RATHER STAGY
After Beatrice had bidden Lionel good-by in the early dawn she did the
most sensible thing possible: she went to bed. But it is one thing to go
to bed and another to go to sleep, as many a sufferer--from insomnia,
love, indigestion, or kindred ailments--has found to his cost. You feel
weary, oppressed with the want of sleep, let us say, yawnsome--in a
word, ready to drop off the moment you are between the sheets. But, if a
white night be inscribed in the book of Fate, how changed the mood as
soon as the light is out! At once, almost, you lose that sense of
impending slumber and become wide awake, clear-eyed and keen of brain.
Something occurs to interest your mind and you meditate perspicaciously
thereon. Another thought succeeds, and another, and you grow more
wakeful every moment. Soon you begin to say, "I must go to sleep now,"
and resolutely try to refuse to think. But resolution is vain before
insomnia. Eyelids may be tightly shut, but the masked eyeballs still
peer vigilantly into the void: hands may clench themselves in the
hopeless effort to compose the will and induce the wished-for slumber:
the alert body may strive to cheat itself by observing the accustomed
ritual--first on the right side, then left, then right again--in the
expectation of influencing mind by matter: droves of sheep may be
counted passing through innumerable gates--poems recited till the very
thought of verse revolts--numerals repeated by the ticking brain--but
still you are far from the haven. It seems that
"Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world"
could bestow the most blessed of all boons. And at last you give up the
unequal struggle and try to make the best of it.
Failing drugs--and one has to be a smart society lady, a broken man or
woman, for them--there are various palliatives. You may turn on the
light and read till sleep comes with soothing fingers upon tired brows.
Or, if young and enterprising, you can go for a walk and see the dawn.
Or sometimes an impromptu bedroom picnic--bread and cheese and a bottle
of beer raided thief-wise from the pantry, taking great care not to let
the stairs creak and alarm the house--may have excellent results. These,
and a score of similar expedients, may be recommended with assurance to
the patient. And if they fail, at least they have passed an hour or so
more pleasantly than in mere acquiescence.
Beatrice lay awake, sorely against her will. She knew that sleep was
what she needed, and would need still more within some fourteen hours.
The strain of acting, followed by her preposterous adventure at the
magnanimous churchwarden's, had used up more of her nervous resources
than was desirable. Sleep was therefore the obvious thing. But alas! it
proved the impossible thing, too, and she lay restless, aglow with
thought, waiting impatiently for what she knew would not come.
What did she think of during those hours of frenzied vision? Was it of
Lukos, waiting in an eastern prison for the news that would set him free
to join her? Was it her dead son, the little boy she had spoken of to
Lionel? Or Turkey, the land of her adoption, struggling for freedom,
enmeshed with perils, the slave of diplomatic and selfish adventures?
Her art--had it a place within those weary wheels of thought; her
success on the stage, the triumphs of the footlights--illusory, but so
real in seeming, so satisfying and complete? Or Lionel--did he whip her
straining fancies to a wilder effort toward the goal? Something of all
these may have engaged her, for each was inextricably interwoven with
the others. Lukos--Lionel--the sultan--Mizza--the Hedderwicks--the
ambassador--a hundred minor characters, "supers" in the drama of her
life, wheeled hither and thither, mocking, defying, questioning. The
horrible lines of Wilde burned in letters of fire upon the wall:
"Slim shadows hand in hand:
About, about, in ghostly rout
They trod a saraband:
And the damned grotesques made arabesques,
Like the wind upon the sand."
Each must have had his place in the drama, but the important question
was, who played the lead? Lukos or Lionel--honor and faith or ...
inclination? Yet that is hardly a fair way of putting it: she must not
define her interest as inclination, hinting at something more potent.
Interest one may admit without qualification: Lionel had saved her life,
was an attractive and pleasant young man, and had been her guest for a
week. Of course Beatrice was interested; she would have been hard or
inhuman otherwise. But did her inclination show signs of becoming
something more? Could she honestly say in the stereotyped phrase that
"he was nothing to her?"--nothing being the antithesis of everything. In
that sense she could say it, for he was certainly not everything. But
was "nothing" exact? Ah!...
At least she must have found comfort in the reflection that she had sent
him away on an errand that would avert all danger, if successfully
carried out. She had been ... weak ... once or twice, but such a
weakness may find a ready forgiveness, considering the circumstances and
the expiation. Which of us, oh, censorious reader, would have been as
strong as Beatrice?
Still, she could not sleep, and for the present that outweighed all
moral hesitations and scruples. At seven o'clock she gave up the unequal
contest, dressed and went out for a short walk. The air calmed her, and
she gained a respite from the self-examination for an hour. Then, after
making an effort to eat some breakfast, she sat down to smoke a
cigarette and think again about Lionel. What was he like, the real man,
the true Lionel? Was he a man to be trusted, a man to be relied on, the
sort of man, so to speak, one would like (supposing it were possible) to
marry? Lionel as a husband.... "Husband" brought a smile, a blush and a
frown to the face of Beatrice, and it is to be hoped that the shade of
Lukos noticed the blush as well as the smile. "Heavens! and I have
only known him a week!" thought Beatrice with self-chastisement:
"besides ..." Precisely! There are so many "besideses" in real life.
But undoubtedly, and without any disloyalty to shades, living or
otherwise, he was the dearest of boys. He had behaved extraordinarily
well throughout--extraordinarily well, for actresses have unique
opportunities of studying man's weakness--not only in the cab and the
dressing-room, but during the week of voluntary imprisonment. Polished,
controlled, devoted without being tiresome, he was certainly the dearest
of boys. Human, too, and humanity was a quality that appealed to
Beatrice; nor did he lack a sense of humor and romance. But she had only
known him for a week, and could she possibly form an adequate judgment
in such a period? "He may be acting all the time," she thought with a
dismal pucker of the forehead, "and I ought to know how easy it can be
to act. What a fool I am to worry over things!"
She threw away the half-smoked cigarette with a petulant gesture and
continued to worry. The remembrance of Mizzi flashed across her
mind--her prettiness and Lionel's evasive declarations. These had been
glib enough, no doubt, but glibness and dexterity were not sufficient to
lull the suspicions of Beatrice. "He is a man," she argued angrily,
perversely pleased in lashing her apprehensions, "and a bachelor. What
else could one expect? Of course, he may not have kissed her, but.... If
he has, well ... what right have I to...."
Her petulance increased with every moment, and when the bell rang about
ten o'clock she felt more like a naughty ill-tempered child than
anything else. Remembering that now she had no maid, she controlled
herself and opened the door. Her face cleared, for on the threshold
stood a man she liked, her manager.
"Hullo, Ashford!" she said. "Come in! I'm glad you've come, for I'm
bored to tears."
Ashford Billing, a smartly-dressed man of thirty-six, entered. One would
hardly have guessed him to be connected with the stage, for he had a
mustache, was well-groomed without over-emphasizing the fact, and had a
pleasant look of self-reliance without swagger. He was tall and lean, as
if he was accustomed to keep himself in hard condition, and though an
American you could scarcely have guessed it from his speech. Four years
in England, during which time he had studied to erase transatlantic
idioms and intonations with a view of playing on the stage, had been
crowned with almost complete success. Only a stray word, a phrase
occasionally, showed that he was not a native-born.
"It's an early call, Miss Blair," he said pleasantly as he followed her
into the sitting-room. "Partly business and partly pleasure. Which will
you have first?"
"Oh, pleasure," answered Beatrice carelessly: "I'm tired of business.
Will you smoke?"
"No, thank you. Well, I'll plunge into the pleasure right away, though
there's some business in it, too. You know I'm not the man to beat about
the bush, so I'll ask you straight out if you're still in the same mind
as you were six months ago?"
Beatrice made an irritated movement of her shoulders.
"Oh, bother!" she answered. "Fancy calling at this hour to ask me that!"
"Sorry," said Ashford Billing. He did not appear at all excited, though
his eyes gleamed. "My time's hardly my own just now--working day and
night over the new production, provincial tours and syndicates. And you
never seem to be at home at reasonable hours--I called twice last week,
but Mizzi said you were out."
Beatrice blushed, and turned to the window to hide the blush. She
remembered her instructions to Mizzi.
"So I thought I'd come now on the off chance," continued Billing. "Dear
Miss Blair, I may not appear romantic or in earnest, but I am. I'm a
plain man and want to marry you. You refused me once, but I don't like
giving up altogether. Is it any good?"
"Not a bit," said Beatrice decisively. "Sorry, Ashford: I like you
awfully, but not that way. So you must take that as final."
"I will for the present," he answered, looking gloomy for a moment. Then
he brightened up. "But at the risk of offending I warn you that I mean
to ask you again later on, in case you change your mind. In the American
dictionary there's no such word as 'impossible.'"
Beatrice was roused at this.
"Look here, Ashford!" she said, biting her lip, "don't you talk to me
like that! It's no good, and I won't have it! You'll make me lose my
temper in a minute. I've never encouraged you, though I've always been
fond of you in a friendly way."
"Then still there may----"
"You've as much chance," said Beatrice, with flashing eyes, "as a
bob-tailed dog in fly time! There's one of your own Americanisms for
you, and I hope you like it!"
Ashford Billing could not help laughing, though Beatrice seemed in a
thoroughly bad temper.
"Say, that's fierce!" he said, relapsing. "Where did you hear that?"
Then he became graver. "But I won't worry you any more. I'm sorry ...
but I guess I'll study to improve my manners."
"Let's get to business," said Beatrice, sitting down. "I'm tired to
death of this. What is it you want?"
"Well," he said, following her example, "I came here for two things. The
first was to ask you to be my--oh, yes! good enough! I know that's a
back number now. For the present, anyway. If that didn't materialize I
wanted to know if you'd care to tour the provinces in _A False Step_.
You know we close down in a week, and I'm going to start the
tour--number one towns only--in the autumn."
Beatrice shook her head.
"No; I'm going to take a rest."
"You'll have lots of time to take a rest before the tour starts. Why
not----"
"Look here, Ashford! You seem to think that I don't know my own mind in
anything. I've already refused your offer for a London shop, and I don't
mean to think about the provinces. See? I won't be worried any
more--I'm----"
She paused and suddenly burst into tears, hiding her face in her hands.
Ashford Billing, long accustomed to the vagaries of leading ladies and
hardened in a rough school, was completely taken aback. He had known
Beatrice for a fine actress and a finer woman--a woman who had charm,
good looks and character. To see her break down for no apparent reason
was not merely distressing--it was a shock.
"Say, little girl," he said kindly--and there was no hint of disrespect,
though on other occasions he was scrupulous in his use of "Miss
Blair"--"I'm real sorry. I didn't know you'd feel bad about it. What's
the trouble? Can I be of any help?"
Beatrice recovered herself, feeling extremely ashamed.
"It's only nerves," she replied, drying her eyes with vicious dabs. "I
didn't sleep last night. That's all. Give me a cigarette."
Billing opened his case and gave her one, looking gravely at her. There
was something behind this, he thought, but what it was he could not
guess.
"I won't worry you any more," he said quietly. "I'd have liked to book
you for that tour, but I guess you know best. You've had a tiring
season--long runs are the very deuce, though they pay the manager. You
take that rest you talk of and make it a good one. But let me know when
you feel like getting to work again."
"Thanks, Ashford," said Beatrice, smoking quickly. "You're a good sort.
But, honestly, I'm thinking of giving up the stage altogether. I'm
getting sick of it."
Billing, who had had the kudos of giving Beatrice her first chance, felt
his heart sink. But, realizing that this was not the time to urge mature
reflection, he held his peace. Beatrice talked idly a few minutes,
trying to appear natural, but the effort was great.
"Where are you going for a holiday?" she asked.
"Flying," he answered. "Across the channel, perhaps. I've never done it
yet."
"What a queer boy you are," she said, looking at him fixedly. "What on
earth made you take to the aeroplane?"
"Why on earth did I take to the sky?" he laughed. "I did it to advertise
my first production over here. It was the right goods, too, for every
one talked about the actor-manager-air-man. When I found how exciting it
was, I couldn't stop. That's all."
"You're odd creatures, you men," said Beatrice, musing. "I should have
thought that managing theaters was exciting enough."
"Change of excitement--just like falling in love with a new sweetheart,"
he smiled.
"Ah! that sounds like a man! Tell me, Ashford, do all men run after
every pretty face they see?"
"You want me to give away trade secrets, eh? Well, I suppose most men
do ... until they're hooked."
"Ashford! _Hooked!_ How loathsome!"
"I beg your pardon ... I was thinking as a cynical bachelor. What I mean
is that I suppose most men swear off the pursuit once they've promised."
"And never relapse?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"The decent ones don't, but even they sometimes have a bit of a
struggle. Take an extreme case: suppose a decent chap gets engaged, and
force of circumstances keeps him apart from his divinity for ...
years...."
"He ought to feel bound in honor not even to think of another!" flashed
Beatrice.
Billing sighed.
"He ought, but he's up against a tough proposition. At least, the decent
one tries...."
"Men are horrible," she said wearily.
"Pretty horrible," he agreed, "but there's an amazing lot of unseen
goodness hidden in the dirt.... Men aren't so bad ... some men. But
we're getting too serious. I must be off. It's been a bad morning's work
for me." He smiled--not very whole-heartedly, but still he smiled. "You
refuse both my offers. But you'll let me know if I can ever do anything,
won't you? That's merely friendly."
Beatrice did not smile, but she looked appreciatively at him.
"Thanks, Ashford," she said. "Yes; I've just remembered one thing you
can do. Read a play by a friend of mine."
He groaned in comic despair.
"All right!" he said, "but don't make me promise to produce it. Remember
this is my living!"
"No; I only want you to read it. If it's bad, say so like a man: don't
put the poor wretch off with the usual sugary criticism. And don't let
it lie for months with all the rest of the lumber. You managers are
cruel to authors, and you've had this one lying idle a long time."
He did not deny the charge, save by a smile.
"I'll read it this week, sure," he said. "What's it called, and who's
the author?"
"I forget the name of the play. The author is a Mr. Mortimer."
She said the name quite easily and without a blush, but Billing on the
instant thought, "Who the devil is he? And what does she want to push
his play for?" But he did not allow his face even to hint at surprise.
He just held out his hand and said good-by, as naturally as if he had
not been rejected without any hope of a future recantation. For though
he professed optimism, in his heart he felt that Beatrice was not for
him, and the knowledge hurt.
"Good-by," he said cheerily. "Mind you have a good holiday, and come
back to work soon."
"Good-by, Ashford," she said, trying to keep back some unnecessary
tears. She had known him for some time and guessed what he was thinking.
He, she was sure, was at least one of the men who tried. "You're a good
sort. Good-by."
Then she telephoned to a garage: "I want my car at two o'clock!"