THE ACTOR’S STORY
The afternoon of the next day Dominick came home earlier than usual.
His New York friend, who was en route to Japan, had but a couple of
days in San Francisco, and again claimed his company for dinner. The
theater was to follow and Dominick had come home to change his clothes,
and incidentally either to see Berny and explain his absence or to
leave a message for her with the Chinaman.
He felt rather guilty where she was concerned. He had seen nothing
of her for two days. The only time they met was in the evening after
business hours, the only meal they took together was dinner. With every
spark of affection dead between them, their married life the hollowest
sham, she had so long and so sternly trained him to be considerate of
her and keep her on his mind, that he still instinctively followed the
acquired habit of thinking of her comfort and arranging for it. He knew
she would be annoyed at the two lonely dinners, and hoped to see her
before he left and suggest to her that she telephone for one of her
sisters to join her.
The flat was very quiet when he entered, and after looking into one or
two rooms for her he called the Chinaman, who said Mrs. Ryan had gone
out early in the afternoon, leaving no message except that she would be
home to dinner. Dominick nodded a dismissal and walked into the den.
He carried the evening papers in his hand, and looking at the clock he
saw that he had an hour before it would be necessary for him to dress
and leave the house. Berny would undoubtedly be home before then; she
was rarely out after six. Meantime, the thought that she was not in
and that he could read the papers in unmolested, uninterrupted silence
caused a slight sense of relief to lighten the weight that was now
always with him.
He had hardly opened the first sheet when a ring at the bell dispelled
his hopes. It was one of his wife’s habits never to carry a latch-key,
which she looked upon as a symbol of that bourgeois, middle-class
helpfulness that she had shaken off with her other working-girl manners
and customs. Dominick dropped the paper, waiting for her entrance, and
framing the words with which he would acquaint her with the fact that
he was to be absent again. Instead, however, of the rustle of feminine
skirts, he heard the Chinaman’s padding steps, and the servant entered
and presented him with a card. Traced on it in a sprawling handwriting
was the name “James Defay Buford.” Dominick remembered his invitation
to the man to call, and realized that this probably was the only time
that the actor could conveniently do so. There was an hour yet before
dinner would be served, and turning to the servant Dominick told him to
show the gentleman up.
A moment later, Buford entered, smiling, almost patronizingly urbane
and benign. He was dressed with a rich and careful elegance which gave
him a somewhat dandified air. After bestowing upon Dominick greetings
that sounded as unctuous as a benediction, he took his seat at the
end of the cozy corner facing the door which led into the hall. From
here he looked at the young man with a close, attentive scrutiny, very
friendly and yet holding, under its enfolding blandness, something of
absence, of inattention, as though his mind were not in the intimate
customary connection with the words that issued from his lips. This
suggestion of absence deepened, showed more plainly in an eye that
wandered to the door, or, as Dominick spoke, fell to the carpet and
remained there, hidden by a down-drawn bush of eyebrow. Dominick was
in the middle of a query as to the continued success of the “Klondike
Monologue” when the actor raised his head and said politely, but with
a politeness that contained a note of haste and eagerness beneath it,
“Is Madame at home?”
“No, she’s not at home,” said Madame’s husband. “But she may be in any
moment now. She generally goes out for the afternoon and gets back
about this time.”
“Perhaps you can tell me,” said Buford, looking sidewise at his gloves
and cane as they lay on the end of the divan, “who--you’ll pardon my
seeming curiosity, but I’ll explain it presently--who was the lady that
came in here last night at about half-past seven?”
He looked up and Dominick was suddenly aware that his face was charged
with the tensest, the most vital interest. Thrust forward, it showed a
hungriness of anticipation that was almost passionate. The young man
was not only surprised at the expression but at the question.
“I haven’t an idea,” he said. “I wasn’t home to dinner last night, and
didn’t get in till late. Why do you want to know?”
“For many reasons, or for one, perhaps--for one exceedingly important
reason.”
He paused, his eyes again turned slantingly on the stick and gloves,
his lips tight-pressed, one against the other.
“How did you know any woman came in here last night at that hour? Did
you come up to call?” asked Dominick.
“No--no--” the other spoke with quick impatience evidently from the
surface of his mind, “no, it was--at first, anyway--purely accidental.
I saw the woman--and--and--afterward I saw her enter here. Mr. Ryan,”
he said suddenly, looking at his vis-à-vis with piercing directness and
speaking with an intensity of urgency that was almost a command, “can
you give me half an hour of your time and your full attention? I want
to speak to you of a matter, that to me, at least, is of great--the
greatest--importance. You can help me; at least you can, I hope, throw
some light on what is a dark subject. Have I your permission to talk
freely to you, freely and at length?”
Dominick, who was beginning to feel as if he were in a play, and was
exceedingly surprised and intrigued, nodded, remarking,
“Why, certainly, go on. If I can be of any help to you or explain
anything for you, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Let me hear
what it is.”
The actor dropped his glance to the floor for what seemed an
anxiously-considering moment, then he raised his head and, looking
directly at his host, said,
“You may remember that, while at Antelope, I once spoke to you of
having been married--of having, in fact, been unfortunate enough to
lose my wife.”
Dominick remembered, but it seemed imperfectly, for he said in a
doubtful tone, which had more than a suggestion of questioning,
“She--er--she died?”
“No,” said the other, “she did not die. I lost her in a way that I
think was more painful than death. She left me, voluntarily, of her own
free will.”
“Oh, of course,” said the young man hastily. “I remember perfectly, one
day by the sitting-room fire. I remember it all as clearly as possible
now.”
“That was the time--the only time I mentioned the subject to you. On
another occasion I spoke to that lovely and agreeable young lady, Miss
Cannon, on the matter, and told her more fully of my domestic sorrows.
But to you I made but that one allusion. May I now, more at length,
tell you of the misfortunes--I may say tragedy--of my married life?”
Dominick, mystified, nodded his head. He could not imagine why Buford
should come to him at this particular moment and in this particularly
theatrical manner with the history of his domestic troubles. But he
was undeniably interested, and feeling himself more than ever like a
character in a play, said,
“Go on. Tell me anything you like. And if in any way I can be of use to
you, I’ll be only too happy to do it.”
Looking at the carpet, a heat of inward excitement showing through the
professional pomposity of his manner, Buford began slowly and solemnly:
“I’ll go back to seven years ago, when I was in Chicago. Previous to
that, Mr. Ryan, I will tell you in confidence I had been a preacher, a
Methodist, of good reputation, though, I am fain to confess, of small
standing in the church. I left that esteemed body as I felt there
were certain tenets of the faith I could not hold to. I am nothing
if not honest, and I was too honest to preach doctrines with all of
which I could not agree. I left the church as a pastor though I have
never deserted it as a disciple, and have striven to live up to its
standards.”
He paused, and Dominick, feeling that he spoke sincerely, said,
“That was the only thing to do.”
“So it seemed to me. I left the town where I was living and moved
to Chicago where, through the influences of a friend, I obtained a
position in a school of acting and elocution. I instructed the pupils
in voice production. You may have noticed that I have an unusually deep
and resonant voice. Through that, I obtained this work and received
the stipend of thirty-five dollars a week. It was fairly good pay, the
hours were not too long, there was no demand made of a sacrifice of
conscience, and I confess that I felt much freer and more contented
than I had in the church.
“It was at this stage of my career that I met the lady who became
my wife. We lived at the same boarding-house--Mrs. Heeney’s, a most
elegant, well-kept place, and Mrs. Heeney a lovely woman of one of
the best southern families. It was at her table that I met the girl
who was destined to have such a fatal influence on my life. She was a
stenographer and typewriter in one of the largest firms in the city,
earning her twenty dollars a week, as she was an expert and not to
be beaten in the state. She was very pretty, the brunette type of
beauty, black-eyed, and as smart as a steel trap. She was as dainty as
a pink, always well-dressed and up-to-date, never anything sloppy or
slouchy about her. Ask her to go to the theater and there wouldn’t be
a woman in the house who could beat her for looks and style. Besides
that, she was a fine conversationalist, could talk as easily as a book
on any subject. If I brought her a novel, she’d read it and have the
whole plot at her finger-ends, and be able to talk it all over, have
her own opinions about every character. Oh, she was an accomplished,
fascinating woman, if I say it myself! Any man might have taken to her.
She was for ever telling me about California, and how she wanted to get
back there--”
“California?” interrupted Dominick. “Did she come from California?”
“From here--from San Francisco. She was a native daughter of the state
and the town. I was interested in California myself at that time,
though I’d never seen it, and we’d talk of that and other things till,
bit by bit, we drifted nearer and nearer together and the day came when
we were engaged. I thought that was the happiest day of my life, and it
would have been if she’d stayed true to her promises.”
The clock struck the single silvery note of the half-hour and Dominick
heard it. He was interested in the story, but he had only another
half-hour to give, and said as Buford paused,
“Go on. It’s very interesting. Don’t stop.”
“The first step in our married life that seemed to me strange, that
cast, not what you’d call a cloud, but a shadow, over my happiness,
was that she insisted on keeping the marriage secret. She had several
reasons, all of which seemed good and sufficient to her. She said her
people would not like her marrying a stranger away from home, and that
they’d cut up very ugly when they heard it. Her principal reason, and
the only one that seemed to me to have any force, was that she feared
she’d lose her job. She had it on good authority that the firm where
she worked wouldn’t employ married women, and if they knew she’d got
a husband who was making a fair salary, they’d give her the sack.
Whether it was for all the reasons together, or for just this one I
don’t know, but she’d only marry me if I’d solemnly promise to keep
the matter secret. I’d have promised her anything. She’d out and out
bewitched me.
“So we were married and went to housekeeping in a little flat in a
suburb. We had our mail sent to our old address at Mrs. Heeney’s. She
was in our secret, the only person who was. We had to let her know
because of the letters, and inquiries that might have been made for
us from time to time. We were married in the winter, and that winter
was the happiest time of my life. I’ll never forget it. That little
flat, and that little black-eyed woman,--they were just Paradise and
the angel in it for me. Not but what she had her faults; she was
hot-tempered, quick to flare up, and sharp with her tongue. But _I_
never cared--just let her sputter and fizz till she’d worked it all
off and then I’d take things up where they were before the eruption
began. It was a happy time--a man in love and a woman that keeps him
loving--you can’t beat it this side of Heaven.”
Dominick made no answer. The actor for a moment was silent and then
with a sigh went on.
“I suppose it was too good to last. Anyway, it ended. We’d lived that
way for six months when in the beginning of June the Dramatic School
failed and I lost my job. It came on us with almost no warning, and it
sort of knocked us out for a bit. _I_ wasn’t as upset by it as Mrs.
Carter was, but she--”
“Who’s Mrs. Carter?” said Dominick.
“My wife. That’s my name, Junius Carter. Of course the name I use on
the stage is not my own. I took that in the Klondike, made it up from
my mother’s and the name of a pard I had who died. Well, as I was
saying, Mrs. Carter took it hard. She couldn’t seem to get reconciled
to it. I tried to brace her up and told her it would only be temporary,
and I’d get another place soon, but she was terribly upset. We’d lived
well, not saved a cent, furnished the flat nicely and kept a servant.
There was nothing for it but to live on what she made. It was hard on
her, but I’ve often thought she might have been easier on me. I didn’t
_want_ to be idle or eat the bread she paid for, the Lord knows! I
tried hard enough to get work. I tramped those streets in sun and rain
till the shoes were falling off my feet. But the times were hard, money
was tight, and good jobs were not to be had for the asking. One of the
worst features of the case was that I hadn’t any regular line of work
or profession. The kind of thing I’d been doing don’t fit a man for any
kind of job. If I couldn’t do my own kind of stunt I’d have to be just
a general handy-man or stevedore, and I’m not what you’d call rugged.
“It was an awful summer! The heat was fierce. Our little flat was
like an oven and, after my long day’s tramp after work, I used to go
home just dead beat and lie on the lounge and not say a word. My wife
was worn out. She wasn’t accustomed to warm weather, and that and the
worry and the hard work sort of wore on her, and there were evenings
when she’d slash round so with her tongue that I’d get up, half-dead
as I was, and go out and sit on the door-step till she’d gone to bed.
I’m not blaming her. She had enough to try her. Working at her machine
all day in that weather would wear anybody’s temper to a frazzle. But
she said some things to me that bit pretty deep. It seemed impossible
it could be the same woman I’d got to know so well at Mrs. Heeney’s.
We were both just about used up, thin as fiddle-strings, and like
fiddle-strings ready to snap at a touch. Seems queer to think that
thirty-five dollars a week could make such a difference! With it we
were in Paradise; without it we were as near the other place as people
can get, I guess.
“Well, it was too much for her. She was one of those women who can’t
stand hardships and she couldn’t make out in the position she was
in. Love wasn’t enough for her, there had to be luxury and comfort,
too. One day I came home and she was gone. No,” in answer to a look
of inquiry on Dominick’s face, “there was no other man. She wasn’t
that kind, always as straight as a string. No, she just couldn’t stand
the grind any longer. She left a letter in which she said some pretty
hard things to me, but I’ve tried to forget and not bear malice. It
was a woman half crazy with heat and nerves and overwork that wrote
them. The gist of it was that she’d gone back to California, to her
sisters who lived there, and she was not coming back. She didn’t like
it,--marriage, or me, or Chicago. She was just going to throw the whole
business overboard. She told me if I followed her, or tried to hold
her, she’d disappear, hinted that she’d kill herself. That was enough
for me. God knows if she didn’t want me I wasn’t going to force myself
upon her. And, anyway, she knew fast enough I couldn’t follow her.
I hadn’t money to have my shoes patched, much less buy a ticket to
California.
“After that there were some dark days for me. Deserted, with no money,
with no work, and no prospects--I tell you that’s the time the iron
goes down into a man’s soul. I didn’t know what was going to become of
me, and I didn’t care. One day on the street I met an old chum of mine,
a fellow called Defay, that I hadn’t seen for years. He was going to
the Klondike, and when he heard my hard-luck story, he proposed to me
to join forces and go along with him. I jumped at it, anything to get
away from that town and state that was haunted with memories of her.
“It was just the beginning of the gold rush and we went up there and
stayed for two years. Defay was one of the finest men I ever knew.
Life’s all extremes and contrasts; there’s a sort of balance to it if
you come to look close into it. I’d had an experience with the kind of
woman that breaks a man’s heart as you might a pipe-stem, then I ran
up against the kind of man that gives you back your belief in human
nature. He died of typhoid a year and a half after we got there. I had
it first and nearly died; in fact, the rumor went out that it was I
that was dead and not Defay. As I changed my name and went on the stage
soon afterward, it was natural enough for people to say Junius Carter
was dead.
“I was pretty near starving when I drifted on the stage. I had learned
some conjuring tricks, and that and my voice took me there. I just
about made a living for a year, and then I floated back down here.
I never played in San Francisco till now. I acted on the western
circuits, used to go as far East as Denver and Kansas City, and then
swing round the circle through the northwestern cities and Salt Lake. I
managed to make a living and no more. I was cast in parts that didn’t
suit me. The ‘Klondike Monologue’ was the first thing I did that was in
my line.”
“Did you never see or hear of your wife?”
“Not a word. I didn’t know whether she was dead or living till last
night.”
Buford raised his eyes and looked piercingly into the young man’s face.
Dominick forgot the time, his engagement, Berny’s anticipated entrance.
He drew himself up in his chair and said in a loud, astonished voice,
“Last night? Then the woman you saw here last night was your _wife_?”
The actor gravely inclined his head.
“I saw my wife,” he said solemnly, “last night at Deledda’s restaurant.
It was entirely by accident. I liked the Mexican cooking and had been
more than once to that place. Last night I was about to enter the
back part of the restaurant when I saw her sitting there alone in the
corner. For a moment I could not believe my eyes. I got behind a lace
curtain and watched her. She was changed but it was she. I heard her
speak to the waiter and if I’d never seen her face I’d have known the
voice among a thousand. She’d grown stouter and I think even prettier,
and she looked as if she were prosperous. She was well-dressed and her
hands were covered with rings. When she went out I followed her and she
came straight here from the restaurant and rang the bell and came in.”
“Are you sure she didn’t go into one of the other flats? There are four
in the building.”
“No, she came in here. I compared the number on the transom with the
address you’d given me on the card.”
“What an extraordinary thing!” said Dominick. “It’s evidently some one
my wife knows who came to see her that evening, probably to keep her
company while I was out. But I can’t think who it could be.”
He tried to run over in his mind which one of Berny’s acquaintances the
description might fit and could think of no one. Probably it was some
friend of her working-girl days, who had dropped out of her life and
now, guided by Fate had unexpectedly reappeared.
“It’s certainly a remarkable coincidence,” he went on, “that she should
have come to this flat, one of the few places in the city where you
know the people. If she’d gone to any of the others----”
A ring at the bell stopped him.
“There!” he said, “that’s Mrs. Ryan. Now we’ll hear who it was.”
For a moment they both sat silent, listening, the actor with his face
looking sharp and pale in the suspense of the moment, the muscles of
his lean cheeks working. The rustle of Berny’s dress sounded from the
stairway and grew in volume as she slowly ascended. The two men rose to
their feet.
“Come in the den for a moment, Berny,” Dominick called. “There’s a
gentleman here who wants to see you.”
The rustle advanced up the hall, and the portière was drawn back.
Bernice, brilliantly dressed, a mauve orchid pinned on her bosom, stood
in the aperture, smiling.
Buford’s back was against the light, and, for the first moment she
only saw him as a tall masculine outline and her smile was frank and
natural. But he saw her plain as a picture and before Dominick could
frame the words of introduction, started forward, crying,
“Bernice Iverson!”
She drew back as if struck and made a movement to drag the portière
over her. Her face went white to the lips, the patches of rouge
standing out on her cheeks like rose-leaves pasted on the sickly skin.
“Who--who’s that?” she stammered, turning a wild eye on Dominick.
“Mr. Ryan,” the actor cried, beside himself with excitement, “_this_
is my wife! This is the woman I’ve been talking of! Bernice, don’t you
know me? Junius Carter?”
“He’s crazy,” she faltered, her lips so loose and tremulous they could
hardly form the words. “I never saw him before. I don’t know what he’s
talking about. Who’s Junius Carter?”
“This is my wife, Mr. Buford,” said Dominick, who had been staring from
one to the other in blank astonishment. “We’ve been married nearly
three years. I don’t understand----”
“It’s Bernice Iverson, the girl I married in Chicago, that I’ve
just been telling you about, that I saw last night at the Mexican
restaurant. Why, she can’t deny it. She can’t look at me and say she
doesn’t know me--Junius Carter, the man she married in the Methodist
chapel, seven years ago, in Chicago. Bernice----”
He approached her and she shrank back.
“Keep away from me,” she cried hoarsely, stretching out a trembling
hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re crazy. Junius
Carter’s dead--” then suddenly turning on Dominick with a blazing look
of fury--“It’s you that have done this! It’s you, you snake! I’ll be
even with you yet!”
She tore herself out of the folds of the portière which she had
clutched to her and rushed into the hall and into her own room. The
banging of the door behind her shook the house.
The two men stood as she had left them, staring at each other, not
knowing what to say, speechless and aghast.
[Illustration: “Mr. Ryan,” the actor cried, “_this_ is my wife”
_Page 463_]