CHAPTER XIII

RATHER STAGY

After Beatrice had bidden Lionel good-by in the early dawn she did the most sensible thing possible: she went to bed. But it is one thing to go to bed and another to go to sleep, as many a sufferer—from insomnia, love, indigestion, or kindred ailments—has found to his cost. You feel weary, oppressed with the want of sleep, let us say, yawnsome—in a word, ready to drop off the moment you are between the sheets. But, if a white night be inscribed in the book of Fate, how changed the mood as soon as the light is out! At once, almost, you lose that sense of impending slumber and become wide awake, clear-eyed and keen of brain. Something occurs to interest your mind and you meditate perspicaciously thereon. Another thought succeeds, and another, and you grow more wakeful every moment. Soon you begin to say, "I must go to sleep now," and resolutely try to refuse to think. But resolution is vain before insomnia. Eyelids may be tightly shut, but the masked eyeballs still peer vigilantly into the void: hands may clench themselves in the hopeless effort to compose the will and induce the wished-for slumber: the alert body may strive to cheat itself by observing the accustomed ritual—first on the right side, then left, then right again—in the expectation of influencing mind by matter: droves of sheep may be counted passing through innumerable gates—poems recited till the very thought of verse revolts—numerals repeated by the ticking brain—but still you are far from the haven. It seems that

"Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world"

could bestow the most blessed of all boons. And at last you give up the unequal struggle and try to make the best of it.

Failing drugs—and one has to be a smart society lady, a broken man or woman, for them—there are various palliatives. You may turn on the light and read till sleep comes with soothing fingers upon tired brows. Or, if young and enterprising, you can go for a walk and see the dawn. Or sometimes an impromptu bedroom picnic—bread and cheese and a bottle of beer raided thief-wise from the pantry, taking great care not to let the stairs creak and alarm the house—may have excellent results. These, 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 one talked about the actor-manager-air-man. When I found how exciting it was, I couldn't stop. That's all."

"You're odd creatures, you men," said Beatrice, musing. "I should have thought that managing theaters was exciting enough."

"Change of excitement—just like falling in love with a new sweetheart," he smiled.

"Ah! that sounds like a man! Tell me, Ashford, do all men run after every pretty face they see?"

"You want me to give away trade secrets, eh? Well, I suppose most men do ... until they're hooked."

"Ashford! Hooked! How loathsome!"

"I beg your pardon ... I was thinking as a cynical bachelor. What I mean is that I suppose most men swear off the pursuit once they've promised."

"And never relapse?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"The decent ones don't, but even they sometimes have a bit of a struggle. Take an extreme case: suppose a decent chap gets engaged, and force of circumstances keeps him apart from his divinity for ... years...."

"He ought to feel bound in honor not even to think of another!" flashed Beatrice.

Billing sighed.

"He ought, but he's up against a tough proposition. At least, the decent one tries...."

"Men are horrible," she said wearily.

"Pretty horrible," he agreed, "but there's an amazing lot of unseen goodness hidden in the dirt.... Men aren't so bad ... some men. But we're getting too serious. I must be off. It's been a bad morning's work for me." He smiled—not very whole-heartedly, but still he smiled. "You refuse both my offers. But you'll let me know if I can ever do anything, won't you? That's merely friendly."

Beatrice did not smile, but she looked appreciatively at him.

"Thanks, Ashford," she said. "Yes; I've just remembered one thing you can do. Read a play by a friend of mine."

He groaned in comic despair.

"All right!" he said, "but don't make me promise to produce it. Remember this is my living!"

"No; I only want you to read it. If it's bad, say so like a man: don't put the poor wretch off with the usual sugary criticism. And don't let it lie for months with all the rest of the lumber. You managers are cruel to authors, and you've had this one lying idle a long time."

He did not deny the charge, save by a smile.

"I'll read it this week, sure," he said. "What's it called, and who's the author?"

"I forget the name of the play. The author is a Mr. Mortimer."

She said the name quite easily and without a blush, but Billing on the instant thought, "Who the devil is he? And what does she want to push his play for?" But he did not allow his face even to hint at surprise. He just held out his hand and said good-by, as naturally as if he had not been rejected without any hope of a future recantation. For though he professed optimism, in his heart he felt that Beatrice was not for him, and the knowledge hurt.

"Good-by," he said cheerily. "Mind you have a good holiday, and come back to work soon."

"Good-by, Ashford," she said, trying to keep back some unnecessary tears. She had known him for some time and guessed what he was thinking. He, she was sure, was at least one of the men who tried. "You're a good sort. Good-by."

Then she telephoned to a garage: "I want my car at two o'clock!"