XI
Helen's warning was not as playful as it seemed to her lover, forsomething in the glow of his eyes and something vibrant in the tones ofhis voice had disturbed her profoundly. The fear of something which heseemed perilously near saying filled her with unrest, bringing upquestions which had thus far been kept in the background of her schemeof life.
"Some time I shall marry, I suppose," she had said to one of herfriends, "but not now; my art will not permit it. Wedlock to anactress," she added, "is almost as significant as death. It may mean anend of her playing--a death to her ambitions. When I decide to marry Ishall also decide to give up the stage."
"Oh, I don't know," replied the other. "There are plenty who do not. Infact, Mary Anderson is the exception. When the conquering one comesalong you'll marry him and make him your leading man, the way so manyothers do."
"When 'the conquering one' comes along I shall despise the stage,"retorted Helen, with laughing eyes--"at least I'm told I will."
"Pish! You'd give a dozen husbands for the joy of facing a bigfirst-night audience. I tell Horace that if it comes to a matter ofchoice for me he'll have to go. Gracious goodness! I could no more livewithout the applause of the stage--"
"How about the children?"
"The children! Oh, that's different. The dear tots! Well, luckily,they're not absolutely barred. It's hard to leave the darlings behind.When I go on the road I miss their sweet little caresses; but I have toearn their bread, you see, and what better career is open to me."
Helen grew grave also. "I don't like to think of myself as an _old_actress. I want to have a fixed abiding-place when I am forty-five. Grayhairs should shine in the light of a fireside."
"There's always peroxide," put in the other, and their little mood ofseriousness vanished.
It was, indeed, a very unusual situation for a young and charmingactress. The Hotel Embric stood just where three great streams of wealthand power and fashion met and mingled. Its halls rustled with the spreadsilks of pride and glittered with the jewels of spendthrift vanity, andyet few knew that high in the building one of the most admired women ofthe city lived in almost monastic seclusion. The few men who recognizedher in the elevator or in the hall bowed with deferential admiration.She was never seen in the dining-rooms, and it was known that shedenied herself to all callers except a very few intimate friends.
This seclusion--this close adherence to her work--added to her mystery,and her allurement in the eyes of her suitors increased as they soughtvainly for an introduction. It was reported that this way of life was"all a matter of business, a cold, managerial proposition," a method ofadvertising; but so far as Helen herself was implicated, it was a methodof protection.
She had an instinctive dislike, almost a fear, of those who sought heracquaintance, and when Westervelt, with blundering tactlessness orimpudent design, brought round some friends, she froze them both with asingle glance.
Furthermore, by denying herself to one she was able to escape the other,and thus save herself for her work; for though she had grown to hate theplays through which she reached the public, she believed in the powerand the dignity of her art. It was a means of livelihood, it gratifiedher vanity; but it was more than this. In a dim way she felt herself inleague with a mighty force, and the desire to mark an epoch in theAmerican drama came to her. This, too, was a form of egotism, but a highform.
"I do not care to return to the old," she said. "There are plenty ofwomen to do _Beatrice_ and _Viola_ and _Lady Macbeth_. I am modern. Ibelieve in the modern and I believe in America. I don't care to start afad for Ibsen or Shaw. I would like to develop our own drama."
"You will have to eliminate the tired business-man and his fat wife andtheir late dinners," said a cynical friend.
"All business-men are not tired and all wives are not fat. I believethere is a public ready to pay their money to see good American drama. Ihave found a man who can write--"
"Beware of that man," said the cynic, with a twofold meaning in histone. "'He is a dreamer; let him pass.'"
"I do not fear him," she replied, with a gay smile.