The Imitator: A Novel

by Percival Pollard

  CHAPTER XIII.

  The fact that Arthur Wantage was to be seen and heard, nightly, in abrilliant comedy by the author of "Pious Aeneas," was not so much theattraction that drew people to his theatre, as was the fact that he hadnot yet, that season, delivered himself of a curtain speech. His curtainspeeches were wont to be insults delivered in an elaborately honeyedmanner; he took the pose of considering his audiences with contempt; headmired himself far more for his condescension in playing to them thanhe respected his audiences for having the taste to admire him.

  The comedy in which he was now appearing was the perfection of paradox.It pretended to be frivolous and was really philosophic. The kernel ofreal wisdom was behind the elaborately poised mask of wit. A delightfulimpertinence and exaggeration informed every line of the dialogue. Thepose of inimitable, candid egoism showed under every situation. The playwas typical of the author as well as of the player. It veiled, as thinlyas possible, a deal of irony at the expense of the play going public; ittook some of that public's dearest foibles and riddled them to shreds.

  It was currently reported that the only excuse for comparativelyamicable relations between Wantage and O'Deigh, who had written thiscomedy, was the fact of there being an ocean between them. Even at thatWantage found it difficult to suffer the many praises he heard bestowed,not upon himself but O'Deigh. He had burst out in spleen at thisadulation, once, in the hearing of an intimate.

  "My dear Arthur," said the other, "you strike me as very ungrateful. Formy part, when I see your theatre crowded nightly, when I see how yourexchequer fills steadily, it occurs to me that you should go down onyour knees every night, and thank God that O'Deigh has done you such astunning play."

  "Oh," was Wantage's grudging answer, "I do, you know I do. But I alsosay: Oh, God, why did it have to be by O'Deigh?"

  The secret of his hatred for O'Deigh was the secret of his hatred forall dramatists. He was a curious compound of egoism, childishness andshrewdness. Part of his shrewdness--or was it his childishness?--showedin his aversion to paying authors' royalties. He always tried tore-write all the plays he accepted; if the playwrights objected therewas sure to be a row of some sort. When he could find no writers willingto make him a present of plays, for the sake, as he put it, of having itdone by as eminent an actor as himself, and in so beautiful a theatre,he was in the habit of announcing that he would forsake the theatre, andturn critic. He pretended that the world--the public, the press, eventhe minor players--were in league against him. There was a conspiracy todrive him from the theatre; the riff-raff resented that a man of geniusshould be so successful. They lied about him; he was sure they lied; forstories, of preposterous import, came to him; he vowed he never read thenewspapers--never. As for London--oh, he could spin you the mostfascinating yarn of the cabal that had dampened his London triumph. Hementioned, with a world of meaning in his tone, the name of the othergreat player of the time; he insinuated that to have him, Wantage,succeed in London, had not been to that other player's mind; so thewires had been pulled; oh, it was all very well done. He laughed at thereminiscence,--a brave, bluff laugh, that told you he could afford tolet such petty jealousies amuse him.

  The riddle of Arthur Wantage's character had never yet been read. Therewere those who averred he was never doing anything but acting, not inthe most intimate moments of his life; some called him a keenmoneymaker, retaining the mummer's pose off the stage for the mereeffect of it on the press and the public. What the man's really honest,unrehearsed thoughts were,--or if he ever had such--no man could say. Tomany earnest students of life this puzzle had presented itself. Itbegan to present itself, now, to Orson Vane.

  This, surely, was a secret worth the reading. Here were, so to say, twomasks to lift at once. This man, Arthur Wantage, who came out before thecurtain now as this, now as that, character of fancy or history, whatshred of vital, individual personality had he retained through all thesechangings? The enthusiasm of discovery, of adventure came upon Vane witha sharpness that he had not felt since the day he had mocked thefutility of human science because it could not unlock other men'sbrains.

  The horseshoe-shaped space that held the audience glittered with babbleand beauty as Orson Vane took his seat in the stalls. The presence ofthe smart set gave the theatre a very garland of charm, of grace, and ofbeauty's bud and blossom. The stalls were radiant, and full of politechatter. The boxes wore an air of dignified twilight,--a twilight ofgoddesses. The least garish of the goddesses, yet the one holding thesubtlest sway, was Jeanette Vanlief. She sat, in the shadow of an upperbox, with her father and Luke Moncreith. On her pale face the veinsshowed, now and then; the flush of rose came to it like a surprise--likethe birth of a new world. She radiated no obvious, blatant fascination.Her hands slim and white; her voice firm and low; her eyes of a hue likethat of bronze, streaked like the tiger-lilies; her profile sharp as acameo's; the nose, with its finely-chiseled nostrils, curved in Romanmode; the mouth, thin and of the faintest possible red, slightlydrooping. And then, her hair! It held, again, a spray of lilies of thevalley; the artificial lights discovered in the waves and the curls ofit the most unexpected shades, the most mercurial tints. The slighttouch of melancholy that hovered over her merely enhanced her charm.Moncreith told himself that he would go to the uttermost ends of evil towin this woman. He had come, the afternoon of that day, through the mostdangerous stream in the world, the stream of loveliness that flows overcertain portions of the town at certain fashionable hours. It is astream the eddies of which are of lace and silk; its pools are the blueof eye and the rose of mouth; its cataracts are skirts that swirl andwhisper and sing of ivory outlines and velvet shadows. Yet, as he lookedat Jeannette Vanlief, all that fascinating, dangerous stream lost itsenticement for him; he saw her as a dream too high for comparison withthe mere earthiness of the town. He felt, with a grim resolution, thatnothing human should come between him and Jeannette.

  Orson Vane, from his chair, paid scant attention to his fellowspectators. He was intent upon the dish that O'Deigh and Wantage hadprepared for his delectation. He felt a delicious interest in everyline, every situation. He had made up his mind that he would go to theroot of the mystery that men called Arthur Wantage. Whether that maskconcealed a real, high intelligence, or a mere, cunning, monkeylikefacility in imitation--his was to be the solution of that question.Wrapped up in that thought he never so much as glanced toward the boxwhere his friends sat.

  At the end of the first act Vane strolled out into the lobby. He noddedhither and thither, but he felt no desire for nearer converse. A hand onhis shoulder brought him face to face with Professor Vanlief. He wasasked to come up to the box. He listened, gravely, to the Professor'swords, and thanked him. So Moncreith was smitten? He smiled in a kindlyway; he understood, now, the many brusqueries of his friend. That day,long ago, when he had been so inexplicable in the little bookshop; themany other occasions, since then, when Luke had been rude and bitter. Aman in love was never to be reckoned on. He wished Luke all the luck inthe world. It struck him but faintly that he himself had once longed forthat sweet daughter of Augustus Vanlief's; he told himself that it was adream he must put away. He was a mariner bent on many deep-sea voyagesand many hazards of fate; it would be unfair to ask any woman to sharein any such life. His life would be devoted to furthering theProfessor's discoveries; he meant to be an adventurer into the regionsof the human soul; it was a land whither none could follow.

  Perhaps, if he had seen Jeannette, he might have felt no suchresignation. His mood was so tense in its devotion to the puzzlepresented by the player, Wantage, that the news brought him by Vanliefdid not suffice to rouse him. He had a field of his own; that other onehe was content to leave to Moncreith.

  Moncreith, in the meanwhile, was making the most of the opportunity theProfessor, in the kindness of his heart, had given him. The orchestrawas playing a Puccini potpourri. It rose feebly against the prattle andthe chatter and the hissing of the human voices. Moncreith, at first,found only the most obvious w
ords.

  "A trifle bitter, the play," he said, "rather like a sneer, don't youthink?"

  "Well," granted Jeannette, indolently, "I suppose it is not called'Voltaire' for nothing. And there are moods that such a play mightsuit."

  "No doubt. But--do you think one can be bitter, when one loves?"

  The girl looked up in wonder. She blushed. The melancholy did not leaveher face. "Bitter? Love?" she echoed. "They spell the same thing."

  "Oh," he urged, "the play has made you morbid. As for me, I have heardnothing, seen nothing, but you. The bitterness of the play has skimmedby me, that is all; I have been in too sweet a dream to let those peopleon the stage--"

  "How Wantage would rage if he heard you," said the girl. She felt whatwas coming, and she meant to fence as well as she could to avoid it.

  "Wantage? Bother Wantage!" He leaned down to her, and whispered,"Jeannette!"

  The flush on her cheek deepened, but she did not stir. It was as if shehad not heard. She shut her eyes. All her weapons dropped at once. Sheknew it had to come; she knew, too, that, in this crisis, her heartstood plainly legible to her. Moncreith's name was not there.

  "Jeannette," Moncreith went on, in his vibrant whisper, "don't you guesswhat dream I have been living in for so long? Don't you know that it isyou, you, you--" He faltered, his emotions outstriding his words. "It isyou," he finished, "that spell happiness for me. I--oh, is there noother, less crude way of putting it?--I love you, Jeannette! And you?"

  He waited. The chattering and light laughter in the stalls andthroughout the house seemed to lull into a mere hushed murmur, like thefluttering and twittering of a thousand birds. Moncreith, in his tenseexpectation, had heed only for the face of the girl beside him. He didnot see, in the aisle below, Orson Vane, sauntering to his seat. He didnot follow the direction of Jeannette Vanlief's eyes, the instant beforeshe turned, and answered.

  "I wish you had not spoken. I can't say anything--anything that youwould like. Please, please--" She shook her head, in evident distress.

  "Ah," he burst out, "then it is true, after all, what I have feared. Itis true that you prefer that--that--"

  She stayed him with a quick look.

  "I did not say I preferred anyone. I simply said that you must considerthe question closed. I am sorry, oh, so sorry. I wish a man and a womancould ever be friends, in this world, without risking either love orhate."

  "All the same," he muttered, fiercely, "I believe you prefer thatfellow--"

  "Orson Vane's downstairs," said the Professor entering the box at thatmoment.

  "That damned chameleon!" So Moncreith closed, under his breath, his justinterrupted speech.