The Gay Adventure: A Romance
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