CHAPTER IV

The question of bearing children had given me many a bad hour. My husband felt that the coming of a child, at the outset of his career, would be a burden and a handicap; once he was established and could afford to maintain a home, it would be time enough, he declared. He felt that, at best, children born and reared in the theatrical profession were the victims of unnatural conditions. It was not practicable to carry a young child about the country, and, if left behind, to the care of either relatives or hired attendants, the child was robbed of its natural protection. Obviously I must make up my mind to separate from one or the other--my child or my husband--until the little one was old enough to travel.

Here arose another knotty problem. Children are little human sponges; they absorb the atmosphere of their environment. A stage-child is no more immune to the vicious influences about it than to a scarlet-fever germ. Should I then be willing to expose my child to dangers of more far-reaching consequences than physical ailments, and at a time of life when character is formed? My husband and I discussed these problems at length, and finally concluded that, since the inevitable had happened, the wisest course was to make the best of it. How many children, I wonder, are conceived in the same spirit? How many births the result of accident? How few planned with the wish to bestow the best of one's flesh and spirit upon the little stranger? Can the influence of unwelcome conception upon the child itself ever be computed? May not criminal tendencies and moral delinquencies be traced to such a source? If, at the beginning, I were guilty of misdirected sentiment, I set myself to right the wrong as the weeks grew into months. I no longer chafed at separation; I lived in a kind of spiritual exaltation. My plans and dreams of the future were now transferred to the coming of my child.

Will was so fortunate as to secure another engagement almost immediately. His success led to the opportunity he most desired, and in the early autumn he played his first engagement as leading man of a New York production. The Company opened out of town; in theatrical parlance this is what they call "trying it on the dog."

Our boy was born during Will's absence. It must have been very hard for Will to have the nervous strain of a first night's performance and the worry of my illness at the same time. I had gone to the hospital alone. Will had made the arrangements before he left town. He said he would feel better if he knew I was in skilled hands and not at the mercies of a lodginghouse-keeper. It seemed cruel to be alone at such a time. I cried a little when the big, cheery nurse held my boy for me to kiss.... I wanted Will's arms around me as I had never longed for them before--or after.... The little chap had black hair like Will's, and his forehead bulged in the same way. I had always admired Will's forehead....

Baby was six weeks old when his father first saw him. I laughed when he held the boy in his arms--he appeared so awkward. After a successful New York opening, the play settled down for a run. We moved from our furnished room to an apartment. Will found it difficult to sleep with a crying baby in the same room. With the coming of the child, and the "front" Will's new position demanded, it was hard to make both ends meet; for a long time I did the housework except the washing, but when my health began to fail Will made me hire a servant.

Will was very fond of our little boy. Even as a small baby, the child showed his preference for his father; he would stop crying the moment he heard Will's voice. Indeed, I believe that when temptation lured him in her most attractive form it was the child who held him close to me.

Temptation there was plenty; his success had been unqualified. The critics hailed him as a young man with a great future. His pictures began to appear in the magazines and in the pictorial supplements of the Sunday papers. He joined an actors' club, where he dined on matinee days. Will's family developed a pride in him, hitherto carefully suppressed. They had shown decided disapproval of our marriage when it became expedient to announce it to them. My introduction to the family, during the week our late-lamented Company had played Will's home city, was strained and unsatisfactory. Now, however, the sight of the family name in print gave unalloyed joy to Will's father, who collected newspaper clippings for Will's scrap-book with more zeal than did Will himself. Will said this sudden interest reminded him of a story he had heard at the club. It ran like this:

A handsome young Irishman of humble parentage had long yearned for the footlights. Unable longer to restrain himself, he confided his ambitions to his mother. Now, the old lady was an ardent church-goer, and looked upon the stage as a quick chute to perdition.

"Jimmie, Jimmie, me boy! To think you'd want to be an actor! To think you'd want to bring shame on your old mother, this disgrace on your dead father's good name!"

The old lady rocked herself to and fro in her grief. In vain Jimmie endeavoured to soothe her. Finally the idea occurred to him.

"But, mither, mither, darlin'," he caressed, "I'll not bring disgrace on your name--you know actors always change their names when they go on the stage, and no one will ever know who I am."

The old lady stopped her moaning and was silent for a moment.

"But, Jimmie," she protested, "Jimmie, supposin' you became a gr-r-e-at mon, supposin' you became a great lion, with your pictures in all the papers--and adornin' the fences ... then, Jimmie, how'll they know you're me son?" ...

It was at a matinee that I first saw Will in his new part. It was the first time since our marriage that I had not heard his lines or helped him with his costumes. He had told me all about the play, and I knew the cue for his first entrance almost as well as he himself. My heart thumped so hard and fast I feared my neighbour would guess who I was. His entrance was greeted with a burst of gloved applause, accompanied with such exclamations as, "There he is!" "Isn't he a love!" ... "Just wait until you see how he can make love!" I confess I hardly knew whether to be proud, or indignant. The familiarity with which they discussed him grated on me; I resented the proprietary tone. Then I smiled at my silliness, for I realized that this very interest made for popularity, the most valuable of the actor's assets. I listened to the gush of the matinee girls, and their discussion of the private lives of theatrical people with a good deal of amusement.

Coming out of the theatre, I heard one woman ask another whether Will was married. I wondered what difference that would make in his popularity.

After the matinee I went back to Will's dressing-room. Will had planned what he called a little junket. We were to dine together at a restaurant--a pleasure we could not often afford. While Will washed up I told him the nice things I had overheard. I predicted he would become a veritable matinee idol--a term which he scorned. There were some letters lying on his make-up table. I picked them up idly; Will followed my action.

"Read them," he said. "You'll be amused. They are my first mash-notes." There was so much roguishness in his smile that I laughed back at him. Some of the letters were innocent enough, written in girlish hand, with requests for autographs and autographed photographs. One or two asked Will's advice about going on the stage, and there was one from a tooth-powder firm, wanting the right to use Will's picture in which his teeth showed. There was one--a violet-scented note on fine linen, written in the large loose vertical scrawl so much affected by smart women--without signature. It ran as follows:

"If you will pardon this somewhat unconventional method of making your acquaintance, my dear Mr. Hartley, I shall be most happy to have you join me at tea, after the matinee, at Sherry's (other drinkables not excluded). I was present at the opening night of your play, and was quite carried away by your splendid acting. Where _did_ you learn to make love? I have occupied the right hand proscenium box every Saturday matinee since the opening. Isn't that a proof of my devotion? Do I flatter myself that I have caught your eye once or twice as the curtain falls? I invariably dress in black and wear gardenias. If you are interested, you will have no difficulty in identifying me. For family reasons I withhold my name for the present. Do come, Mr. Hartley."

As I folded the letter and replaced it in its cover, I recalled that Will _had_ glanced towards the right hand proscenium box several times.

"I think I'll put you on a car and send you home," began Will, but something in his voice belied his words, and I made him an impudent _moue_. "How do you like being married to a matinee idol?" Will asked, giving the final touch to his dress.

I did not reply; I was asking myself the same question.