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My Actor-Husband

<h3>CHAPTER XVIII</h3> WILL'S season closed early. My own promised to run well into the summer months. Will's return was marked by a happier frame of mind and a corresponding good humour. He had been re-engaged for the coming year, and the fact that his maternal grandmother had recently died and left him a small legacy, which would be made over to him during the summer, relieved his mind of the worry over money matters which had been oppressing him. With characteristic prodigality he invested in a complete new wardrobe—to be paid for when the legacy arrived. Also he contemplated buying a motor-car, though I endeavoured to point out to him that a trip abroad would be a better investment, if spend his money he must. It was well along in June when—with a silent Te Deum—I saw the notice posted. One of those periods of tropical heat had descended upon New York and brought the run of the opera to an abrupt close. It was a welcome relief to be allowed to remain at home for days at a time. I set about to refurnish my summer wardrobe. With the acquisition of an automobile still pending in his mind, Will spent much of his time away from home, trying out various makes of cars. It was during one such week-end hejira that John Gailbraith returned from abroad. He had only that morning disembarked, and after settling himself in a downtown hotel had come to call on us. I hailed his advent with delight. Our long talks, the exchange of ideas, his alert mind refreshed and stimulated my own. Will once laughingly remarked that I had developed into a veritable human question mark. But in no other way could I induce our friend to talk about himself or his art. He had travelled much and when once started on the subject would retail his experiences in foreign lands. My interest was kept on the qui vive. Then there was his work and achievement. Long were the discussions and criticisms of the "Super-creation" and the thoughts and ideas which had led to its conception. As yet, I had not been inclined to resume my own work which my son's death had caused me to lay aside. Now, under the influence of my master's encouragement and sympathy, the old ambition quickened. As the summer progressed we came to see a great deal of John Gailbraith. Indeed, he became a part of our daily life. A genuineness which made itself felt, a cleanliness of mind and speech, together with a quiet humour and a gift of sympathetic understanding, endeared him to his friends. Will shared my feeling, else he had not thrown us so continuously together. "John Gailbraith is one of the few men in the world to whom I would entrust my wife's honour," he had said one day. I had chided Will for so repeatedly throwing me upon our friend for amusement or companionship. It had become a common thing for Will to hail his friend thus: "Old man, if you haven't anything better to do to-night, take my missus out to dinner, will you? I have an engagement to hear a play read," or, "I say, Jack old boy, look after the missus while I'm away. I've been asked to go on a motor-trip for a few days and I know it's punishment to drag the poor girl along." (Parenthetically Will rarely asked me to join him on these motor-trips.) It was on such an occasion that I had reproved Will for saddling John Gailbraith with a responsibility which may not have been to his liking. "There may be other friends to whom he may wish to devote himself; besides is it wise that I be seen so continually in his company and without my husband? You know how malicious the world is. People will say——" "O, Hell! I believe with Bernard Shaw: 'They say—what do they say? Let them say!' People will always find something to criticize. So long as I am satisfied it's nobody's business. I'm not afraid, girlie, of anyone taking you away from me." And he dismissed the subject. My husband not only encouraged the idea of my working under the guiding hand of the sculptor but developed an enthusiasm which quite took away my breath. In one of his impulsive moods he rented a studio from an artist member of the Players' Club, who was planning to go abroad for a year. "It's just the thing she needs; something to occupy her mind. Besides, any little pleasure I can throw her way is coming to her, after the way she stood by when I was down on my luck. It isn't every wife who can support her husband, is it, old man?" And Will slipped his arm about my shoulders with an amused wink. He was in high humour these days. There was a great scrubbing and cleaning before I pronounced the studio habitable. Will said I was not a true artist. I failed to find art and dirt synonymous or mutually connotating each the other. The building which housed the studio was in a small street or, more properly, an area-way in the vicinity of lower Fifth Avenue within a stone's throw of Washington Square. John Gailbraith said it was his favourite part of the city. It came to be mine. Sometimes, after we had taken luncheon at a near-by restaurant, we would stroll in the square or sit on one of the benches. Our lounging neighbours were interesting studies in real life. John would point out the various foreign types and compare them with their countrymen on their native heath. At other times I would have our recently acquired cook-lady prepare a dainty lunch basket, which I carried to the studio, and at the noon-hour, while John made the tea, I laid the table. Here we would linger, absorbed in the discussion which with passing days grew more frank and intimate. I no longer felt cramped or warped. Expansion had become an almost measurable sensation. During our vari-toned pour-parler, one subject was by seemingly tacit consent taboo. No reference or allusion was ever made to my conjugal affairs. Whatever John Gailbraith thought or knew concerning Will's peccadillos, he gave no intimation. It was not possible that he had not heard of my husband's various liaisons. In fact, Will, himself, made no attempt to conceal the attentions of certain women who rang up at his home under flimsiest pretence. He joked lightly about their indiscretions and commented on the fact that he "was getting to be the real thing in the way of a matinée idol." The period following upon my son's death when Will had devoted himself to me with something of the sweetness of our early married life was short-lived. And if I closed my eyes and ears to the recurring lapses of his fidelity it was because I still hoped that some day he would need my love. Whether John Gailbraith believed there was an understanding between my husband and me I could only surmise. To have him regard me in the light of a complaisant wife gave me many uncomfortable moments, yet I could not touch upon the subject. The truth lovingly told is that I came nearer to being happy during those summer months than I had been for—how many years had passed since Will and I had set up housekeeping in the little furnished flat of halcyon days?... When Will's absence from home became more frequent and of long duration I exerted myself to greet his return with a pleasant word and a serene face. And if, sometimes, I felt John's eyes upon me—those great gray eyes with large iris and the black fringed lids—I strove the harder to dissemble. Sometimes Will would swoop down on us with a noisy party in tow and insist upon an impromptu dinner in the workshop. The suggestion was invariably hailed with delight by the women, who regarded the studio as an open sesame to forbidden fruit and free speech, while to the men it connoted models in the nude and bacchanalia. On one occasion Will brought his star to see the minute whirling figure the sculptor had but recently completed in refutation of the criticism that his work was effective only in large design. Posing as a connoisseur, the lady had expressed the wish to see John's work. I think I hated her at first glance. There was something snake-like even in the movement of her body and in the craning of her long, thin neck from which a sharp jaw projected. She fascinated while she repelled. Being temperamentally reserved in the presence of strangers—and the lady temperamentally interested in the opposite sex—I had an opportunity to study her. My scrutiny was not unobserved. Indeed, she was always conscious of self, though apparently not self-conscious. In the act of taking her leave she stopped quite suddenly and addressed herself to me: "And so you are Meesus Hartley.... What fine eyes you have ... such ... what ees the word? Yes, tangled, tangled depths ... and the shadows!... If I were a man I should make love to Meesus Hartley...." She shot a glance at John Gailbraith, then dropped her lids over her eyes. But the suggestion was not lost. It was not meant to be. "Madame has a pleasing way of expressing herself," I drawled, meeting the much affected wide baby stare of her orbs with a like expression. Suggestion is insidiously effective. From the moment my husband's star had dropped the seed—thoughtlessly or maliciously, who shall say?—it took root. The calm surface over which I had been gliding during the past months ruffled and disturbed my equilibrium. The old camaraderie between John Gailbraith and me gave way to self-consciousness on my part. I felt what I imagined might have been the sensation which overwhelmed Mother Eve after eating of the Tree of Knowledge. For the first time during our intercourse I looked upon John Gailbraith as man—myself, woman. I caught myself expecting, anticipating, parrying any indication on his part which might be construed as a prelude to tenderness. My attitude became constrained, unnatural; his, more gracious, gentle, tactful. Perhaps he analyzed my mood as the natural result of gossip which connected my husband's name with that of the "star." That he pitied me heaped coals of fire upon my head—and his. I was glad of the opportunity which took him to Washington in response to a letter from a prospective patron and left me to myself. With mathematical precision I questioned myself: Why should I permit the insinuations of a not disinterested woman to mar a friendship which had become dear to me and which I had hoped to retain all my life? Was friendship between persons of opposite sex not possible? Can there be no relationship between man and woman disassociated from sex? Had this man by look or word professed other than friendship for me? Had I professed or felt any emotion other than which I indicated? Then why permit the bond to be severed by a wholly suppositious breach? I resolved that upon John's return to the city I should take up the thread where I had left off. There was consolation in the determination. The time had arrived when I was to begin the nude of Boy in marble. It was to be my winter's work and I was eager to be well advanced with it before John went abroad again. I looked forward to his going with genuine regret. More and more Will had estranged himself from me: whether deliberately or not I was not prepared to answer. The relentless examination continued. What was it which held me to my husband? Did I still love him despite his infidelities, his ever-increasing neglect and selfishness? Or was it the tender memories of our youthful love at whose altar I worshipped, feeding the smouldering embers with incense of bruised and crushed illusions? Might I not, after all, with patience, devotion, tolerance and a single-heartedness of purpose lead his wandering steps back to me? If life was barren now, what should it be without him? No, I must find my solace in my pride in him; must squeeze what comfort I might in helping him on to success; always with the hope—hope!—the promise-crammed! It had become a custom of mine to carry my perturbation of heart and mind to my boy's grave; there, in the silence and the nothingness of life, to find a balm and fortitude. It was upon such a mission I set out one day late in September. Under the early autumn haze the meadows lay carpeted with golden rod and fleecy lace of the Queen's handkerchief. Soothed by this tryst with my loved one I returned to town prepared to take up the battle. Arriving at the Grand Central Station I decided to telephone to Will's club with the hope of finding he had returned during my absence. Stopping to pay the toll I glanced listlessly around the waiting-room. A familiar figure caused me to start forward, then draw back. There, coming through the station was my husband and his "star." From the handbags he carried—one of which I recognized as his—it was evident that they had come direct from the train. I recalled that Will had mentioned the fact that the star had recently bought a country residence. And, too, it recurred to me that, when on Saturday night Will had telephoned me that he was at a Turkish bath and would remain there all day, his voice had a far-away sound to it, as if the message were at long distance. Sunday and Monday had passed with no word from him. I now understood where he had been.... I watched them drive away in a hansom.... Then I took a car home. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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