Coming out of the stage door after the performance one night shortly
after the New Year, the back-door keeper met me with the information
that a gentleman was waiting to see me. Before I could frame a reply a
bulky figure emerged from the gloom. I recognized Mr. F. of Chicago.
There was something akin to embarrassment in the way he proffered his
hand, though his grip was not lacking in geniality. Of the two I was the
more self-possessed. To my polite inquiries about his family he murmured
something about their being all right, he guessed, and abruptly changed
the subject by asking me to "come jump in a taxi and let's go somewhere
for a bite of supper." I did not understand why I so readily acquiesced.
On the way to Rector's--he himself having made the choice of
restaurant--we exchanged amenities. I believe I deplored the fact that I
was not dressed for the occasion, and he had replied with a flattering
speech intended to salve my vanity. After he had ordered the most
expensive items on the menu, he settled back in his chair, toyed with
his fork, looked at me searchingly, then broke out laughing. The
laughter was not pleasant to the ear; it left an unpleasant
apprehension. He leaned across the table with a confidential air and
smiled quizzically....
"Do you remember the last time we had supper together?"
I nodded and coaxed a smile.
"Perfectly," I responded.
A silence, while Mr. F. traced strange hieroglyphics on the napery.
After a while he tossed aside the fork with the air of one casting off
unpleasant memories, and settled back in his chair.
"Tell me about yourself," he commanded. "How is the world using you?
What in the name of wonder ever took you on the comic opera stage? I
couldn't believe my own eyes when I spotted you to-night, and, of
course, the name on the programme meant nothing to me. I shook my
friends as soon as the performance was over and interviewed the
back-door keeper. He told me you were Mrs. Hartley in private life....
Well, what's the answer?"
"There's nothing mysterious about my present occupation. Mr. Hartley
hasn't been especially lucky this season, and when a chance to help out
a bit presented itself I took it ... that's all.... I presume you know
that we lost our boy...."
"Yes--yes ... I knew, of course." His tone was curt, but I understood
his reluctance to dwell upon the subject. The return of the waiter ended
a painful silence. After that Mr. F. kept up a running fire of gossip
and questions about stage life. But beneath the surface I sensed and
lent him tacit aid in his effort to steer clear of the topic I knew to
be uppermost in his mind. From time to time rumours of a fresh rupture
with his wife had reached me. In fact, it was Will who had acquainted me
with the news of their final estrangement. He confided the details of
the lady's latest excursion into the realm of the illicit, with the
sententious air of, "There! Didn't I predict what would happen?" and a
shrug of the shoulders. I am not sure that it was not Will's intent to
sympathize with himself as a victim of circumstances over which he had
no control. Indeed, the occasional bursts of confidences which he thrust
upon me, and in which he discussed quite frankly the indiscretions of
certain lion-hunting ladies, were made, I felt, with the hope of
impressing upon me the pitfalls with which a man in his profession is
surrounded. Or was it vanity, or a desire to fan the old flame of
passion he once had aroused--a passion, which, if the paraphrase is
pardonable, was now "tame and waited on judgment?"
In some way--I am not certain how it came about, since "made"
conversation is at best disjointed and lacks in sequence--a random
remark inspired a challenge from Mr. F., who offered to lay a bet that I
was in the wrong. "O, no," I had replied, "I don't want you to lose;
besides, you do not pay your gambling debts promptly. Do you know you
never sent me that box of candy I won from you in Cincinnati? Mr. F....
you're not a good sport!" With a shock I realized I was in shallow
waters.... He looked at me with his eyes narrowed to mere slits....
"Well, little woman, I can't say that of you, can I?... I can't say that
you're not a good sport--after that performance in Cincinnati." ...
I flushed but made a heroic effort to control my voice. "I don't think I
follow you." Mr. F. beat up the bubbles in his glass and watched them
come to the surface before he answered.
"Of course you've heard about her latest affair with that Italian opera
singer.... Well, I caught her with the goods this time.... For the sake
of the children I'm letting her get the divorce...." He left off
frowning and contemplated me with an amused smile. "Say, little woman,
you did put it all over me there in Cincinnati, didn't you?... I suppose
you're wondering how I got wise to it? Well, I wrung the confession out
of her; I wouldn't let her get the divorce until she told me the truth,
and then I checked it up through her sister, who's a pretty good
sort.... All my life I've had a deep-rooted respect for a game sport....
When I look at that pretty little face of yours and think of the job you
cooked up at a moment's notice--well, I take off my hat to you, that's
all!... Look here, little woman: if anything ever goes wrong between you
and handsome Bill--and by Gad! I thought it had when I saw you on the
stage to-night--if ever you need a friend, just tap the wires. There's
my club address ... and, little lady--don't be afraid that I'll ask
anything in return--do you follow me? I'm not any better than the rest
of my kind, but I think I know the real thing when I meet it."
While donning my wraps in the cloak-room some time later, I was
surprised to see my little friend Leila enter and present her coat-check
to the maid. She flushed a little in surprise as she greeted me: "Why,
Mrs. Hartley! I didn't know you were here! Where were you sitting? Why
didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"I didn't know myself. I found an old acquaintance waiting, and of
course he wanted to see 'where the soubrettes hang out.'"
"How funny! My coming was unexpected, too. I'll tell you all about it
to-morrow." She hurried away, a little eagerly, I thought. As I passed
out in response to a beckon from Mr. F. I saw Leila being helped into a
handsome fur coat.
I told myself it was none of my business; that Leila knew perfectly well
what she was doing and that any amount of advice from me would not only
not be acted upon, but would be resented. Already she avoided me. To my
pleadings that I was lonely--would she not dine with me at my home?--she
responded with ever-ready but piffling excuses and subterfuges. I would
see her emerge from her dressing-room after the performance, prettily
dressed, get into a waiting taxicab and be whirled away. The situation
preyed on my mind. Once I took courage in both hands and called at her
lodging-house only to be told that Miss Moore had moved away a month
since. I got the new address from the back-door keeper, and when my
little friend was out of the cast through illness I seized the
opportunity to call on her.
It was one of those smaller apartment hotels in the West Forties; I was
taken up in the elevator without challenge. The coloured maid who
cautiously opened the door said she did not know whether her mistress
would see me. Something in my manner, however, caused her to stand aside
and let me enter. The rooms were tastefully if cheaply furnished. Leila
was lying on a couch, propped with pillows and clad in a dainty silk
kimono. She was taken by surprise and flushed a little as she extended
her hand. The maid placed a chair for me.
"I--I thought you had forgotten me," she stammered as I offered the
flowers I had brought. "How good of you!"
"They're only seconds, Leila, but the best I could afford." And,
compared to the big American Beauties reposing in a vase near at hand,
they certainly did look shop-worn.
"It's a beastly day, isn't it? Let me send for a cup of tea or maybe
you'd like a high-ball...."
I declined both. The maid disappeared. Leila squirmed about on her
pillows....
"I'm sorry to see you ill, Leila," I ventured by way of breaking the
ice.
"O, I'm not really ill ... only a slight cold. I'm a bit run down and
the Judge--that is--the doctor thought I should rest for a while. I'm
not going back to the theatre this season.... It's awfully good of you
to bother about me...."
"Leila?" I said finally.... "Leila, is it worth it?"
"Is what worth----"....
"All this." I indicated the apartment, the piano, the silk negligee--and
the ring on her finger.... "Is it worth the price you are paying?" I
asked gently. She lifted her shoulders.
"I don't know!" Her tone was half question, half defiance.... "I _do_
know that the other way wasn't worth the sacrifices, the scrimping and
mean pinching. I couldn't go on like that--I couldn't! I am young; I
want some of the good things of life while I am still young ... and I
was lonely. I didn't fit into my environment."
"I understand, Leila.... Perhaps I appreciate the loneliness, the
rebellion, better than you think.... You see other girls enjoying the
good things of life and apparently happy. But, after all, happiness is
purely relative, and what makes for their happiness might not make for
yours. Leila, dear girl, couldn't you make up your mind to stick it out
just a little while longer?... Things were sure to come your way--or,
perhaps, you would meet the right man and marry and settle down in the
little home of your own which you told me you have always craved."
"The right kind of men don't marry chorus girls. The exceptions are
rare. And what manner of men are they who _do_ marry a girl out of the
chorus? Old worn-out roues, almost senile from the debauched lives they
have led. They crave something young and fresh as an elixir of life.
Sometimes it's a young blood with money; a black sheep of the family who
drinks and sports, and in the end there's divorce if nothing worse....
I couldn't marry a man like either of these.... It's a mistake to be too
fastidious...."
"Is--is--he married?"
"He--O.... Yes, he's married--in a way. His wife and he have not really
lived together for years. For the sake of the family they keep up
appearances.... She doesn't understand him...."
"Did _he_ tell you that--and you _believe_ it?"
"But I know it's true! You'd believe it, too, if ever you were to see
her. He married her when he was young and poor."
"I presume they loved each other then; she probably pinched and scrimped
in those days to help him--to help him get where he is to-day."
"I don't know anything about that, of course. But I do know that I
admire him; he has a wonderful mind. It's a privilege to be associated
with a man like him. If you knew him, you would not think so badly of
the--the arrangement."
I left my chair to sit beside her on the couch.
"Dear girl," I said, slipping my hand in hers, "Don't misunderstand me.
I'm not sitting in judgment, neither am I criticizing you. But I want
you to think of the future. Have you ever thought of the time when you
will be no longer young? Have you never observed that type of woman one
finds hanging around restaurants or hotel corridors, hoping to pick up a
man, any man, it doesn't matter what kind of a man so long as he has a
little money? These women are getting along in years, taking on flesh,
hiding the ravages of time and dissipation with rouge, hair-dyes and
more dissipation. They are fighting life and getting the worst of it,
having put into life only their worst: thrown from one man's arms into
another's: down the line--always down grade, lower and lower
until--until what remains? The streets, the work-house, or suicide....
Have you thought of that?"
"No! _No! No!_--and I don't want to think of it!" She pounded her fists
vehemently together.... "I'm tired of thinking of the future! I've done
nothing all my life but think and live in the future--and now I'm going
to get what there is--all there is--out of the present, if it's only a
pretty gown, only a bright flower! What incentive has a girl like me to
be good? Go away! Go away, please, and don't bother about me!" ...
As I walked up Fifth Avenue on my way home, the shops and various
dressmaking establishments were disgorging their workers: pale girls,
for the most part, poorly clad. Here and there one prettier than the
rest, showing in her dress the innate love of display; passing the
well-dressed saunterer along the way with a pert glance, an inviting
eye; dreaming of the silks she had handled all day; longing for the
comforts of life which money alone can buy.... After all, is it a
question of morals or economics which leads these girls astray? As my
little friend had put it, "What incentive have they to go straight?"