Infatuation
But intermingled with that pleasure, darting through it like a tongue of
flame, was a jealousy of Miss de Vere that not even the bitterest of
contempt could allay. Phyllis felt to the full the degradation of being
jealous of any one bearing so preposterous a name. Lydia de Vere! Her
lips curled at herself. Oh, that shoddy affectation of aristocracy!
Lydia de Vere! And that in a ten-twenty-thirty cent theater, and hardly
clothed above the waist; and yet, in spite of her painted face, her dyed
hair, and all of her thirty years, with shoulders and breast that a
duchess might have envied, she was handsome in her common, flamboyant,
chorus-girl way, with the meaningless good looks that one associates
with tights and gilt spears. Her acting was stilted and false; her fine
ladyism an impossible assumption; she railed at the Prince in the
accents of a cook giving notice. But her love for Correze taxed no
histrionic powers. It was vehement and real, as were the kisses she
bestowed so freely, and the caresses she lingered over with voluptuous
satisfaction. Beneath the drama of fictitious personages was another of
flesh and blood, like a splash of scarlet on a printed page.
What fury and anguish lay pent up in one girlish bosom! What a
suffocating sense of defeat, bitterness and shame!-- To burn with
jealousy of such a woman was more lowering than to-- No, she would not
admit that word to herself. It was folly, infatuation, madness--but not
love. It would pass with the swiftness it had come, leaving her in
wonder at herself, though the scar would remain for many a long day.
This man was robbing her of something that never perhaps could be
altogether replaced. How wicked it was, how unjust--she who had done
nothing to tempt the lightning! She hated him for it; she clenched her
teeth and defied him; she understood now what she had read in books that
there are men the mind scorns even while the body surrenders. But she
was made of stronger stuff; she had pride and courage; her pearls were
not for swine to trample on. She would put him out of her head for
ever.
It was terrible how he always got back again. There were tones in his
voice that melted every resolution. If ever laughter was music, it was
his, and the contagion of it swept the house; and his face, though not
handsome in the accepted sense, was striking in the effect it gave of an
untamed, extraordinary and powerful nature, only half revealed. What
was pride or courage or anything? What availed the hatred of that
hotly-beating little heart? Had he not but to look her way to make it
his own? Had he crushed it in his hand, would it not have died of joy?
Hatred, resentment, outraged self-respect--words, nothing but words.
As the house streamed out she waited in dread for Mrs. Beekman's
criticism. However desperately she might belittle Adair to herself,
Phyllis shrank from hearing condemnation on other lips. The pride that
had failed so utterly to defend her, had taken sides with the enemy,
devotedly, passionately. Judge of her surprise, then, her pleasure and
relief, when Mrs. Beekman said to her solemnly: "Phyllis, that man's a
genius! He's perfectly splendid!" Misunderstanding her companion's
silence, and thinking it implied dissent, she went on with a note of
argument in her voice. "Of course one can feel somehow that he has had
no advantages--that he has probably never been within ten miles of the
people he is trying to represent--(do you remember his shaking hands
with his gloves on?)--but just the same he has a wonderful and
magnificent talent, and we'll hear of him as surely as the world heard
of Henry Irving, or Booth, or Bernhardt. Truly, Phyllis, I believe the
day will come when we'll be bragging of having admired Adair before he
was famous; that is, if you feel like me about it," she added
doubtfully.
"I do, I do!" cried Phyllis. "I've never seen anybody on the stage I've
liked as much."
"Well, I have," said Mrs. Beekman candidly. "He certainly suffered from
being with all those idiots, and I don't like that fling-ding walk of
his.--I guess he's about five years short of the winning-post, but we'll
see him romp in as sure as my name's Emma Beekman."
"Romping in" jarred somewhat on Phyllis' ear, but all the same Mrs.
Beekman's admiration was very sweet to her, and in a queer sort of way
was comforting and reassuring. There was dignity in idolizing a genius;
it raised her in her own good opinion.
She forgot the apples and the chewing-gum; she forgot even Miss de Vere;
a mantle of unreasoning happiness enveloped her, and with it came a gush
of affection for Mrs. Beekman that quite astonished the latter. She
held her hand in the dark, and tried, with many unseen blushes, to keep
the one subject uppermost. To lie back in the carriage and hear Adair
praised, thrilled her with delicious sensations. She was insatiable,
and kept the milliner repeating "genius, genius, genius," like a parrot.
It cost her an order for a twenty dollar hat, but what did she care?
She would have given the clothes off her back in the extravagance of her
desire. Fortunately Mrs. Beekman was nothing loath, and would have
chattered for ever on this entrancing topic. "I guess we're as bad as
my girls," she said, with her good-natured laugh, "and he could put us
both in the box-car, too, if he had the mind."
"I shouldn't care if I was the only one," returned Phyllis gaily, "and
anyway, I've always loved traveling!"
"It would be to the devil," said Mrs. Beekman half-seriously. "That's
where such men come from, and that's where they go back--and if you
could follow round the circle, I guess you'd find it mile-stoned with
silly girls."
"Oh, if I went, I would stay to the end," cried Phyllis. "No putting me
off at a way-station. I'd take a through ticket."
"And get there alone," put in Mrs. Beekman. "Men like that don't go far
with any girl. They are a power for mischief, and they weren't much
wrong in the old days to run them out of town--vagabonds and strolling
players, you know. I guess in those times they used to take chickens,
too, and anything portable. A bad lot, my dear, and they aren't any
better to-day."
This was a poor return for a twenty-dollar hat, and without knowing
exactly why, it made Phyllis exceedingly miserable. She felt a
diminishing affection for Mrs. Beekman; and the world altogether
suddenly took on a cold and dismal aspect. Her spirits were not revived
by finding her father sitting up for her.
"What was the play?" he asked, taking her wraps.
"_Moths_, Papa."
"What? Twice?"
"Oh, I thought it would amuse me to see it again, and besides, Mrs.
Beekman preferred it to anything else in town, and I really went for her
sake, you know. It's a charity to take her out sometimes; her life is
so monotonous, and one feels so sorry for her."
Mr. Ladd waited, smiling in advance, for another humorous take-off of
the piece. But there was no fun in Phyllis that night. She drank a
glass of water, kissed him good night, and went silently up to bed.
"She doesn't seem very well," he thought, with a shade of concern, and
remembered that she had been pale and tired for some days past. "If she
doesn't pick up in a day or two, I believe I'll get the doctor."
Had he seen her an hour later, his misgivings would have increased.
Kneeling beside her bed, her face crushed in the coverlet, she was
weeping softly and heart-brokenly to herself.
*CHAPTER VIII*
Friday, the day that followed, was memorable to her for its decisiveness
and remorse. She took a long ride, and between canters, busied her head
with plans of escape. Washington, Florida, Europe--it mattered little
where--so long as she got away at once. She looked at herself
dispassionately, and the more she looked the more utterly despicable did
she seem. She was undoubtedly in love with this cheap, showy
actor--(somehow in the sunshine his genius had withered, and he seemed
to share the general tawdriness of gum and apples and shop-boy
sentiment)--crazily in love, infatuated; and to refuse to admit it was
but to hide her head in the sand, like an ostrich.
The comparison was not a pretty one, but then she was not looking for
pretty comparisons. In fact, as far as her feelings for Adair were
concerned, she was eager to find words that could make her wince. She
said them out loud, exulting in their brutality; gross words, picked up
she hardly knew where, and put out of mind as unclean and horrible. To
use them now was a form of self-flagellation, and she laid on the whip
with a will. It was good for a little fool, she said viciously. Lash!
lash! It would keep her out of mischief. Lash! lash! Let her understand
once for all what it really meant, even if the skin curled off her back.
On her return home she stopped at the telegraph-office to carry out her
intention of volunteering a visit to Aunt Sarah's. Night or day, in
season or out, there she always had a refuge. If blood in Aunt Sarah's
case, was not thicker than water, there was the more robust bond of hard
cash always to be relied upon. A niece who descended in a shower of
gold could count with confidence on the bread and salt of hospitality,
and the sincerest of welcoming kisses. There is something to be said
for people you can count on with confidence. An affectionate,
love-you-like-a-daughter aunt might have made excuses. A money-loving,
pleasure-loving, wholly selfish aunt, living very much above her income,
was one of the certainties of life.
But as she reined in her horse, and the groom ran to give her his hand
to dismount, she wondered, after all, whether she would telegraph. The
flagellation had been very successful; the September sunshine had killed
the pitiful glimmer of the footlights; the crisp invigorating air had
brought sanity with every breath. No, indeed, she would not telegraph,
she was not half the fool she had thought herself; it was a girlish
weakness to exaggerate everything--infatuation included. She would
telephone to that nice New Yorker instead and invite him to tea. That
oldish man with the charming distinction and courtesy, who had shown
symptoms of infatuation, too.--Yes, a good whipping to be followed by
two hours of an excessively devoted Mr. Van Suydam, and perhaps a
boy-and-girl-evening later with the carpet up--and why should anybody be
scared of anything?
So the telegram was not sent; and a young lady, very much restored, and
looking adorably fresh and pretty on her Kentucky mare, came galloping
up Chestnut Avenue in excellent spirits and appetite.
As for Mr. Van Suydam--he threw over a big reception to come, and was so
agreeable and eager, in such a sweet, restrained, smiling way, that he
was allowed to hold a little hand a long, long while, and murmur a whole
heartful of tender things that amounted virtually to a
declaration--which was cruel of Phyllis, not to say unladylike and
shocking; for with half-shut eyes she tried to imagine it was quite
another man who was wooing her, and abandoned herself to the fiction
with a waywardness that was inexcusable. But however unjust it was
towards Mr. Van Suydam, who was an honorable man, and meant what he
said, and was naturally much elated--his suit did Phyllis good, and even
as dummy for another, an inevitable comparison would insist upon
obtruding itself. Caste is very strong; it is difficult to associate
good-breeding, honor and distinction with a ten-twenty-thirty cent star;
and though Mr. Van Suydam, was nothing to Phyllis personally she could
not help realizing the high value she set on the qualities he
exemplified--so high, indeed, that it began to seem impossible for her
to care seriously for any man without them.