CHAPTER II

BEHIND THE SCENES

It was one of the great moments in Lionel's life when he handed her into

the prosaic vehicle. From the chemist's shop to the cab was only a few

feet, but for that paltry space the young man felt as a king must feel

when he makes a royal progress abroad. There was no cheering from the

crowd that had gathered, hoping for blood, or at least bandages; but the

whispers ("That's him! That's him! Torfs! He's all right!" etc.)

thrilled him with a sense of self-importance to which he had long been a

stranger. He found it a little difficult to refrain from raising his hat

and bowing his thanks to the kindly creatures. As for the lady, she

walked on air and seemed unconscious of an audience.

The cab was reached all too soon. Lionel waved aside a cloud of would-be

helpers, and with a sigh of misery opened the door. The lady got in; but

just as he was on the point of shutting himself off from every hope, she

leaned forward.

"There is room for two!" she breathed.

It was a fine thing for him that his hand was upon the door, for the

invitation shook him as the wind the rushes. The crowd, the pavement,

even the gross material substance of the constable, reeled before him.

He heard but dimly the voice of the chauffeur asking whither he was to

drive. "To Heaven!" he muttered, and then recklessly, "Or hell, if you

like!" The chauffeur looked anxiously at him, fearing he had suffered

mentally from his exertions. Lionel caught the suspicion in his eye and

steadied himself. "I beg your pardon," he said brokenly; "I was

repeating some poetry of my childhood--_Paradise Lost_--Milton, you

know. Can't imagine what put it in my head. Drive round and round the

park."

"Which park?" asked the man gruffly.

"The farthest and biggest," said Lionel, and clambered in.

They drove for several minutes without a word being spoken. Lionel was

so amazed by the aptness and desirability of the adventure that he could

not utter a word. He could only think, "What a perfectly topping girl!

How will it end? What shall I do--say--think? She is the most charming

creature I have met; she invites a kiss--might I?... Be careful, Lionel!

Your fortune is at stake! The secretaryship! Mrs. Barker and her rent!

A false step would ruin all! Besides, she is such a dear ..." These and

a hundred other fancies flickered through his brain.

The strange lady was silent, too. It may have been that she felt she had

been a little imprudent in her invitation to the cavalier, hero though

he was. Leaning back against the cushion, she gazed pensively out of the

window at the streets and traffic, lost in thought. Her companion stared

fixedly at the stolid back of the chauffeur: that, at least, was real

and a corrective.

It was the lady who spoke first, and with a sympathetic engaging accent,

nicely calculated to stir the most sluggish blood.

"Well?" she said.

Lionel awoke from his trance and turned. "Ah!" he murmured, and seized

her hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed it with a passionate

reverence. "Ah!" he said again, and "Ah!" punctuating the exclamations

with tender salutes.

"You should not do that," reproved the lady, though her voice betrayed

neither astonishment nor indignation. "It is foolish." She laughed

musically.

"Foolish!" echoed Lionel with a fine contempt. "Madam, it is anything

but that. If this be foolishness, then youth and joy and a careless

heart are folly, and woman is folly----"

"I thought that men were agreed upon that," she said.

"Cynics and pedagogues may hold the heresy," admitted Lionel, "but not

the happy, the young and the wise."

"Your youth and happiness are patent," she retorted, "but how am I to be

sure of your wisdom?"

He laughed.

"If you accept my youth and gaiety, I have good hopes of convincing you

of that."

She withdrew her hand from his ardent clasp, as if he had been too

presumptuous, or at least premature. Lionel cursed himself for a coxcomb

and hastened to make his peace.

"You are not angry?" he asked anxiously. "I have not offended you----?"

"No," she said, after an infinitesimal pause. "I am ... not ... angry."

There was a query in her tone that restored his self-confidence, a

quality of which he had usually good store. With a resolute movement he

took her in his arms. Possibly she was too amazed to protest; certainly

at first she made not the least resistence to the onset. It was not

until his lips touched hers that she gave a little cry as of shame. "No,

no!" she pleaded. "You must not ... my husband ..."

Lionel was a man of the world, but as chance would have it, he was a man

of honor, too. He dropped the lady like a hot coal at the appalling

word, and sat back rigid in his own corner of the cab. His companion,

mastered by emotion, covered her face with her hands. Presently she

peeped between her fingers and repeated his words, almost his accent.

"You are ... not ... angry?"

"I am never angry with a woman," he replied; but the lie was obvious.

She laid a soft hand upon his arm.

"You have not told me your name yet," she murmured. "I must always

cherish in my memory a brave man who is not too brave to be a

gentleman."

He moved uneasily, reflecting that _noblesse_ sometimes finds it

difficult to _oblige_.

"I am called Lionel Mortimer."

"I am called Beatrice Blair. Lionel ..." she went on with a reflective

sweetness, and he started as if stung. Her hand restrained while it

aroused him. "No: you must not mind that. I call you Lionel

because"--she turned aside as if struggling with her feelings--"I am a

mother. My little boy is called--was called Lionel."

"I am sorry," he said sincerely. "Go on."

"You must think hardly of me." He shook his head. "Yes, you must--it is

only natural. But I should like you to know the reason why I asked you

to----"

By this time Lionel was in a very good humor with himself. Warned by his

recent heroism and virtue, flattered by the interest shown in him by

this delightful creature, he was prepared for anything.

"I never ask a woman for a reason," he said, smiling. "I have the most

complete faith."

"How old are you?" she asked; and when he answered "Twenty-seven," she

laughed.

They drove in silence for a space; presently she asked what time it was.

He put his hand to his pocket and then withdrew it. She had observed the

action--"Your pocket has been picked?"

"No," he said frankly. "As a matter of fact, I pawned my watch a week

ago."

"Then you are poor!" she cried impulsively. "Oh! I beg your pardon,--I

did not mean----"

Lionel was never disconcerted by his lack of means, and the chuckle was

perfectly honest as he replied, "Distinctly poor. I am glad to think I

can still create an illusion of wealth in an artificial light, but

really I am worth very little."

"You do not mind?" she said, her eyes dancing.

"I admit," he said, "that I should prefer to be well off. But, being

poor, I see no use in making myself unhappy. I should prefer to pay half

a guinea for a stall rather than a shilling for the gallery. Still, I

contrive pretty tolerably to enjoy the play."

"You are a philosopher," she approved.

"A poor man can't afford to be anything else."

After a pause she said, "It must be getting late. Will you please tell

the man to drive to the Macready Theater?--the stage-door."

He opened the window, smiling to himself. "An actress!" he thought; "the

young man's dream of an adventure! This is absurdly conventional." After

directing the chauffeur, he sat back, wondering what the end would be,

content to wait on fortune. The lady, too, did not speak again until

they had almost reached their destination. Then she took a purse from

her satchel and said with friendly good-humor, "This is my frolic, and I

wish to pay for it. Please!"

Lionel was too well-bred to interpose bourgeois objections. Besides, it

was a case of necessity: his sixpence-ha'penny had been burning a hole

in his pocket for the last ten minutes.

"Fair lady," he said lightly, "I would if I could, but I can not. Five

shillings will be more than enough."

She gave him half a sovereign, and he wished he had been a street arab

to whom she could have said, "And keep the change." This, however, was

clearly impossible, nor did it appear to enter the lady's head. After he

had paid the man she received the balance with a careless gravity. He

raised his hat.

"You are not going?" she asked in surprise.

"Unless I can be of further service."

"But that is why I have brought you here! You have not heard my reason

yet, and you must--at least in justice to myself. This is only the

beginning: you can be of the greatest service if you will. Come!"

Lionel followed her through the stage-door. Adventure beckoned, and he

was not the man to disobey the seductive finger. True, the lady had a

husband--a scurvy thought--but he had proved himself as strong as she.

And she was deucedly pretty.

They passed the janitor, who touched his hat to the lady, and went along

a passage. Then up a flight of stairs and down another corridor, where

sundry couples were lounging and chatting between their entrances. It

was evidently a costume play, and the sight of doublets, rapiers and

helmets was a pleasant thing after the drabness of the threshold.

Illusion again threw her veil over the crudities of life; romance

sounded the horn of hope and hallooed Lionel to the pursuit.

The lady stopped suddenly before a door. This she opened and entered the

room beyond. Lionel followed, closed the door, and looked about him. He

was no stranger to the regions "behind," for in his younger days he had

been the friend of many actors and actresses not a few. With the

dressing-rooms of the men he was well acquainted,--those dingy

color-washed chambers, lighted by flaring gas, divided by racks for

dresses, equipped at times with but the washing-basin, stifling of

atmosphere, with little room to turn about in. In his younger days, as

has been observed, he had savored the delights of these unromantic

barracks, and had thoroughly enjoyed the experience; now he was blase.

Of the women's dressing-rooms he was ignorant, but in truth he was far

from curious. He supposed they were something of a replica of what he

had seen already,--four or five creatures herded in a bare loose-box, in

the intervals of painting and dressing, engaged with talk of frills or

scandal. The private dressing-rooms of those great creatures, the

leading men and ladies, were still a sealed book. He had never known

(oh, horrid thought!) a "lead," and he surveyed the present room with

interest.

There was little to reward him, for it was a very ordinary room, quietly

furnished with two or three easy chairs, a dressing-table covered with

"making-up" apparatus, a number of photographs scattered about in

various coigns of vantage, a wall-paper of a warm terra-cotta tint, a

soft carpet to correspond. A brass curtain-rod divided the room in two,

but the curtain was not drawn. "Will you sit down?" said the hostess; "I

must leave you for a moment. Try that chair in the corner,--it is the

best. And do smoke--the cigarettes are close to you on that little

table."

With a swift movement she pulled the curtain along its rod and

disappeared behind it. There followed a slight clicking as if she was

switching on more light; then a soft rustling and the sound of her voice

humming an air from _Carmen_. Lionel obediently lighted a cigarette and

patiently awaited events.

In less than ten minutes she drew the curtain and stood before him

again. But now she was a different creature. Her Bond Street costume had

disappeared, the twentieth-century had gone. The piquant head was

covered only with the dark masses of hair that gleamed seductively. She

was clad in a sort of peignoir, a loose flowing robe of Oriental

texture, crimson of hue, with dull gold braiding and tassels. Her face

was rouged and powdered, but in the brilliant electric glare it seemed

neither out of keeping nor meretricious. As she stood, holding the drawn

curtain with one hand, she looked as if she had stepped straight out of

the pages of the _Arabian Nights_.

"Do you like it?" she asked carelessly, sure of the effect. Poor Lionel,

on most occasions ready of tongue, who took a pride in never showing

surprise, could only murmur "Admirable!" With this, however, she seemed

content, and sat down in a convenient chair.

"Luckily, it is a straight make-up," she said, taking a cigarette and

lighting it. "As a rule I use grease-paint, but to-night I was in a

hurry and made-up dry. I want to talk. I am not on for a while, and my

dress can be slipped on in five minutes. I mean to tell you as briefly

as I can my history. It is your due."

Lionel made a noble gesture of dissent. "I am sure," he said

chivalrously, "it is all it should have been--"

She interrupted with some acerbity. "That is not my reason. I have

nothing either to excuse or condone. But as I have already put you to

considerable trouble, and mean (if you are willing to help, me) to put

you to still more, it is but fair that you should know all."

Lionel bowed as gracefully as he could.

"I will make it as short as I can," she continued. "There is much that

is strange and improbable in it, but I beg you to keep silent and

forbear to question me until the end. I was born in a little village on

the southeast coast. I was a twin, the other child being a sister, the

replica of myself. My mother died when I was only two years old. When I

was seventeen I was kidnaped by a tribe of Rumanian gipsies who wished

to be revenged on my father. He had prosecuted some of them for

poaching on his land. I was smuggled to the coast, and then across to

the continent.

"I do not mean to waste time in lingering over details immaterial to my

purpose. Were I writing a book I could fill a volume with the strange

incidents of my abduction and wanderings. But as time is short I will

come to the point at once. We journeyed by slow stages across the

continent, and of course I was jealously guarded the whole time. My

English dress was burned, my skin stained a brownish hue. Whenever

observation threatened I was immured in a small black hole, made at the

end of one of the caravans by a false partition. The police failed to

trace me, for the gipsies had been cunning enough to stay some weeks in

England after my capture to throw my relatives off the scent, keeping a

strict watch upon me. So with this inadequate resume you must realize

that we have passed through Germany, Austria, Rumania, Bulgaria and

Rumelia. We crossed the Turkish frontier, and I still had no plan of

escape. Oh, yes! I had tried--once! The threats they used on my

detection were more than enough to prevent me trying a second time.

"At last we reached Constantinople, where we stayed a night in a huge

caravansary. I was too well watched to be able to write a letter. The

next evening I was sold to a Turkish officer of the sultan's body-guard.

Blindfolded and gagged, I was put into a kind of sedan-chair under cover

of darkness and carried to his palace. I was escorted to a fine suite of

apartments, furnished in the eastern manner, but lit with electric

light. By this time I was so inured to tribulation that I slept

peacefully the whole night.

"The next morning the lord of the household arrived. He salaamed

profoundly and plunged at once into the business of the day. 'Fair

lady,' he began--and I was surprised at his excellent English and

supreme courtesy--'believe me when I say that I regret your sufferings.

But as I am not the man to beat about the bush, I make bold to inform

you, with all possible respect and determination, that you are destined

to become my wife.'

"I was not unprepared for this, but replied firmly that I would never

marry any one against my will. I added that I was a British subject, and

that as soon as my plight was known I should be rescued and vengeance

exacted.

"He laughed pleasantly. 'This is not England,' he said, 'and you will

never be rescued. Let me put the matter plainly. I have bought you to

satisfy a whim. I have long wished for an English wife, because I

happen to admire English women more than any others. I have made efforts

to contract an alliance by orthodox methods, but have not succeeded. Set

your mind at rest, however; I intend no violence against your lovely

person. If you refuse me, you will remain a prisoner in a gilded cage,

but no harm shall come to you.'

"'But why----' I began. He waved his hand.

"'Because I could wish that you might learn to love me. At present I can

not expect it; for the future, who knows? I am a bachelor by choice--you

need have no western fears of polygamy. I am rich, young and powerful.

And I hope that you will find out that, though of another civilization,

I can fulfil your idea of a gentleman. For the present your jailer and

lover bids you farewell.'

"He left me in a state of stupefaction. For some days after this I saw

nothing of him. I was treated with the utmost respect, as if I were

mistress of the household, but I was a prisoner. I was allowed to walk

in the spacious high-walled garden; but devoted slaves were close at

hand to prevent my communicating with the outer world.

"After a week had elapsed, Lukos--for that was my master's name--began

to pay regular visits to my chamber. He exerted himself to the utmost to

interest and charm, but as yet he never mentioned love. He would talk of

a thousand things--books, philosophy, the drama, even of fashion--and

being most versatile and accomplished, I found him excellent company. I

did not feel much resentment, for I had begun to learn the world and

understand his point of view, but I was inflexibly opposed to a marriage

by force. I was resolved to die a captive, if necessary, rather than

yield.

"This went on for two years. You start? It is true. No breath of my

imprisonment reached the embassy--much less my home. For a captive, my

life was easy, and during the long months my hopes had died, though my

determination was as English and stubborn as ever. Lukos was equally

persistent in maintaining his original attitude--gentle, persuasive,

polite, though now he often urged his suit. I admit that in other

circumstances I might have yielded, but pride kept me strong.

"But I must hurry on--"

As she said these words there was a knock, and a dresser entered.

"Twenty minutes, Miss Blair," she said, without a glance at Lionel.

"More than enough," said the strange lady, but she rose as she spoke.

"You will stay to hear the end, Mr. Mortimer? I am on for most of this

act, but if you find it interesting, please stay and smoke. You must

excuse me."

"By all means," said Lionel, rising. "Shall I--?"

He looked toward the door. "Oh, no!" she replied, and drew the curtain

once more. Then she and the dresser disappeared behind it. A brief

interval elapsed and she came forth dressed to play her part. She threw

him a bright smile as he sprang to the door. "You must theorize till I

come again," she said cheerfully, and he smiled back. The dresser

followed her mistress, and he was left alone.