. Culp found to say, indisputably it proved

effectual; for nothing worse came of Miss Daley's wrath, at least

publicly, than a shrewish retort inaudible to bystanders, a toss of her

head, and a sudden, stormy flight from the scene.

Mr. Culp followed with thoughtful gaze her retreat toward her

dressing-room, then looked a question to the cameraman.

"'Sallright," said that one, imperturbable. "Got enough of it."

Mr. Culp nodded in relief, and signed to the electricians. As he made

his way back to Lucinda's side the lights sputtered out. And as soon as

this happened Mr. King Laughlin, cruelly wrenched out of his dream-land

of melody, came down to an earth dangerous with the harsh dissonances of

reality.

"What the--where the--what--!" he stammered, looking in vain for the

little woman whom he had so heartlessly abandoned in her woe on the

living-room set. Then, catching sight of her half-way across the studio,

he bleated "_Alma!_" once in remonstrance, and again in consternation,

and set out in panic pursuit.

Before he could overtake her, Miss Daley disappeared round one side of

the Palm Room, at which point, beating the air with suppliant hands, Mr.

Laughlin disappeared in turn.

"That's the sort of thing you're up against all a time in the fillum

business, d'y'see," sighed Mr. Culp with a rueful grin. "A lot of kids,

that's what we got to make pitchers with. And audiences all a time

kickin' because we don't make 'em better.... A lot of kids!"

He did not, however, appear greatly disheartened, but recounted his

tribulations rather as a matter of course, appealing informally to the

sympathies of his guests.

"King Laughlin all over, nice a little feller's anybody'd want to work

with, but temp'amental, d'y'see, got to show off like a kid every time

he gets a chance. And what's the answer? Mrs. Culp gets sore, says she

won't do another stroke of work s'long's King's directin'. And here we

was tryin' to finish shootin' today, behind on our release date and all,

and thirty extra people, d'y'see, gettin' five and seven and maybe ten

dollars, been waitin' all day to work on the big set and got to be paid

whether they work or not...."

Mr. Culp broke off suddenly, singled out from the attendant cloud of

retainers a young man wearing an eyeshade and a badgered expression, and

instructed him to send the extra people packing, but to tell them to

report for work at eight o'clock the next day.

"'Sno use keepin' 'em any longer, 'safternoon," he explained

confidentially. "When that little woman says a thing she means it,

d'y'see, so chances are it'll be mornin' before she changes her mind.

And if you ladies'll excuse me, I guess I ought to be sittin' in with

her and King now. The only things they think I'm any good for, in this

studio, is pay salaries and referee battles."

He was affably disposed to waive ceremony under the circumstances, but

gave in with good grace when Lontaine insisted on formally presenting

him to each of his guests; and thus reminded of the first purpose of

their visit, which he seemed to have forgotten altogether, Mr. Culp

delayed long enough to recall the worried young man with the eyeshade,

whom he made known as Mr. Willing, the assistant director, and charged

with supervision of the proposed tests.

And Mr. Willing was to understand that these were to be regular tests

and no monkey business; he was to see that someone with plenty of

know-how helped the ladies make up; after which he was to shoot the

party as a whole in some little scene or other, in addition to making

individual close-ups.

If Mr. Willing accepted this commission with more resignation than

enthusiasm, he proved to be a modest person with pleasing manners and no

perceptible symptoms of temperament. And he was as good as his name. It

was his suggestion that a corner of the Palm Room be utilized, as most

suitable for the group scene. And while the cameraman was amiably

setting up his instrument to command this new location and

superintending the moving of the lights, it was Mr. Willing who

conducted Lucinda, Nelly, Jean and Fanny to a barn-like dressing-room

and hunted up a matronly actress, a recruit from the legitimate theatre,

to advise and assist them with their respective make-ups.

Lucinda killed time while waiting for her turn by trying her own hand

with grease-paint, powder, and mascaro, with the upshot that, when she

presented her face for inspection and revision, the actress refused to

change the effect by the addition or subtraction of a single touch, and

laughingly declined to believe it had been achieved without experience.

"It's no use, Mrs. Druce, don't tell me you haven't been in the

business!"

"On the stage, you mean? But only in the most amateurish way, schoolgirl

theatricals."

"No," the woman insisted--"they don't make up like that for a test

unless they're camera-wise."

To this she stuck stubbornly; and Lucinda found herself curiously

pleased, though she had done no more to deserve commendation than

supplement native good taste and an eye for colour with close

observation of the Daley make-up and how it had fared under the lights.

Another compliment signalized their return to the studio; nothing less

than the presence of Miss Daley--"in person"--composed, agreeable,

hospitable, showing every anxiety to make their tests successful and

never a sign of the storm that had presumably broken behind the scenes.

But Lucinda reckoned it significant that Mr. King Laughlin was nowhere

visible.

"I thought it would be nice if we could all have tea in my

dressing-room," Miss Daley explained; "and then Daddy suggested we could

have it served here, on the set--make a regular little scene of it, you

know, for the camera."

"I'm sure that would be delightful," replied Lucinda, suspended judgment

melting into liking even in those first few minutes.

"Oh, Daddy thinks of all the nice things!"

"And I'll see each you ladies gets a print," Culp volunteered benignly,

"so's you can get it run through a projectin' machine any time you want,

d'y'see, and show your friends how you once acted with Alma Daley."

"Daddy! don't be ridiculous."

Vivacious, by no means unintelligent, and either an excellent actress in

private life or else an unpretending body, happy in her success and

unashamed of humble beginnings, Miss Daley was tactful enough to make

her guests forget themselves and the trial to come, as they took their

places--with no prearrangement but much as if they were actually meeting

at the Ritz--and were served with tea by actor-waiters in correct

livery. All the same, Lucinda noticed that their hostess ingeniously

maneuvered to a central position in the foreground, where she sat

full-face to the camera; this being by far her best phase. And just

before the lights blazed up, the girl launched into a spirited account

of her passage-at-arms with King Laughlin, which, recited without malice

but with keen flair for the incongruous, carried the amateur players

easily over the first minutes, in which otherwise constraint must

inevitably have attended camera-consciousness.

"I was so fussed," she concluded, "I swore I'd never act another scene

for him. But when I remembered how foolish he looked, posing in front of

that awful orchestra like a hypnotized rabbit, I just had to laugh; and

I couldn't laugh and be mad at the same time, of course. And then I had

to tell King what I was laughing at, and that made him so ashamed he's

sulking in his office now and won't come out while any of you are here."

"Then all's serene-o once more, Miss Daley?"

"Oh, sure. You see, Mr. Lontaine, we've simply got to finish this

picture tonight, somehow, even if we have to work on till morning; so I

accepted his apology and made it up."

"But those extra people Mr. Culp let go----?"

"That's all right," Culp responded from his place beside the camera.

"When I see how things was goin', I sent down to the cashier and told

him not to pay 'em off, so they didn't any of 'em get away."

At this point, clever actress that she was, Miss Daley extemporized a

star part for herself by rising without warning and announcing that she

would have to run and change for the scenes to be photographed as soon

as the tests had been made.

"I'll hurry and try to get ready before you go," she said, shaking hands

all round with charming grace; "but if I don't see you again, it's been

just wonderful to meet you all, and I do hope this isn't good-bye

forever!"

The general flutter in acknowledgment of her farewells had barely

subsided when the bank lights hissed out and the camera stilled its

stuttering.

"Nice little scene," Mr. Culp applauded generously, intercepting Lucinda

as, with the others, she left the set, clearing it for the individual

tests. "Goin' to screen pretty. You'll be surprised."

"Can you really tell, Mr. Culp?"

"How it's goin' to look in the projectin'-room, y'mean? Sure. Not that

I'd gamble on my own judgment, I don't pretend to know how to make

pitchers; all I know's how to make money makin' 'em, d'y'see. When I say

that little scene's goin' to go great on the screen, I'm bankin' on Jack

here."

He dropped an affectionate, fat hand on the shoulder of the cameraman.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Druce, want to introduce you to Mr. Jack Timilty, best

little cameraman ever turned a crank." The cameraman grinned sheepishly

and preferred a diffident hand. "No temp'ament, no funny business about

Jack, Mrs. Druce, always on the job and deliverin' the goods. And

sticks, d'y'see. Take it the way it is nowadays, you don't hardly get

time to get to know a director before he stings somebody else for a

coupla hundred dollars more'n you're paying him, d'y'see, and quits you

cold as soon's he finishes his pitcher. But Jack sticks. That's why

y'always can count on good photography and lightin' effects in an Alma

Daley production. And when Jack says that little scene took pretty, I

_know_ it did."

"'Sright, Mrs. Druce," Mr. Timilty averred. "I wouldn't like to say

about the others, but you and that other little blonde lady----"

"Mrs. Lontaine."

"Guess so, ma'm, didn't catch her name. Her and you registered like a

million dollars."

"It's awfully nice of you to tell me so, Mr. Timilty----"

"Jack wouldn't pass you a compliment unless he meant it, Mrs. Druce.

He's no kidder."

"Anyway I guess it ain't the first time anybody's told you that, ma'm.

It's easy to see you've been camera-broke."

"But I haven't," Lucinda protested, laughing. "Really, I assure you----"

At this juncture Mr. Willing called for Mr. Timilty's co-operation in

taking the test of Jean Sedley. So Lucinda stood aside and watched and

wondered if it were really true that she had shown any evidences of

ability out of the ordinary.

Not that it mattered.

Nevertheless the little fillip administered to her self-esteem made her

feel more contented; into the bargain, it deepened her interest in the

business in hand.

Mr. Willing seemed to be taking a deal of pains to make fair and

thorough tests. For each of the four women he improvised brief but

effective solo scenes to bring out their best points, if nothing that

made severe demands upon the ability of the subject or the invention of

the director.

Lucinda, for example, was discovered to the camera arranging flowers in

a vase. A servant entered, delivered a letter, retired. Lucinda

recognized the handwriting, and (the word was new to her in this

application) "registered" delight, then--as, smiling, she opened and

read the letter--bewilderment, misgivings, and a shock of cruel

revelation which strangled all joy of living in her, struck her down,

and left her crushed and cringing in a chair.

Despite a natural feeling that she was making herself ridiculous,

Lucinda executed to the best of her ability the gestures prescribed and

tried to impart to them some colour of sincerity. As a matter of fact,

she was singularly (and stupidly, she assured herself) anxious to

deserve the further commendation of Mr. Culp's cameraman.

But it was at best a trying task and, when it came to posing for the

close-up with a wall of blinding incandescence only a few feet from her

eyes, a true ordeal. She was glad when it was over, and quite satisfied

that she wouldn't care to repeat the experience, in spite of Mr.

Timilty's encouraging "Pretty work, Mrs. Druce!"--whose source she could

only surmise, since in her bedazzled vision everything remained a blur

for some time after she had been delivered from the torture of the

lights.

When at length that cloud of blindness cleared, Mr. Culp was nowhere to

be seen. Nor did he show up again until the last test had been made and

the party, once more shepherded by Mr. Lane, was on the point of

leaving. Then Culp put in a hasty reappearance, coming from the

direction of the dressing-rooms, nominated an hour for projecting the

tests at the studio the next afternoon, bade a hearty good-bye to each

of his guests, and insisted on escorting Lucinda to the door.

On the way, however, he managed to detain her and let the others draw

ahead and out of hearing.

"Lis'n, Mrs. Druce," he abruptly volunteered: "Jack says your test's

going to turn out great. That's just what he said--'like a million

dollars.' And I been thinkin' ... I was speakin' it over with Mrs. Culp

in her dressing-room, d'y'see, and she's strong for it, says she'd be

tickled to pieces. She's a wonderful little woman, Mrs. Culp is, she

ain't never yet made any mistake about nobody, d'y'see, and she's took

the biggest kind a fancy to you, and says tell you she's sure you'll

never regret it----"

"Please, please, Mr. Culp! You are too good, and it makes me most happy

to know Mrs. Culp thinks well of me. But what," Lucinda laughed--"what

_are_ you talking about?"

"Why," said Culp in some surprise--"I was thinkin' maybe you'd like to

try goin' into pitchers. You got everythin', d'y'see, looks and style

and all, everythin' but experience; and that's somethin' you can get

right here in this studio, workin' with Mrs. Culp. I got a good part for

you in her next pitcher you could try out in, and----"

"It's awfully kind of you," Lucinda interrupted, "and I'm truly

appreciative, Mr. Culp; but really I couldn't think of it."

"That right?" Culp seemed to be genuinely dashed. "'Sfunny," he observed

dejectedly. "I s'pose you know best what you want to do, but it'd be

great little experience for you, take it from me, Mrs. Druce."

"I'm sure it would."

"And I got a hunch you'd make good all the way. You've got things nobody

else on the screen's got but my little woman, d'y'see, and it wouldn't

be no time at all, maybe, before you'd be a star with your own company.

I'll take care of that, you wouldn't have to worry about the money end

of it at all, d'y'see----"

"But what if I don't _want_ to be a motion-picture actress, Mr. Culp?"

"Well, of course, if you don't, that's different." He pondered gloomily

this incomprehensible freak. "Lis'n," he suggested, brightening: "Tell

you what, Mrs. Druce: you go home and think it over. You got all night

and most of tomorrow--you won't be comin' here to look at the tests till

five o'clock, d'y'see--and if you should want to change your mind, I

stand back of all I said. All you got to do is say yes, and walk right

into a nice part, fit you like a glove, in the next Alma Daley

pitcher----"

"Seriously, Mr. Culp; if I should think it over for a month, my decision

would be the same. But thank you ever so much--and please thank Mrs.

Culp for me, too."

"Well," Culp said reluctantly, holding the street door, "if that's the

way you feel about it ... well, of course.... G'dnight, Mrs. Druce, and

pleas't'meet you."

The street was dark with a gentle darkness kind to eyes that still ached

and smarted. And the frosty air was grateful to one coming from the

close atmosphere of the studio, heavy with its composite smell of

steam-heated paint and dust and flesh.

And crossing to her car, Lucinda experienced a vagary of vivid

reminiscence. Just for an instant the clock was turned back for her a

dozen years and more, she was again a little girl, a child bringing

dazed eyes of dream from the warm and scented romance of a matinee, her

thrilled perceptions groping mutinously toward reconciliation with the

mysterious verities of streets mantled in blue twilight.

That passed too quickly, too soon she was Lucinda Druce once more, grown

up and married, disillusioned....

And with a shiver of pain Lucinda realized anew what the afternoon with

its unsought boons of novelty and diversion had made her for hours on

end forget, the secret dolour of her heart.

X

Notwithstanding that she drove directly home, or paused only to drop

Daubeney at his club and the Lontaines at their hotel, it was after

seven when Lucinda regained her rooms and was free at last to be once

more her simple self, disembarrassed of the pride and circumstance that

stayed the public personality of Mrs. Bellamy Druce.

Out of that social character she stepped as naturally as out of her

gown, and with much the same sense of relief, in the easing of that

tension to which she had been keyed all afternoon. Even at the studio,

when interest in that quaint, ephemeral environment of other lives had

rendered her forgetful of both self and the passage of time,

subconsciously the strain of keeping up appearances had been still

constant and made unremitting demands upon her stores of fortitude and

nervous energy.

But she counted that cost not exorbitant, seeing the immunity it had

purchased.

Dobbin alone had not been taken in....

She began to be a bit afraid of Dobbin. A danger signal she had the wit

to apprehend in its right value. The woman who pretends to be afraid is

setting a snare, but she who is truly afraid is herself already in the

toils.

Dobbin saw too much, too deeply and clearly, and let her know it in a

way that not only disarmed resentment but made her strangely willing to

let him see more. She to whom reserve was as an article of faith! But if

the woman in love with her husband knew she had no right to foster an

intimacy, however innocent, with any other man, the woman harassed and

half-distracted was too hungry for sympathetic understanding not to be

tempted when it offered, grateful for it and disinclined to pass it by.

This common life is unending quest for spiritual companionship--and love

is the delusion that one has found it.

At twenty-six Lucinda was learning what life often takes twice that tale

to teach, that though flesh must cleave unto flesh, the soul is lost

unless it walk alone, creature and creator in one of its own bleak

isolation.

In a moment of clear vision she promised herself to go warily with

Dobbin....

And in the next, the telephone rang in the boudoir. Lucinda was in her

bath, so her maid answered for her, and presently came to report: Mr.

Druce had called up to say he wouldn't be dining at home that night, he

was detained by a "conference."

Without looking, Lucinda knew that the woman's eyes were demure, her

lips twitching.

Her just anger of that afternoon recurred with strength redoubled.

Not that she had been looking forward with any eagerness to the evening,

the "quiet" dinner during which Bel would defiantly continue his

tippling, the subsequent hours at the opera poisoned by forebodings, the

homeward drive in antagonized silence, finally the trite old scene

behind closed doors, of the piqued wife and the peccant husband, with

its threadbare business of lies, aggrieved innocence, attempts at

self-extenuation, ultimate collapse and confession, tears of penitence

and empty promises ... and her own spirit failing and in the end

yielding to Bel's importunity, out of sheer weariness and want of hope.

It had been sad enough to have all that to anticipate. To be left in

this fashion, at loose ends, not knowing what to expect, except the

worst, was too much.

On leaving her bath Lucinda delayed only long enough to shrug into a

dressing-gown before going to the telephone.

The voice that responded to her call said it thought Mr. Daubeney had

just left the club, but if madame would hold the wire it would make

sure.

She knew a moment of pure exasperation with the evident conspiracy of

every circumstance in her despite.

Then the apparatus at her ear pronounced in crisp impatience: "Yes? This

is Mr. Daubeney. Who wants him, please?"

"Oh, Dobbin! I'm so glad."

"You, Cinda!" The instantaneous change of tone would have been laughable

if it hadn't been worse, the cause of a little flutter of forbidden

delight. "Why, bless your soul! I'm glad I came back. They barely caught

me at the door."

"Were you in a hurry to get on somewhere, Dobbin? I mean, am I detaining

you?"

"Not a bit. Foolishly staggering out to try to find some place where the

cooking was less perfunctory than here at the club."

"Sure you've got nothing important on?"

"If you must know, I was wondering what to do with a lonely evening."

"Then that makes two of us. Why can't we join forces and be miserable

together?"

"With you? I'll do my best, but I don't promise.... What's up?"

"Oh, everything, more or less. I'm in a villainous temper, Dobbin, and

you'll be a dear if you'll come and dine with me--Bel's telephoned he

won't be home--talk me into a decent humour and take me to the opera.

And then--I don't care what we do!"

"Well, if you're half as reckless as you try to make out, you certainly

need somebody to keep you from kicking over the traces."

"Then you will come?"

"Stop pretending to be stupid. When?"

"As soon as you like."

Later, seated at her dressing-table, adding those deft touches whose

secret one woman in ten thousand knows, touches which lift an evening

toilette out of the ruck of commonplace prettiness and render it wholly

sorcerous, Lucinda caught in her mirror an odd look of dubious

speculation on the face of the maid who waited by her shoulder.

Half an hour earlier such a look would have irritated, now its

impertinence had no more effect than to make Lucinda smile illegibly at

her image in the glass. What did it matter what questions might be

taking form in that shallow mind? If Bel could afford to ignore the

gossip of servants, that had its source in knowledge of his escapades no

doubt infinitely more detailed and precise than she might ever hope or

fear to gain--why, so could Bel's wife afford to go her own way and let

this scandal-mongering world go hang.

Whether or not she could afford it, she meant henceforward to make her

own life--as Bel did, as everybody did--and an end to this drifting with

the winds of forlorn and fading hopes. She was too young, too proud, too

richly warmed by ardent wine of life, to accept without a murmur

affronts and slights such as were now her daily portion, without a

struggle reconcile herself to the estate of the outworn wife, tolerated

mainly as an ornamental prop to the dignity of the house of Druce.

Bel should learn....

Poised lightly before the cheval-glass for the final inspection from

head to foot, she perceived that she had never made herself lovelier for

Bel; and Dobbin's spontaneous tribute as she entered the drawing-room

agreeably confirmed this judgment.

"Heavens, Cinda! how do you do it?"

"Like the way I look tonight?"

"Like! It's unfair, it's premeditated cruelty, monstrous! You ought to

be ashamed of yourself to look like that to a man who's having a

tough-enough fight with himself as it is."

"Fraud," Lucinda commented coolly. "You know you fancy yourself no end

in the role of the luckless lover, you'd be scared silly if I gave you

any reason to fear you'd ever have another part to play."

"Try me and see."

"No fear. I like you too well as you are. The part fits you to

perfection, you do play it beautifully. Please don't ever stop: I love

it."

"Imp! You need a good shaking. Don't you know you're flirting with me?"

"Do you mind?"

"Oh, no. Not if it amuses you. Not if you'll play fair."

"What do you call unfair?"

"For one thing, the way you've turned yourself out tonight."

"But only a moment ago you were leading me to believe I'd turned out at

least passing fair." Lucinda affected a sigh. "And I was so happy to

think I'd found favour!"

"I presume the intellectual level would be lowered if I were to say with

What's-his-name, '_If she be not fair to me, what care I how fair she

be_'?"

But Lucinda, in a pensive turn, shook her head and, eyeing him gravely,

murmured: "I wonder...."

"What do you wonder, Cinda?"

"What you told me last night.... Was it true?"

"That I had never stopped being in love with you? God help me! that was

true enough, too true."

"Then I wonder if it's fair to you, and to me, the way we're going. I

mean...." She faltered, with a sign of petulance. "Be patient with me,

Dobbin. It isn't easy to figure some things out, you know. I mean, if

you _are_ in love with me----"

"Forget the 'if'."

"And Bel is not.... Oh, no, he isn't! He's in love with the figure he

cuts as my lord and master and the dashing beau of every other pretty

woman--not with me. Well! since you are and he isn't, and I'm

discontented, and so fond of you, Dobbin: _is_ it fair to either of

us--because I'm bound to think of you, you know, and can't very well

think of you dispassionately...." She concluded with a little shrug and

a deprecating smile. "I don't know, Dobbin, I really don't know!"

"It isn't fair," he said--"of course--unless--"