_The_
LEADING LADY
_By_
GERALDINE BONNER
AUTHOR OF
_To-morrow’s Tangle, The Pioneer,
Rich Men’s Children, The
Book of Evelyn_
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1926
BY THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
_Printed in the United States of America_
PRINTED AND BOUND
BY BRAUNWORTH & CO., INC.
BROOKLYN, NEW YORK
_The_
LEADING LADY
_PROLOGUE_
ONE of the morning trains that tap the little towns along the Sound ran
into the Grand Central Depot. It was very hot in the lower levels of
the station and the passengers, few in number--for it was midsummer and
people were going out of town, not coming in--filed stragglingly up the
long platform to the exit. One of them was a girl, fair and young, with
those distinctive attributes of good looks and style that drew men’s
eyes to her face and women’s to her clothes.
People watched her as she followed the porter carrying her suit-case,
noting the lithe grace of her movements, her delicate slimness,
the froth of blonde hair that curled out under the brim of her
hat. She appeared oblivious to the interest she aroused and this
indifference had once been natural, for to be looked at and admired
had been her normal right and become a stale experience. Now it was
assumed, an armor under which she sought protection, hid herself from
morbid curiosity and eagerly observing eyes. To be pointed out as
Sybil Saunders, the actress, was a very different thing from being
pointed out as Sybil Saunders, the fiancée of James Dallas of the
Dallas-Parkinson case.
The Dallas-Parkinson case had been a sensation three months back. James
Dallas, a well-known actor, had killed Homer Parkinson during a quarrel
in a man’s club, struck him on the head with a brass candlestick,
and fled before the horrified onlookers could collect their senses.
Dallas, a man of excellent character, had had many friends who claimed
mitigating circumstances--Parkinson, drunk and brutal, had provoked
the assault. But the Parkinson clan, new-rich oil people, breathing
vengeance, had risen to the cause of their kinsman, poured out money
in an effort to bring the fugitive to justice, and offered a reward
of ten thousand dollars for his arrest. Of course Sybil Saunders had
figured in the investigation, she was the betrothed of the murderer,
their marriage had been at hand. She had gone through hours of
questioning, relentless grilling, and had steadily maintained her
ignorance of Dallas’ whereabouts; from the night of his disappearance
she had heard nothing from him and knew nothing of him. The Parkinsons
did not believe her statement, the police were uncertain.
As she walked toward the exit she carried a newspaper in her hand.
Other people in the train had left theirs in their seats, but she,
after a glance at the head-lines, had folded hers and laid it in her
lap. Three seats behind her on the opposite side of the aisle she
had noticed a man--had met his eyes as her own swept back carelessly
over the car--and it was then that she had laid the paper down and
looked out of the window. Under the light film of rouge on her cheeks
a natural color had arisen. She had known he would be there but was
startled to find him so close.
Now as she moved across the shining spaciousness of the lower-level
waiting-room she stole a quick glance backward. He was following,
mounting the incline. It was the man who had gone up with her on
Friday. She had been out of town several times lately on week-end
visits and one of them was always on the train. Sometimes it was a new
one but she had become familiar with the type.
She knew he was behind her at the taxi stand as she gave the address
in a loud voice. But he probably would disappear now; in the city they
generally let her alone. It was only when she left town that they were
always on hand, keeping their eye on her, ready to follow if she should
try to slip away.
The taxi rolled out into the sweltering heat; incandescent streets
roaring under the blinding glare of the sun. Her destination was the
office of Stroud & Walberg, theatrical managers, and here in his
opulent office set in aerial heights above the sweating city, Mr.
Walberg offered her a friendly hand and a chair. Mr. Walberg, a kindly
Hebrew, was kindlier than ever to this particular visitor. He was sorry
for her--as who in his profession was not--and wanted to help her along
and here was his proposition:
A committee of ladies, a high-society bunch summering up in
Maine, wanted to give a play for charity. They’d got the chance
to do something out of the ordinary, for Thomas N. Driscoll, the
spool-cotton magnate who was in California, had offered them his
place up there--Gull Island was the name--for an outdoor performance.
Mr. Walberg, who had never seen it, enlarged on its attractions as
if he had been trying to make a sale--a whole island, just off the
mainland, magnificent mansion to be turned over to the company,
housekeeper installed. The crowning touch was an open-air amphitheater,
old Roman effect, tiers of stone seats, said to be one of the most
artistic things of its kind in the country. The ladies had wanted a
classic which Mr. Walberg opined was all right seeing the show was
for charity, and people could stand being bored for a worthy object.
_Twelfth Night_ was the play they had selected, and as that kind of
stage called for no scenery one thing would go as well as another.
The ladies had placed the matter in Mr. Walberg’s hands, and he had
at once thought of Sybil Saunders for Viola. She had played the part
through the provinces, made a hit and was in his opinion the ideal
person. There was a persuasive, almost coaxing quality in his manner,
not his usual manner with rising young actresses. But, as has been
said, he was a kindly man, and had heard that Sybil Saunders was
knocked out, couldn’t get the heart to work; also, as she was a young
person of irreproachable character, he inferred she must be hard up.
That brought him to compensation--not so munificent, but then Miss
Saunders was not yet in the star class--and all expenses would be
covered, including a week at Gull Island. This opportunity to dwell in
the seats of the mighty, free of cost, with sea air and scenery thrown
in, Mr. Walberg held before her as the final temptation.
He had no need for further persuasion for Miss Saunders accepted
at once. She was grateful to him and said so and looked as if she
meant it. He felt the elation of a good work done for the charitable
ladies--they could get no one as capable as Sybil Saunders for the
price--and for the girl herself whose best hope was to get back into
harness. So, in a glow of mutual satisfaction, they walked to the door,
Mr. Walberg telling over such members of the cast as had already been
engaged: Sylvanus Grey for the Duke, Isabel Cornell for Maria, John
Gordon Trevor for Sir Toby--no one could beat him, had the old English
tradition--and Anne Tracy for Olivia. At that name Miss Saunders had
exclaimed in evident pleasure. Anne Tracy would be perfect, and it
would be so lovely having her, they were such friends. Mr. Walberg
nodded urbanely as if encouraging the friendships of young actresses
was his dearest wish, and at the door put the coping stone on these
agreeable announcements:
“And I’m going to give you my best director, Hugh Bassett. If with you
and him they don’t pull off a success the Maine public’s dumber than I
thought.”
Later in the day he saw his director and told him of Miss Saunders’
engagement.
“Poor little thing,” he said. “She looks like one of those vegetables
they grow in the dark to keep ’em white. But it’ll be the saving of
her. Now you go ahead and get this started--three weeks rehearsal here
and one up there ought to do you. And keep me informed--if any of these
swell dames turn up asking questions, I want to know where I’m at.”
Her business accomplished, Miss Saunders went home. She lived in one
of those mid-town blocks of old brownstone houses divided into flats.
The flats were of the variety known as “push button” and “walk up,”
but she pushed no button as she knew hers would be tenantless. Letting
herself in with a latchkey she ascended the two flights at a rapid run,
unlocked her door and entered upon the hot empty quietude of her own
domain. The blinds in the parlor were lowered as she had left them.
She pulled one up with a nervous jerk, threw her hat on a chair, and
falling upon the divan opened the paper that she had carried since she
left the Grand Central Station.
The news of the day evidently had no interest for her. She folded
the pages back at the personal column and settled over it, bent,
motionless, her eyes traveling down its length. Suddenly they stopped,
focussed on a paragraph. She rose and with swift, tiptoe tread went
into the hall and tried the front door. Coming back she took a pad and
pencil from the desk, drew a small table up to the divan, spread the
newspaper on it, and copied the paragraph on to the pad. It ran as
follows:
“Sister Carrie:
Edmund stoney broke but Albert able to help him. Think we ought to
chip in. Can a date be arranged for discussing his affairs?
Sam and Lewis.”
She studied it for some time, the pencil suspended. Then it descended,
crossing out letter after letter, till three words remained--“Edmunton,
Alberta, Canada.” The signature she guessed as the name he went by.
She burned the written paper, grinding it to powder in the ash-tray.
The newspaper she threw into the waste-basket where Luella, the mulatto
woman who “did up” for her, would find it in the morning. She felt
certain Luella was paid to watch her, that the woman had a pass-key to
the mail-box and every torn scrap of letter or note was foraged for
and handed on. But she had continued to keep the evil-eyed creature,
fearful that her dismissal would make them more than ever wary,
strengthen their suspicion that Sybil Saunders was in communication
with her lover.
The deadly danger of it was cold at her heart as she lay back on the
divan and closed her eyes. Through her shut lids she saw the paragraph
with the words of the address standing out like the writing on the
wall. She had heard directly from him once, a letter the day after he
had fled; the only one that even he, reckless in his despair, had
dared to send. In that he had told her to watch the personal column in
a certain paper and had given her the names by which she could identify
the paragraphs. She had watched and twice found the veiled message and
twice waited in sickening fear for discovery. It had not happened.
Now he had grown bolder, telling her where he was--it was as if his
hand beckoned her to come. She could write to him at last, do it this
evening and take it out after dark. Lying very still, her hands clasped
behind her head, she ran over in her mind letter-boxes, post-offices
where she might mail it. Were the ones in crowded districts or those in
secluded byways, the safest? It was like walking through grasses where
live wires were hidden.
A ring at the bell made her leap to her feet with wild visions of
detectives. But it was only Anne Tracy, come in to see if she was
back from her visit on the Sound. It was a comfort to see Anne, she
always acted as if things were just as they had been and never asked
disturbing questions. In the wilting heat she looked cool and fresh,
her dress of yellow linen, her straw hat encircled by a wreath of
nasturtiums had the dainty neatness that always marked Anne’s clothes
and Anne herself. She was pale-skinned and black-haired, satin-smooth
hair drawn back from her forehead and rolled up from the nape of her
neck in an ebony curve. Because her eyebrows slanted upward at the ends
and her eyes were long and liquid-dark and her nose had the slightest
retroussé tilt, people said she looked like a Helleu etching. And other
people, who were more old-fashioned and did not know what a Helleu
etching was, said she looked like a lady.
She was Sybil’s best friend, was to have been her bridesmaid. But she
knew no more of Sybil’s secrets since Jim Dallas had disappeared than
any one else. And she never sought to know--that was why the friendship
held.
They had a great deal to talk about, but chiefly the _Twelfth
Night_ affair. Anne was immensely pleased that Sybil had agreed to
play. She did not say this--she avoided any allusions to Sybil’s
recent conducting of her life--but her enthusiasm about it all was
irresistible. It warmed the sad-eyed girl into interest; the Viola
costume was brought from its cupboard, the golden wig tried on. When
Anne took her departure late in the day, after iced tea and layer cake
in the kitchenette, she felt much relieved about her friend--she was
“coming back,” coming alive again, and this performance off in the
country, far from her old associations, was just the way for her to
start.
Anne occupied another little flat on another of the mid-town streets
in another of the brownstone houses. Hers was one room larger, for her
brother, Joe Tracy, lived with her when not pursuing his profession
on the road. There were hiatuses in Joe’s pursuit during which he
inhabited a small bedroom in the rear and caused Ann a great deal of
worry and expense. Joe apparently did not worry, certainly not about
the expense. Absence of work wore on his temper not because Anne had
to carry the flat alone, but because he had no spending money.
They said it was his temper that stood in his way. Something did, for
he was an excellent actor with that power of transforming himself into
an empty receptacle to be filled by the character he portrayed. But
directors who had had experience of him, talked about his “natural
meanness” and shook their heads. When his name was mentioned it had
become the fashion to add a follow-up sentence: “Seems impossible the
same parents could have produced him and Anne.” People who tried to be
sympathetic with Anne about him got little satisfaction. All the most
persistent ever extracted was an admission that Joe was “difficult.” No
one--not even Sybil or Hugh Bassett--ever heard what she felt about the
fight he had had with another boy over a game of pool which had nearly
landed him in the Elmira Reformatory. Bassett had dragged him out of
that, and Bassett had found him work afterward, and Bassett had boosted
and helped and lectured him since. And not for love of Joe, for in his
heart Bassett thought him a pretty hopeless proposition.
That evening, alone in her parlor, Anne was thinking about him. He had
no engagement and no expectation of one, and it was not wise to leave
him alone in the flat without occupation. “Satan” and “the idle hands”
was a proverb that came to your mind in connection with Joe. She went
to the window and leaned out. The air rose from the street, breathless
and dead, the heated exhalation of walls and pavements baked all day by
the merciless sun. Passers-by moved languidly with a sound of dragging
feet. At areaways red-faced women sat limp in loose clothing, and from
open windows came the crying of tired little children. To leave Joe to
this while she was basking in the delights of Gull Island--apart from
anything he might do--it wasn’t fair. And then suddenly the expression
of her face changed and she drew in from the window--Hugh Bassett was
coming down the street.
The bell rang, she pushed the button and presently he was at the door
saying he was passing and thought he’d drop in for a minute. He was
a big thick-set man with a quiet reposeful quality unshaken even by
the heat. It was difficult to think of Bassett shaken by any exterior
accident of life, so suggestive was his whole make-up of a sustained
equilibrium, a balanced adjustment of mental and physical forces. He
had dropped in a great deal this summer and as the droppings-in became
more frequent Anne’s outside engagements became less. They always
simulated a mutual surprise, giving them time to get over that somewhat
breathless moment of meeting.
They achieved it rather better than usual to-night for their minds were
full of the same subject. Bassett had come to impart the good news
about Sybil, and Anne had seen her and heard all about it. There was a
great deal of talking to be done that was impersonal and during which
one forgot to be self-conscious. Finally when they had threshed out all
the matters of first importance Bassett said:
“Did you tell her that Walberg wanted Aleck Stokes for the Duke?”
“No, I didn’t say a word about it. What was the use? It would only have
upset her and you’d put a stop to it.”
“You can always be relied on, Anne, to do the tactful thing. Walberg
was set on it. Stokes can’t be beaten in that part and he’s at liberty.
But I wasn’t going to take any chances of her refusing, and if Stokes
was in the company I was afraid she might.”
“I don’t know whether she’d have gone that far, but it would have
spoiled everything for her and for the rest of us too. It’s all plain
sailing now except for one thing”--she stopped and then in answer
to his questioning look--“about the police. If they have her under
surveillance, as people say, what’ll they do about it up there?”
The big man shrugged:
“Camp in the village on the mainland--they certainly can’t come on the
island. We’ve special instructions about it--no one but the company
to be allowed there till the performance. Did she speak to you about
that?”
“No, she hardly ever alludes to the subject. But they _would_ keep a
watch on her, wouldn’t they?”
He nodded, frowning a little at a complication new in his experience:
“I should think so--a woman in her position. Men under sentence of
death have been unable to keep away from the girl they were in love
with. And then she may know where he is, be in communication with him.”
“Oh, I don’t think that,” Anne breathed in alarm. “She’d never take
such a risk.”
“Well, we’re her friends and we’re as much in the dark as anybody. I
only know one thing--if they try to hound her down on that island--the
first chance she’s had to recuperate and rest--I’ll--”
A slight grating noise came from the hall. Anne held up a quick
cautioning hand.
“Take care,” she murmured. “Here’s Joe.”
Joe came in, his Panama hat low on his brow. He gave no sign of
greeting till he saw Bassett, then he emitted an abrupt “Hello” and
snatched off the hat:
“Little Anne’s got a caller. Howdy, Bassett! How’s things?”
There was a jovial note in his voice, a wide grin of greeting on his
face. It was evident the sight of Bassett pleased him, and he stood
teetering back and forth on his toes and heels, looking ingratiatingly
at the visitor. He was like Anne, the same delicate features, the same
long eyebrows and the same trick of raising them till they curved high
on his forehead. But his face had an elfish, almost malign quality
lacking in hers, and the brown eyes, brilliant and hard, were set too
close to his nose. He was two years younger than she--twenty-two--but
looked older, immeasurably older, in the baser worldly knowledge which
had already set its stamp upon him.
He launched forth with a suggestion of pouncing eagerness on the
_Twelfth Night_ performance. He had heard this and that, and Anne had
told him the other. His interest surprised Anne, he hadn’t shown much
to her; only a few laconic questions. And she was wondering what was
in his mind, as she so often wondered when Joe held the floor, when a
question enlightened her:
“Have you got anybody to play Sebastian yet?”
“No. I wanted that boy who played with her on the southern tour last
year, but he’s in England. He gave a first-rate performance and he
_did_ look like her.”
“That was a lucky chance. You’ll search the whole profession before you
get any one that looks like Sybil’s twin brother.”
“He ought to bear some resemblance to her,” and Bassett quoted, “‘One
face, one voice, one habit, and two persons.’ I wonder if Shakespeare
had twins in his eye when he wrote the play.”
“Not he! They did the same in his day as they do now--dressed ’em up
alike and let it go at that. Why, Mrs. Gawtrey, the English actress,
when she was over here, had a boy to play Sebastian who looked as much
like her--well, not as much as I look like Sybil.”
Bassett had seen his object as Anne had and was considering. He had
been looking forward to the week at Gull Island with Anne, it loomed in
his imagination as a festival. There would be a pleasant, companionable
group of people, friendly, working well together. But Joe among them----
The boy, looking down at his feet, said slowly:
“What’s the matter with letting me do it?”
“Nothing’s the matter. I’ve no doubt you could, but you and she have
about as much resemblance as chalk and cheese.”
Joe wheeled and gathering his coat neatly about his waist walked across
the room with a mincing imitation of Sybil’s gait. It was so well
done that Bassett could not contain his laughter. Encouraged, the boy
assumed a combative attitude, his face aflame with startled anger,
and striking out, at imaginary opponents, shouted: “‘Why there’s for
thee, and there and there and there. Are all the people mad?’” Then as
suddenly melted to a lover’s tone and looking ardently at Anne said:
“‘If it be thus to dream then let me sleep.’”
“Oh, he _could_ play it,” she exclaimed, and Bassett weakened before
the pleading in her eyes.
He understood how to manage Joe, he could keep him in order. The boy
was afraid of him anyway, and by this time knew that his future lay
pretty well in Bassett’s hands. If there was anything Anne wanted that
was within his gift there could be no question about its being hers.
She was very sweet, murmuring her thanks as she went with him to the
door and assurances that Joe would acquit himself well. Bassett hardly
heard what she said, looking into her dark eyes, feeling the soft
farewell pressure of her hand.
Joe had left the sitting-room when she went back there and she supposed
he had gone to bed. But presently he came in, his hat on again and said
he was going out. She was surprised, it was past eleven, but he swung
about looking for his cane, saying it was too hot to sleep. She tried
to detain him with remarks about the new work. He answered shortly
as was his wont with her, treating it as a small matter, nothing to
get excited about--also a familiar pose. But she noticed under his
nonchalance a repressed satisfaction, the glow of an inner elation in
his eyes.
I
THE performance was over and the audience was dispersing. Gull Island,
colored to a chromo brightness by the declining sun, had not showed so
animated an aspect since the reception for the Spanish ambassador last
July. People in pale-tinted summer clothes were trailing across from
the open-air theater and massing in a group as gay as a flower garden
at the dock. Some of them had gone into the house, taken the chance to
have a look at it--when the Driscolls were “in residence” you couldn’t
so much as put your foot on the rocks round the shore. Others lingered,
having a farewell word with the actors, congratulating them--it was the
right thing to do and they deserved it. The committee was very affable,
shaking hands with Mr. Bassett the director and Miss Saunders the star,
who, in her page’s dress with the paint still on her face, looked
tired, poor girl, but was so sweet and unassuming.
It had been a complete success. The matrons who had organized it
scanned the crowd converging toward the dock and smiled the comfortable
smile of accomplishment. The summer home for tenement children could
build its new wing and employ that man from Boston who had such modern
scientific methods. And the matrons, stiff in the back and unbecomingly
flushed after sitting two hours in the sun on the stone seats of
the theater, drew toward one another on the wharf and agreed that
everything had gone off beautifully and the board should at once write
to Mr. Driscoll and thank him for lending the island.
The fleet of boats, rocking gently on the narrow channel that separated
Gull Island from the mainland, took on their freight and darted off.
They started in groups then broke apart. Speed boats that had come from
points afar, whizzed away with a seething rush and a crumple of crystal
foam at the bow. The launches skimmed, light-winged, the white flurry
of their wakes like threads that stretched back to the island.
People turned and looked at it--sun-gilded in an encircling girdle
of Prussian blue sea. The rocks about its base, the headlands that
rose above, were dyed to an orange red and against this brilliancy of
primary colors the pines stood out darkly silhouetted. On the rise
above the wharf the long brown structure of the house spread, rambling
and irregular, built, it was said, to suggest an outgrowth of the rocky
foundation. The watchers could see in the open place beyond the side
balcony the actors standing motionless, spaced in a group. Yes, having
their photographs taken; there was the camera man who’d been taking
pictures during the performance. And they craned their necks for a last
look at the lovely scene and the picturesque assemblage of players.
Part of the flotilla carried the Hayworth villagers--all-year residents
of the little town on the mainland. Some of the more solid citizens
were in the launch that old Gabriel Harvey owned, which had been used
by the actors in their week’s stay. Hayworth had gathered a great deal
of information about these spectacular visitors, some from Gabriel and
some from Sara Pinkney who was Mr. Driscoll’s housekeeper, living in
Hayworth all winter and in summer reigning in the Gull Island kitchen.
Mr. Driscoll had wired Sara to go over and open up and take charge
while they were there--spare nothing, those were his orders. And Sara
had done it, not wanting to, but apart from its being Mr. Driscoll’s
wishes which she had followed for the last ten years, she had felt it
her duty to keep an eye on the property. Every day she came over to
Hayworth for supplies and had to appease the local curiosity, which she
did grudgingly, feeling her power.
Now at last the Hayworth people had had a first-hand view of the
actors--the whole company, dressed up and performing--and they fitted
Sara Pinkney’s description to them. Olivia, that was Miss Tracy,
the one she said was so refined and pleasant-spoken. And the Duke
was Alexander Stokes. He was the feller that had come after the
others because the first man took sick--wonderful the way he did it
considering, didn’t miss a word. And the woman who stood round and
“tended on” Olivia was his wife. Sara hadn’t said much about her. Well,
she wasn’t of much importance anyhow or she’d have had more acting to
do. But that boy who was Viola’s twin, he was Miss Tracy’s brother, and
Sara had said he and Miss Saunders didn’t get on well, _she_ could see
it though they didn’t say much. And here piped up the butcher’s wife
who was more interested in the play than in personalities:
“I don’t see how Olivia took him for the page she was in love with. He
didn’t look like Viola in the face. She was real pretty, but he’d a
queer sly mug on him, that boy.”
“Aw, you can’t be too particular. You don’t need to have it so real.”
“I guess she was meant to be blinded by love. And him dressed the same,
hair and all, might lead her astray.”
“I don’t see how you could have ’em look just alike unless they’d get
an actress who had a real twin brother, and maybe you’d go the whole
country over and not find that.”
“He ain’t like her no way,” growled old Gabriel from the wheel, “I seen
’em both when they wasn’t acting and he’s an ugly pup, that one.”
Then the boat grating on the Hayworth wharf, Gabriel urged them off. He
hadn’t got through yet, got to go back for part of the company who were
calculating to get the main line at Spencer, and after that back again
for the Tracy boy. He muttered on as they climbed out, grumbling to
himself, which nobody noticed as it had been his mode of expression for
the last thirty years.
The swaying throng of boats emptied their cargoes and the thick-pressed
crowd, moving to the end of the wharf, separated into streams and
groups. Farewells, last commending comments, rose on the limpid
sea-scented air. Everybody was a little tired. The villagers, dragging
their feet, passed along the board walks to their vine-draped piazzas.
They would find their kitchens hot and dull that night after two
hours in the enchanted land of Illyria. The waiting line of motors
absorbed the summer visitors, wheeled off and purred away past the
white cottages under the New England elms. The matrons sank gratefully
upon the yielding cushions, rolling by the dusty buggies, the battered
Fords, the lines of bicycle riders, into the quiet serene country
where the shadows were lying long and clear. Yes, it had been a great
success; from first to last there hadn’t been a hitch.