Читать книгу My Actor-Husband - Anonymous - Страница 4

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THE red roses had withered; their crisp petals lay scattered over the mantel and about the floor. Stooping to gather them, I was seized with a giddiness; it dawned on me that I had not eaten for—I did not know how long. I went into the kitchen; the table lay as we had left it that morning at breakfast. There was his chair and the morning paper. I didn't cry—I felt only a heaviness, a numbness. Mechanically I set about to put the house in order; I realized that I must get myself in hand if only to please Will. I even managed a laugh at my own stupidity when, after neatly folding and placing my kitchen apron upon a shelf in the dish-cupboard, I hung the sugar bowl on a peg where the apron should have gone, and was drenched with a shower of sugar for my pains.

For several days I lived on milk, which the janitor sent up on the dumb-waiter. I could not muster sufficient courage to go out to market. The sunlight mocked me—I resented the happy laughter of the family across the hall. The postman's ring, several days later, put new life into me. I knew the letter was from Will. I caught the postman almost before he stopped ringing, and, carrying the letter to my room, gave myself up to devouring it.

It was filled with interesting gossip about his opening, and gave humourous little side-lights of the star and personnel of the company. He bade me cheer up and not take our separation too seriously; he promised to write every day, and asked that I do likewise. I marked this precious epistle with a large "1" in blue pencil and tucked it away with the rose-leaves. Then I sat down to write—I wrote reams. It is wondrous the many modes of expressing "I love you." To distil those many pages, written in the thin, slanting hand of my girlhood, would be to extract the very essence of my life's romance—or, shall I say, tragedy.

I lived for the postman's ring. Sundays were the hardest to bear; there was no mail delivery. The weeks dragged on at snail's pace. Finally, loneliness and isolation drove me to a state of desperation, which, in turn, gave me the necessary courage to visit the agencies. Will was reluctant to have me take an engagement alone; he made me promise that I would not take such a step without first consulting him. Indeed, had he but known it, the thought of again travelling alone in a theatrical company was distasteful to me; naturally sensitive and of a retiring disposition, my first season in the dramatic profession had left some unpleasant memories. It was difficult to accustom myself to enter an hotel lobby alone, or, if in company with other members of the organization, to hear our party referred to as the "troupe." The ubiquitous drummer lounging at the hotel desk regarded us with brazen audacity, and made audible comments. Then, to enter a dining-room unattended, either to be corralled at a table with the other members of the company, or, if seated elsewhere, to be further subjected to the advances of a "travelling salesman." Again, when walking to the theatre or to the railroad station, to see the town-folk turn curiously, regarding the players with a condescending smile, which curled the corners of the mouth downward as they whispered, "Show people." In larger cities these marks of opprobrium are less pronounced, but, nevertheless, exist. I resented this attitude towards the theatrical profession until I became better acquainted with it. There be those who mistake liberty for license, and seemingly the freedom from restraint and the lack of conventionality, which the life affords, appear to be one of the chief attractions for adopting it.

However, it was expedient that I should work. I dangled before my willing eyes the reward of the future—that time when my husband and I should play together. I even planned that we should be an example to others in our devotion and high moral purpose; and so, by reducing expense of maintaining two establishments—the flat in New York and Will's living on the road—we should be better equipped to hold out for a joint engagement for the following season.

One morning, while waiting in the office of an agent to whom Will had introduced me, I was drawn into conversation with an actress whose photographs adorned the walls of the room. There was an air of importance about her, quite distinct from that of the other women who were waiting; these women wore an abject expression. They had relaxed the mechanical expression of "bien être" as the weariness of waiting wore upon them; in spite of the make-up—more or less skilfully applied—their faces were drawn and strained. Their clothes, too, told of the attempt to keep up appearances. I felt a sympathy and fellowship for these unemployed; I wondered whether they too, were, by the force of circumstances, separated from their loved ones.

Miss Burton, the lady of some importance, broke my train of thought by precipitately asking me to "come and have a cup of tea." She assured me she would not let me miss "old Tom"—calling the agent by the familiar diminutive—and that having sent for her he was bound to wait. "It makes all the difference in the world whether they send for you, or whether you go to them for an engagement," she told me, with a sententious nod of her head. She was so bright and vivacious, and so wholly un-selfconscious that, for a moment, I was drawn out of my dreamy loneliness.

We went to a near-by hotel. "You take what you like," she said, summoning the waiter. "Beer for mine!"

I took tea.

While we sipped our respective beverages she told me about herself. She was a well-known comédienne—"'soubrettes' they called them in the old days," she volunteered. She had been with "Charley" Frohman off and on for years, and expected to go back to him.

"I've been in his bad books," she went on. "I had a good thing, and I didn't know it. When I think how I got in wrong all on account of those two big stiffs—!" My inability to follow her was probably expressed in my face, for she immediately rattled on: "You see, it was like this. When Jack and I were married we were in the same Company. He was what they call the 'Acting Manager,' travelled on the road and represented the New York office—understand? Well, the next year we didn't get an engagement together; he went off on the road and I created a part in a New York production. It was simply—hell! We used to make the most God-forsaken jumps, just to be together over Sunday. Why, once I can remember I rode all night in the caboose of a freight train to some little dump of a town where Jack's Company had played on Saturday night. Can you beat it? Oh, I tell you, I had it bad." And Miss Burton buried her feeling and her face in the stein of beer. After a pause she continued: "Well, the same devilish luck followed us the next season; we couldn't dig up an engagement together for love or money—and we slipped a nice little roll to several of the agents, too. It just seemed as if managers were dead set against having a man and wife in the same company. Some of 'em acknowledge it right out loud, if you please! They claim a man and wife in the same company make trouble; either they want to share the same dressing-room, or the husband kicks if his wife gets the worst of it in the dressing-room line. Or, if the husband happens to be a manager, there's the temptation to favour his wife, and somebody else kicks up a row. Oh, they've got excuses enough, whether they're justifiable or not. Anyway, that's the kind of bunk you're up against when you marry in the profession.... Where was I?... Oh Well, after two seasons of separation, it dawned on me that Jacky wasn't so keen about making long jumps to see wifey; pretty soon I began to hear gossip—he was carrying some fairy's grip in the company he was with. Then I began to watch him ... I caught him with the goods all right.... Exit, hastily, Jacky!" and, with an expressive wave of her hands to indicate his departure, Miss Burton called for another stein.

I fear I appeared a perfect idiot in the voluble little lady's eyes. I could not muster a comment of any description. Miss Burton, however, did not notice my omission, for she raced on with the same energy of expression.

"That blow pretty nearly killed Mother, I can tell you. I was in love with Jack all right.... It broke me all up to have him throw me down for a second-rate soubrette like that. I wish you could have seen it—one of these 'I'm so temperamental' kind of dopes. She threw him down as soon as she'd used him for what he was worth.... I took to the booze. Whew! I did go it hard for a while! That's what queered me with C. F.... Then, what d'ye think I did?" Miss Burton leaned forward to better impress me with the importance of her revelation: "I tried it a second time.... This one was an actor: one of those handsome, shaving-soap advertisement kind of faces—beautiful teeth, and workin' the smile overtime to show 'em!... Black curly hair, high brow, chesty—you know—the real thing in heavy men.... Mash notes, society ladies making goo-goo eyes at him, and forgetting to invite me to those little impromptu suppers. Ha!... don't ask me! It was worse than the first.... No, ma'am, matrimony and the stage don't mix. They ought to nail over every stage door this warning: 'All ye who enter here, leave matrimony outside.' Yes, I know what you are going to say—that there are happy marriages among stage folks, and you'll name some of the shining examples. The domestic felicity of Mr. Great Star and his wife makes up well in print. But, wait awhile.... Have you finished with your tea? Let's step in the ladies' room—I'm dying for a smoke."

On our way back to the office, Miss Burton asked me about myself. When I spoke of Will, she turned sharply and looked at me with a hurt expression.

"Why, you poor kid! Why didn't you tell me you were married? Now, don't you let anything I said worry you a bit. Everybody is apt to draw general conclusions from personal experiences. There's always the exception to prove the rule. Besides...." She slipped her arm through mine and gave me a reassuring pressure.

The agent received her in his private office, and when she came out she was in high spirits. Calling me to her, she put me on a friendly footing with the agent, who promised to keep me in mind. I thanked her for her kindly interest, and went home.

Desolate as the little flat was, I found strange comfort within its protecting walls. The power of Will's personality had impregnated the place, and I felt its soothing influence. I devoted the evening to writing to my husband a long letter, but, strangely enough, I did not repeat the conversation I had had with Miss Burton. That night I prayed that he and I might be the exception to prove the rule....

The next day I visited another agency. The presiding genius was a corpulent person, with cold blue eyes which cowed at the first glance. She stood behind the rail which divided the office from the waiting applicants with an air of a magistrate dispensing justice not altogether tempered with mercy. There was something insolent in the way she shut off the opening speeches of the applicants with, "No, nothing for you to-day; nothing doing, Mr. Blank." Then, as a highly scented and berouged person entered, clanking the gold baubles of her chatelaine as she swished by, the majoress-domo swung open the gate and greeted her with, "Come right in, dearie; I've been waiting for you." They disappeared into the sanctum sanctorum.

The little wizened lady who sat next to me snorted with impatience: "Humph! I suppose that means another half hour!" She fell to gossiping with a man whose very face suggested his "line of business"—that of Irish comedian. It was impossible not to overhear their conversation. The gorgeous creature who had been received with such open arms was a pet of the establishment, because of her generous and regular "retaining fees." She had been a more or less prominent society woman from Chicago; after a sensational divorce, she turned to the stage for the proper outlet for her superabundant "temperament." Willing to work for a salary upon which no self-supporting woman could exist, and able to dress her parts "handsomely," she found no difficulty in securing an engagement. The "retaining fees" no doubt facilitated her progress.

I afterwards learned from Will's experience that a cheque enclosed in a letter of application to one of these dramatic employment agencies stimulated their interest in the sender. And, even after an actor has made a "hit," it is good business to lubricate the dispenser of gifts. I could not quite grasp the modus operandi until it was explained to me by Miss Burton. "You see, when a manager contemplates engaging a company, he sends to an agent for a list of names. Perhaps he wants a leading man or a character actor, and he may direct the agent to communicate with a certain actor whom he believes to be best suited to the part he has in mind. Now this particular actor may not be in the good books of the agent, or there may be another actor playing the same line of business who is regular and liberal with his 'retaining fees.' It is not difficult to understand which of the actors will be suggested—even cried up—to the manager." Our own experience had been to negotiate direct with the managers. But, in many cases, the managers themselves send the actors whom they engage to a favoured agent to complete the negotiations. In this way the agent is able to collect a week's salary from the actor.

The Irish comedian figured the average income of an agent who "placed" several hundred actors, with salaries ranging from thirty to three hundred dollars a week, at $5,000 a year. "And from the fish-hand they give you when you come lookin' for an engagement you'd think we were the grafters—damned old parasites!"

When, at last, the lady agent returned from her conference, I timidly made known my wants. Perhaps I looked like a "non-retainer," as the comedian dubbed them, for the corpulent person looked me over suspiciously.

"Had any experience?" she broke in.

"One season," I responded.

"Well, you might leave your address," she snapped, and directed me to an assistant.

I went back to Miss Burton's friend. Mr. Tom was an Englishman, with the manners of a gentleman to commend him if nothing else. He greeted me pleasantly and asked me to wait. My heart bounded in anticipation. Presently he handed me a letter. I recognized the address upon the envelope as that of a prominent manager. I was told to go to his office, present the letter and return to report the outcome to the agent. I rushed off with my mind in a whirl. Already I was outlining a telegram to Will, telling him of my engagement. I began to plan how I should remake my last season's dresses to avoid the expense of a new wardrobe. Only once before had I gone direct to a manager for an engagement. I look back upon the incident I am about to relate with amusement at my own expense. To anybody and everybody who is interested in the stage the name of Charles Frohman was and still remains a kind of magic. When it was determined that the stage was to be my avocation—I use the word advisedly, since I had never been taught to look upon any profession in the light of a vocation—I came direct to New York with the purpose of calling upon Mr. Frohman, and placing my talent at his command. I remember I dressed myself carefully. I even powdered my face heavily, to give the ear-marks of intimate acquaintance with the make-up box. When I entered the office in the Empire Theatre Building, the office boy was engaged in pasting newspaper clippings in a scrap-book. A pretty, pert girl was type-writing at the other end of the room. The office boy looked up enquiringly. I took my courage in both hands.

"Is Mr. Frohman in?" I enquired.

The boy shuffled into the adjoining room. I busied myself by looking at the photographs of the actresses which lined the walls; my heart was pumping fiercely, but I "acted" the part of a young lady with plenty of savoir faire. The boy returned, followed by a middle-aged man who smiled pleasantly upon me.

"Mr. Frohman?" I ventured.

"Mr. Frohman is not in," he responded with a bland smile.

I was about to enquire when he was expected when I caught the reflection of the office boy in a mirror on the wall. He was winking broadly to the girl at the typewriter; I felt the blood rising to my face, and I fear I made a somewhat confused exit.

Will had many a good laugh over my credulity. I had come all the way from an Indiana town to see Mr. Frohman, and there was about as much chance of being admitted to his presence as the proverbial camel has of slipping through the needle's eye. Needless to say, I never mustered sufficient courage to call on Mr. Frohman again.

To-day, however, I was forearmed. The manager to whom I had been recommended by the agent sent out word that I was to wait. A half hour later I was conducted to his presence. As I entered, he was seated in a revolving chair, one foot resting on a small sliding shelf on his desk, and a large black cigar in the corner of his mouth. He did not rise, but nodded to me and motioned me to the seat opposite. While he read the agent's letter he removed his leg from the table and crossed it over the other. He was a short, heavy man, with a preponderance of abdomen. He had thick, loose lips, and his head was as round and as smooth as a billiard ball; his eyes were black and snappy, and threw out as much fire as the huge diamond he wore on his little finger.

"Well," he finally said, looking at me and shifting the big cigar to the other corner of his mouth, "that reads all right. So you're an ingénue" (he pronounced it as if it were spelled on-je-new), "are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you look the part all right.... How much experience have you had?"

"One season on the road with Mr. O'Brien's Company, but of course I've played in amateur theatricals for...."

"Voice strong?" he bellowed, tilting himself back in his chair.

"Oh, yes, sir," I responded, using the loud pedal to prove my assertion.

"Don't sound like it."

"Perhaps not now, but—" I hesitated.

"But what?" he queried, smiling indulgently at me.

His smile gave me courage, and I answered truthfully: "Well, I think I'm a little scared just now."

"Scared? What of?" He removed his cigar while he spat out an end he had been chewing. Then he lighted a match and continued talking. "You don't want to be scared of me—I'm the easiest thing you ever saw...." Here he winked at me. Then for the next minute he puffed at his cigar and looked at me. "Stand up," was his next injunction.... "You're not very big ... you'll look the part all right."

"What kind of a part is it?" I ventured.

"Didn't Tom tell you about it?... It's a pretty part—one of them innocent country maidens that never saw the streets of Cairo—that kind. She falls in love with a villain who takes her to the great city, and then throws her down—hard. The poor girl's afraid to go back to home and mother, and just as she's about to commit suicide a good-natured sucker comes along and marries her. It's sympathetic and appealin'—goes right to the heart. Can't help but make a hit. Dressin' ain't much, and we expect to run all season in New York."

"What's the salary?" meaning to appear business-like.

"Twenty-five in New York, and thirty on the road."

I did not reply, for my mind was making rapid calculations. Twenty-five dollars a week, with the prospect of running all season in New York! Why, I should be able to pay my own expenses and lay aside a little besides.

"That's a good salary," began the manager, taking my silence for dissent. "If you make a hit, I'll raise it five. I tell you what I'll do: I'll give you a letter to the stage manager. They're rehearsing now. The dame we engaged for the part, way last summer, got married on the quiet, and has got to retire for family reasons." He winked at me again, as he took up his pen. I waited uneasily while he wrote. "Here's the letter," he said, moistening the flap of the envelope with his lips. "Now, run along and see Mr. Thompson at the Academy. He's the doctor." He rose by way of dismissal, and indicated a door other than which I had entered. I thanked him and assured him my voice was quite strong.

"You're a pretty little thing," he said as he accompanied me to the door. "Pretty little figure ... what d'ye weigh?"

"I don't know really how much, but I think about one hundred and ten pounds," I answered with some confusion.

"As much as that? Where do you carry it all?" He ran his fat, stubby hands over my shoulders and down about my hips. His smile became a leer. Before I could realize what was happening he had taken me in his arms, and his heavy, wet lips were pressed against my mouth. His hands played over my body, and, though I struggled to cry out and to release myself, I was unable to do either. It seemed as if my senses were deserting me; then, the muffled bell of the telephone sounded, and he released me.

"Damn that bell," he said. Nauseated with disgust and fright, I cowered in the corner; he tried to draw my hands from my face, laughing as he whispered: "Like it, like it, do you?" Then with another oath at the continued call from the telephone, he crossed to his desk. "Run along now," he directed, without a look....

I never knew how I found my way down the stairs to the street. I did not wait for the elevator. I saw that people looked at me as I hurried along the street—whither I did not ask myself. Only when I collided with someone on the stairs did I realize that I had gone straight to the agent's office.

"Hello, little lady!" I recognized Miss Burton's voice. "My, we're in a hurry! For God's sake, child, what's happened to you? What's the matter? You look as if you were going to throw a fit! Here—let's go to a drug store."

After a dose of sal volatile, Miss Burton called a hansom and insisted on taking me home. I did not want her to accompany me. I wanted to be alone. When we were safely in the house I lost all control. She let me have my cry out without asking a question. Then, when I was calmer, I told her what had happened.

"The old blackguard! The old blackguard! I've heard that about him before. Why didn't you hand him one? Why didn't you smack his face?"

"I'll leave that to my husband," I replied with tearful dignity.

Miss Burton contemplated me between violent puffs of her cigarette. Then she shook her head. "Um-um, girlie; no, sir ... you mustn't tell your husband."

"Why not?" I demanded.

"Well, if you tell your husband, and he's the man I think he is, he'll go straight up and knock the old beast down. That will get him in bad; this manager is a power and controls a dozen attractions, as well as theatres. Your young man may find it difficult to get an engagement in the future."

Miss Burton paused to allow the idea to percolate into my brain.

"Then there's another side to it. If you tell your husband and he does not go up and knock the fresh gentleman down, you'll despise him for it ... oh, yes you will! You would not acknowledge it even to yourself, but, way down deep in the bottom of your heart, you would never forgive your husband for not resenting the insult to you.... Better not tell him at all...."

We both were silent for some time. I was struggling with a thousand conflicting emotions.

"You see, girlie, you've got an awful lot to learn. You're new to the game. That's the reason these things go so hard with you."

"Do you mean that 'these things' are a part—a regular part—of the business?" I began, with a burst of resentment. "I don't believe it! I can't believe it! I'm sure my experience was exceptional. I know that girls who typewrite for a living, clerks and even housemaids have unpleasant experiences, for I have read about it in the papers. There are bad men in all walks of life. I travelled nearly a whole season before I was married, and—"

I stopped short. My mind visualized a situation. When I joined the company in which I met my husband I was singled out for marked attention by the star. I believed this attention to be a kindly interest in a novice. It never occurred to me to question the intent and purpose. I was the understudy for the leading woman; the star had told me that I had exceptional talent, and with the proper direction I should develop into a splendid emotional actress. Quite often we would have private rehearsals—sometimes in the theatre, but more often in the star's apartment in the hotel. Invariably we rehearsed alone. I was flattered and sincerely appreciative of the star's efforts to develop my talent; we played scenes from Romeo and Juliet, and my star played Romeo with such fervour that I quite forgot my lines. When the star's wife joined the company the rehearsals were suspended; it seemed quite natural to me that the star wished to devote his time to his wife. She was still a beautiful woman, though her face was sad and bore a discontented expression. She kept aloof from the Company, and it was said that she did not approve of stage-folk, especially the women. I wondered why she had married an actor. Later, when Will and I became friends, he questioned me about these private rehearsals; then I began to notice that he managed to drop in for a call on the star when we rehearsed at the hotel, or he would wait about the stage when we were in the theatre. This happened frequently as our courtship progressed. I recalled how, one day when Will was discovered in the wings, that the star called out to him quite irritably, "You were not called for rehearsal, were you, Mr. Hartley? You're not needed, and your presence makes Miss Gray self-conscious."

Shortly after that Will insisted upon announcing our betrothal to the star. I never went to rehearsals unattended after that, and the calls became less frequent. Soon they were abandoned altogether. Now, for the first time, I understood Will's watchfulness—perhaps I understood why the star's wife had so sad a face....

"And what?" Miss Burton repeated after me.

"I was thinking, that was all."

"Girlie, you'll never get on in the show business, unless ... look here, I'm going to open your eyes to a few things that may come handy to you.... I've been on the stage since I was a kiddie; I was born in it. I made my first appearance in my mother's arms, and they say I never waited for cues, but yelled right through other people's lines. I grew up in railroad trains, hotels and theatres. I was wise to the game before I was out of short skirts. Anything I did was done with my eyes wide open. I was never stage-struck, like you, and so many fool girls who look on acting as a 'divine art.' I had to make my own living, and the stage offers a pretty good living if you are willing to play the game." Miss Burton looked at me significantly.

"Play the game?" I asked.

"Yes, that's just what I mean.... Virtue and chastity have about as much chance in the show-business as that famous little snowball of purgatorial fame. I don't know of any other profession where immorality is a virtue. I suppose that's what you call a paradox. Virtue and success do not go hand in hand in this business—even our mothers recognize the truth of the statement and wink at it. Your average stage mamma values virtue in the ratio of the advancement its possession assures. Let any star or manager cast covetous eyes upon her daughter, let her but scent leading lady—or stardom—and she will not only lend herself to intrigue but encourage it. She knows the game; she knows that a girl, no matter how pretty, how talented, cannot get on in the show-business without 'giving up.' She's got to have money or influence, or both. I don't know what there is about the stage that brings out the baser passions, but I do know that it's rotten to the core. And the worst of it is, that the good is sacrificed to the bad. Girls like you are drawn to the stage by its illusion and romance. With others, it's the looseness, the freedom from restraint that appeals. There never was a woman with a screw loose in her moral machinery who didn't hanker for the stage. Why? Because it's a convenient place to show goods. Every millionaire, every fur-tongued man about town looks upon the women of the stage as his legitimate prey. You've only got to mention the fact that you are, directly or indirectly, connected with the show-business, to lay yourself open to the advances of the male creature who thinks he is sporty. You may be as chaste as ice and as pure as snow, but the chances are against it, if you are on the stage."

I felt choked with indignation. "I don't believe you, I don't believe it's true," I stormed. "Look at such women as—" (I named a number of prominent women stars). "They are honoured and respected——"

"You mean their accomplishment, their art is honoured. Each and every one of these women has been grist to the mill. Do you suppose that side of it ever reaches the public? No, and what's more, it's none of the public's business. These women are successful. The price they have paid is their own secret. Don't misunderstand me—I'm not sitting in judgment on the women of the stage, any more than I would sit in judgment on you if you went wrong. I'm telling you the conditions that exist—conditions which every woman who enters the theatrical profession has got to face sooner or later. You had your first experience to-day...."

It had grown quite dark in the room. Miss Burton got up and moved about in the twilight. I almost hated her. I could not prevent myself from saying, "Do you think it is nice to befoul your own nest?"

She answered me gently: "You don't understand my motive, girlie. I wouldn't say these things to an outsider for anything in the world. Why, if a thing like this were to be given to the public, the whole theatrical profession would rush into print to deny it. There would be an awful noise, but each and every one of them knows it's the truth, God's truth, and nothing but the truth." We were again silent. Miss Burton sighed heavily.

"You know, girlie, if I were an artist I should like to paint my conception of the 'divine art.' The divine art is a soulless procuress; she takes your youth, your beauty and your virtue. She saps you dry, and, at the first signs of age, she turns you out."

Miss Burton stopped in front of the large photograph of Will which adorned the mantel. After a lengthy scrutiny, she said:

"Fine head! Looks as if he would have made a good lawyer."

"He was educated for the law," I answered proudly.

Miss Burton looked out of the window with a far-away look. Then she came to me and took both my hands in hers.

"Little girl, why don't you persuade him to give up the stage and go back to the law?"

"Because he does not like the law, and because he has a great career as an actor ahead of him," I retorted, feeling myself on the verge of tears.

After Miss Burton had donned her hat and gloves, and stood with her hand on the door-knob, she spoke again:

"I'll see Tom to-morrow, and have him set you right with that old beast."

"Set me right!"

"Yes, for not showing up at the Academy. I'll say you got in a trolley jam, and when you arrived there they had gone. You can show up bright and early to-morrow—don't you intend to take the engagement?"

"Not if I never got another engagement in my life!" I declared, with a wave of disgust passing over me.

Miss Burton drew me into her arms and kissed me impulsively: "Stick to that, girlie, and God bless you!" and she rushed off....

I didn't sleep much that night. Early the next morning came a telegram from Will, saying he expected to be home on Sunday. His Company was to "lay off" and rehearse two weeks, preparatory to "the assault" on Broadway, as he expressed it. The knowledge that I should soon feel his arms around me acted like a tonic. My resentment against Miss Burton gave way to pity. Why were not all husbands and wives as much in love with each other as were Will and I?