THE ENGLISH ACTRESS
Mrs. Dainton, the great English actress, had the artistic temperament.
Mrs. Dainton had nerves. Mrs. Dainton had many other things which an
imported foreign star anxious to create a sensation might be expected to
have. For instance, she had Fuzzy-Wuzzy, the petite Pomeranian poodle
which never left her night or day. She had her personal manager, Victor
Weldon, to act as valet for the dog by daytime, and attend to occasional
business details. There were also two maids--Lizette, the French maid,
whose duties were of a personal nature at hotels; and Johanna, the
German maid, who assisted at the theater. Furthermore, there was a
footman whose special province it was to precede Mrs. Dainton at all
times and make sure that no rude persons caused her the slightest
annoyance. In the trail of this imposing procession, as a rule, could be
found Sanford Gordon.
Once Mrs. Dainton had been a great beauty. The daughter of an obscure
country curate in her native England, conditions made it necessary for
her to support herself. Naturally, as so many of her sex have done, she
gravitated toward the stage, which always beckons most alluringly to
those who have beauty, youth and talent. Too often it is but the Lorelei
by which are wrecked the disappointed hopes of those not fitted by
nature or temperament for the hardships that must be encountered, but
with Mrs. Dainton the struggle for success had been aided materially by
the beauty and charm with which she was richly endowed. Returning to
America after a number of years--for her first tour of this country
after her London triumphs had been like a whirlwind--Mrs. Dainton had
found herself still viewed with interest, still admired for the great
beauty which had now reached its maturity, and still peevish and
petulant as a result of the fulfillment of her every slightest wish and
whim. Her little eccentricities were always excused by her personal
manager as "Madame's temperament." If an inquisitive newspaper man
wanted to know why Madame had held the curtain until nine o'clock--when
in reality she had merely motored into the country too far and had been
careless of the time--Victor would explain: "Ah, Madame has been
visiting some sick children. She is always so generous, so considerate."
Long experience had made Victor invaluable. His it was to receive the
blame whenever anything went wrong, to excuse to the utmost the
weaknesses of the English actress whenever, as they often did, her whims
seemed likely to affect the box-office receipts.
Consequently, when Mrs. Dainton and her entourage, passing out on their
way to Sanford Gordon's new ninety horse-power touring car which was
drawn up before the hotel, entered the sun parlor, it didn't in the
least surprise the amiable and considerate Victor to have the English
actress pause, sniff, stamp her foot, and protest.
"Some one has been smoking here," she insisted shrilly. "Victor, send
for the manager! The same thing happened yesterday."
"I have already complained once--" began Weldon, shifting the Pomeranian
from the left arm to the right.
"No matter--complain again. If we cannot have satisfaction, complain a
third and a fourth time. That is what hotel managers are here for--to
listen to complaints."
Sanford Gordon, the least obtrusive figure of the little cavalcade, and
the one who, for personal reasons, least desired a scene which might
find its way into the newspapers, stepped forward to calm the irate
actress. Once, rumor said, Sanford Gordon had been able to calm her
impetuous spirit, but that had been in days long gone by. Then he had
chartered a private car to be near her on her travels, he had risked an
open scandal by his devotion to the celebrated beauty. Now things were
different. Not only did he not relish the idea of an altercation with a
hotel management, always fraught with sensational newspaper
possibilities which his smart fellow club members in New York might turn
into a jibe or a joke, but his influence with Mrs. Dainton herself
seemed to be waning.
"Really, my dear Mrs. Dainton," he began softly, "what does it matter?
We do not intend to remain here more than a moment."
Perhaps for some hidden reason of her own, Mrs. Dainton seemed to find
pleasure in turning upon him suddenly.
"How do you know how long I may stay here? Perhaps I may wish to spend
the afternoon here," she declared. "Some one has been smoking here,
smoking vile, filthy cigars. Such things affect my voice. And what could
I do without my voice? I couldn't act. I should be penniless. Victor,
you must not let this happen again."
"I will do my best, Mrs. Dainton," replied Victor.
"Marky" Zinsheimer, covertly throwing away his cigar, rose and bowed
before the English actress, while the footman stared in surprise, and
Victor seemed aghast at the presumption.
"I beg pardon, Mrs. Dainton, it was I who smoked," said "Marky."
Mrs. Dainton surveyed him curiously through her lorgnette.
"Indeed! You should have known better. I really think you had better
complain to the manager, Victor, about this person."
"My name is Zinsheimer," bowed "Marky," smiling amiably. "Well-known
first-nighter in New York--go to all the theaters--maybe you've heard of
me. I'm known everywhere along Broadway. Perhaps you may remember I
bought the first box for your opening night last season. Yes, paid three
hundred dollars for it, too," he added proudly, as an afterthought.
"Really?" repeated Mrs. Dainton, languidly. "Such things do not interest
me in the least. I never think of the sordid details of business--I live
only for my art."
She passed him by as though he were merely a part of the furniture.
"Marky" gazed at her furtively, but slowly his composure deserted him.
He backed away carefully from this wonderful creation.
"She lives only for her art, eh?" he murmured softly. "I got you--you'll
die young," he added to himself, as he drew another cigar from his
pocket, ostentatiously lighted it, and strolled out onto the veranda.
"Victor, is the motor here?" demanded Mrs. Dainton.
Victor shifted the Pomeranian to the other arm, stepped to the door of
the sun parlor, and reported that the chauffeur seemed to be tinkering
with the car.
"And must I breathe this horrible atmosphere while that lazy chauffeur
pretends to fix the car? You must discharge him and get another."
"But I say," broke in Gordon, "the man's the best driver I ever had. I
brought him from France."
"I don't care if you brought him from Hindoostan," retorted Mrs.
Dainton, coldly. "When I say I will not use him after to-day, I mean
it." Reaching two daintily gloved hands toward the Pomeranian, snugly
ensconced under Victor's arm, the actress grasped its little, fuzzy
head, pressed it to her cheek, and smothered it with kisses. "And my
poor 'ittle Fuzzy-Wuzzy. Must 'oo breafe ze awful smoke, too, bress um
baby heartsums. Ums 'ittle Fuzzy-Wuzzy is mamma's pet, isn't ums?"
"The motor is ready now, Madame," ventured Victor stolidly.
Mrs. Dainton handed the dog to Johanna.
"Wrap the precious darling up warmly, Johanna," she said. "You ride with
me, Victor. Lizette, my cloak. Crawley, you ride in front with the
chauffeur and keep any dust from entering Fuzzy's eyes."
As the procession started toward the waiting car, Gordon, who followed
close by the English actress, inquired:
"Where shall we go to-day?"
"Really, I don't think we shall have room for you to-day, Sanford," said
Mrs. Dainton, somewhat coldly, pausing at the top of the steps while the
maids, assisted by the footman and Victor, helped Fuzzy-Wuzzy tenderly
into the car.
"That's what you have said for the past three days," Gordon cried
tensely. "And yet I brought my own machine and my own chauffeur out
here from New York just to please you."
"And you are pleasing me a great deal, Sanford, by letting me go alone."
"Will nothing I do ever move you?" inquired Gordon. Then, as he saw she
was more interested in the way Johanna was holding the Pomeranian, he
added fiercely: "Once you would have answered differently."
Mrs. Dainton turned on him, her manner a strange mingling of sadness and
regret.
"Ah, yes, once," she said softly. "I loved you then without any thought
of the future, and I have paid for it with many, many bitter years of
repentance. Now, after all these years--years when you seemed to have
forgotten my very existence and the thing which you had once called
love--I return to America, praised and honored by those who in the old
days had treated me so lightly, you among the rest."
"That's not true," broke in Gordon. "I always loved you."
"But we parted," continued Mrs. Dainton, bitterly. "And if I had
returned, needing your help instead of being able to reject all that you
can give, would you have come to me again?"
"You know I should have."
"No, Sanford, we seek only that which is beyond our reach," she said
softly, laying her hand on his arm. "The candle has burned out. Do not
try to relight it. I have been only an incident in your life--"
"That's not true."
"Don't you suppose I know about the others?"
"They were nothing to me. It was you, always you."
"One who has been through the mill doesn't care to be crushed by the
mill-stones a second time. Take my advice, Sanford--return to New York,
seek out some nice young girl, and marry her."
"Never!"
"Really!" Mrs. Dainton laughed lightly as she ran down the steps and was
helped into the car by the vigilant Victor. "Ta-ta, Sanford, I'll see
you to-morrow, or the day after." And in another moment the big, red
touring-car had whirled away, leaving upon the steps the solitary figure
of a tall, dark, good-looking chap of uncertain age, who clenched his
hands tightly, then turned suddenly as a bell-boy passed along the
veranda.
"Boy!"
"Yes, sir."
"Tell my valet to pack up at once. I'm leaving for New York to-night."
"Yes, sir. Very good, sir," closing a responsive palm. "Thank you,
sir."