by John Jakes
The return had been hard in many respects, but she’d known it would be. Most difficult, now that she was no longer a married woman, was the presence of men in her life—including those she sought to avoid by her delayed departure from the theater.
Well, she supposed she couldn’t ask for all her problems to be solved. Life didn’t work that way. On balance, the year in Philadelphia promised to be a fine one. She loved the companionship of her fellow actors, and especially that of Louisa Drew. Yesterday, for example, Eleanor would have been alone on Thanksgiving Day, had not Louisa invited her to dinner.
The Drew residence had been noisy and festive. The oldest of Louisa’s four children, Georgianna—a superb player of comedy, just like her mother and late father—had been in town for twenty-four hours. With her was her husband, the handsome and flamboyant Maurice Barrymore, and their three charming, extroverted children. Lionel was eleven or twelve, Ethel ten, and already a beauty. John, the one who most strongly resembled his handsome father, was seven or eight.
Georgie and Maurice were currently members of the stock company of Countess Helena Modjeska. The Polish-born beauty, a former star of Warsaw’s Imperial Theater, was enjoying one of her most successful seasons. Consequently the Barrymores were too.
That success had been quite apparent all day long. Maurice had been merry and flirtatious—although he did drink a little too heavily. As the mince pie was being passed, he’d tipsily informed Eleanor that the name with which he’d started life in India was Herbert Blythe—and since he was already married under the name Barrymore, would she slip away and become Mrs. Blythe?
He kissed her hand as he said it, and his own wife laughed. Blythe or Barrymore, he was devilishly handsome, Eleanor thought. So handsome that she certainly would have looked twice at him if he’d been single, and she had been interested in men.
But of course that part of her life was over. One failure as a woman was enough. The moment his lips touched her hand, she froze inside. In the limbo of her mind, huge and forbidding, was the door. It was the one phantom she could not banish.
ii
A little of the sorrow about Leo was passing. She could reflect more objectively upon the past. In the hours she spent alone at the boardinghouse, she occasionally turned from studying her next role to thoughts of other aspects of her life. During those hours she had come to a decision. She had decided that of necessity, her only interest for the rest of her life would be her career. Such a future might not be a very satisfying one. But it was sensible in light of the secret she carried, and the misery it had brought. She would never love another man, only to hurt him as she had hurt Leo.
That was the safest way. And yet, a part of her— shamefully disloyal to Leo’s memory—occasionally longed to discover someone else with whose help she could open the door, share her secret, and thereby begin to overcome its crippling power.
She wasn’t totally unresponsive to men. During Thanksgiving dinner, for example, she’d found herself quite taken with Maurice Barrymore’s handsome face, flirtatious banter, and occasional warm glances—until that moment when he’d kissed her hand. So she knew that her wish was an impossible one. To pretend otherwise was cruel self-deception—
Her reverie was interrupted by the distant rattle of a cleaning pail. Through a curtained doorway in the lowest tier of boxes, she saw the glow of a cleaning woman’s lamp. Had a half hour passed yet? She didn’t think so. But she could walk to the stage entrance and ask Charlie, the elderly doorkeeper, what time it—
“Eleanor?”
The voice made her start. It came from behind some flats stacked at stage right. Hand to her breast, she turned as the speaker appeared. It was Louisa Drew.
“Louisa,” she said, letting out a breath. “I didn’t hear you coming—”
Mrs. Drew walked into the dim light at center stage. Smiling, she said, “I hope you were busy thinking of Mr. Sheridan’s dialogue.”
Eleanor laughed. “I’m sorry to say I wasn’t. But I promise to study that new business for Julia’s curtain speech before I go to bed tonight. I marked it all down during rehearsal. Half an hour in front of a mirror will smooth out any rough spots.”
“Good,” Louisa said. “Joe and I have toured in that play so long, we tend to forget that last year’s staging can always be improved.”
Louisa Drew was a small, queenly woman with a sizable bosom, a prominent nose, and large blue eyes. When viewed from certain angles, those eyes showed a decided bulge. Louisa’s son, young John—one of Daly’s stars, though Daly disliked the term—laughingly maintained that without “the Drew pop-eyes,” the family would never have produced so many performers who were successful at comedy.
Eleanor’s employer had been born of theatrical parents in Britain in 1820. As far as Louisa knew, her actress mother had first put her on the stage when she was around a year old. As a young woman, she’d married the Irish comedian John Drew, and together they had managed the Arch Street Theater until 1862, when John died. Immediately, those in the profession had predicted either a speedy sale or a speedy failure of the playhouse. Instead, Louisa set to work to build a strong company, and had turned the theater into one of the most profitable in America. By herself, she was far more successful than she’d been while dividing responsibility with her husband. Even such formidable theatrical figures as Daly and the Wallacks acknowledged her to be the country’s foremost producing manager.
Louisa cleared her throat. “I did have one observation I wanted to make before you left. You were a few seconds late with your third entrance this evening.” The criticism was delivered in a straightforward way, without rancor. Mrs. Drew wanted every aspect of her productions to be perfect. No one was above criticism—not Jefferson, and certainly not she herself.
“You’re quite right,” Eleanor admitted. “My timing was off, and it had a strong effect on the whole scene. We got much less laughter than we usually do. I’m sorry about the whole thing.”
“I know there are extenuating circumstances. The callboy said you slipped and almost turned your ankle just before making the entrance.”
“I did. But that isn’t an excuse.”
Louisa patted her arm. “When I saw Dan Prince at the Wallack benefit last year, he told me he’d once predicted a fine future for you. I told him I agreed with his prediction. Besides being extremely talented, you’re thoroughly professional.”
Eleanor smiled. But hearing the name Dan Prince tinged her thoughts with sadness. Prince had been the featured player in the first company with which she’d toured, the Tom show she and Leo had joined together. Prince was a superb actor. But because of his drinking he was no longer able to get any roles except walk-ons.
How different everything had been just a little more than ten years ago! She and Leo had been eager young actors, and Prince had still been able to give a creditable performance. Now Prince’s career was in ruins, and Leo—
Leo—
She bowed her head. Again Louisa touched her arm.
“What’s wrong, my dear?”
“Oh—the usual. Memories. Leo would have loved working here this season. We had such a wonderful time when we were here before. He had such a grand future—”
“Leo was a fine man,” Louisa agreed. “And a generous one. He always said that of the two Goldmans, you were the one with the first-rank talent.”
“Oh, no, Louisa—”
“It’s true, my dear. He told me that time and again. One of the qualities that made Leo such a thorough professional was a grasp of his own limitations. He used to watch you rehearsing and whisper to me—in delight—that you had no limitations at all. You could play any role. Go as far in this queer business as you wished. Climb up to the pineapple of success, as Mrs. Malaprop would say.”
And that’s all I have left—the prospect of reaching the pineapple of success, she thought. I wish it was enough.
But it wasn’t. In spite of her decision, there was one role she could never play, and it wa
s the role she sometimes longed to play most of all. The role of a woman who felt and responded as other women did—
Softly, Louisa said, “I believe I heard the hack arrive.”
“Did you?” Eleanor shook her head. “I was woolgathering again. It’s getting to be a bad habit.”
“But understandable,” the older woman replied in a sympathetic tone.
The two women walked toward the stage door. When they’d gone half a dozen steps, Louisa asked, “You leave at this time every evening, don’t you?”
Eleanor answered carefully. “I prefer to let the crowds clear away. I dislike fighting my way through a lot of stagestruck people. I know they pay my salary, but I’m just not up to being courteous to them when I’m tired.”
They had reached the exit. Louisa was silhouetted against the shaded incandescent lamp on the doorkeeper’s desk six feet away. Eleanor couldn’t see her face, but her voice was kind.
“I understand. Quite a few of the men in those crowds are waiting for you—as I think you know. Given your good looks and the striking impression you create onstage, that’s to be understood. It’s one reason I’ve ordered Charlie”— a nod toward the elderly man behind the desk—“never to admit strangers to your dressing room. I appreciate that you aren’t prepared for attention from gentlemen, and may not be prepared for months or possibly years.”
I'll never be prepared, she thought. But all she said was: “That’s very considerate, Louisa. I must get my wrap. Are you leaving now?”
“No, I have to stay and total the receipts for this production. I’ll be done in an hour. Charlie will keep me company.”
“All right. Good night.”
“Good night, Eleanor,” Louisa Drew murmured. Only when Eleanor turned away did the older woman permit herself a sorrowful shake of her head.
iii
Eleanor walked to her dressing room for her hat, coat, and gloves, then returned to the stage entrance. She said good night to Charlie and stepped out into the frosty November darkness.
The same hack driver called for her every night. She was getting used to his silhouette on the driver’s seat, his generally grumpy mood, and the ripe smell of his swaybacked mare. The horse stood motionless now, head down and steam pluming from her nostrils.
A chilly kind of light fell from the streetlamps along Sixth Street. There was no one waiting near the stage door. Eleanor had found that men would seldom linger for more than ten or fifteen minutes after the rest of the cast had left.
Some of the men who waited for her were wealthy; some were socially prominent. Many were both. Often one of them would send his card in, or hand Charlie a bouquet for delivery to her dressing room. Many young actresses loved the ritual of stage door courtship, knowing where it could lead if a girl was sufficiently careful about the man she chose to favor. Not a few highly profitable marriages had been made on the doorsteps of theaters. It was a fact of life in the profession, but one of which she wanted no part—
“Mrs. Goldman?”
For the second time tonight, a voice from the darkness startled her. The voice came from her left. Vaguely alarmed, she wondered about the stranger’s identity. She was billed at Arch Street under her maiden name.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Mrs. Goldman.”
Now she recognized the voice. She didn’t believe her ears.
The man had been leaning against the wall, hidden by shadows. He stepped forward into the light. He was bundled in a fur-collared overcoat, and hatless, so she was able to confirm her identification. She saw the curly hair, the thick, dark brows, the irregular teeth revealed by that smile she’d found so infectious—
“Oh my God,” she said in wonderment and dismay. “It is you, Mr. Martin.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THE SECRET
i
“FORGIVE ME FOR STARTLING you—” Rafe Martin began.
Still astonished, she interrupted. “Where did you come from?”
“Altoona. I’ve been working there ever since I got out of the hospital.”
“Hospital?”
“That’s right. After we saw each other last, I went back to work searching for flood survivors. It was my bad luck to go into one house while a looter was at work. I started to collar him and he took a shot at me. Luckily the wound wasn’t a fatal one. But it took me a good ten weeks to get back on my feet completely.”
Her heart was beating so fast, it actually seemed to hurt. A voice within her cried, He knows what happened to you! Her shame grew worse by the moment. She had to say something. She blurted the first thought that came to mind: “I thought you were dead—”
He grinned. “Glad I’m not. Otherwise I’d have missed this chance to see you. Yesterday I happened to pick up a Philadelphia paper. I noticed the advertisement for the play, saw your name in the cast and caught a train. I was up in the family circle tonight. Out here, I outlasted three much more prosperous-looking gentlemen. I’m sure they thought I was waiting for someone else. I’m not dressed well enough to present myself to the prettiest woman in the company.”
Conflicting emotions raged through Eleanor then. She was immensely happy to see Martin, but in conflict with her pleasure was a frantic compulsion to break away, flee from him, and from the memory of what she’d confessed in that moment of hysteria.
She called on her acting ability and put a chill into her voice. “I’m glad to know you’re alive and well. And I’m very flattered that you came all the way from Altoona to watch the play.”
“Not the play, Mrs. Goldman. You.”
“Yes. Well—I must go. I’m late for an engagement.”
“Can’t you break it? I’d like to buy you supper.”
“No, that isn’t possible.”
“You’re dining with someone else?”
“No, but—” Her shame destroyed the impression of cool reserve she wanted to create. Unexpectedly on the verge of tears, she found her voice breaking. “Please leave me alone, Mr. Martin.”
She hurried toward the hack. He came after her and caught her arm. The hack driver leaned down to ask if she needed help. She shook her head, confused, frightened, all at once unable to control her emotions.
She moved a few paces down the sidewalk so the driver couldn’t eavesdrop. Casting a long shadow, Martin followed.
“I don’t mean to intrude on your mourning,” he said. “But you made a great impression on me in Johnstown. A great impression—”
She understood what he was saying behind the screen of polite language. Her cheeks grew warm again.
He went on. “If you can’t see me this evening, tell me how soon you can and I’ll come back. When I want something, I’m a very persistent fellow.”
“Mr. Martin, you must understand my situation. I’m a widow—”
“I respect that. I’m only saying that after a suitable time, I’d like to call on—”
“It’s impossible!”
“Why?”
“I—I can’t tell you. And you mustn’t ask.”
“If it’s because you’re embarrassed about what you admitted to me—quite by accident, I think—you should know it makes absolutely no difference—no, please. Let me finish. Flat on my back after they yanked that bullet out of me, I had a lot of time to think. I kept recalling what you said that night, and I decided that it must be a cross you’d carried all your life. For one moment in Johnstown, the cross was too heavy. If you don’t like me or want any part of me, now or ever, so be it. But if the reason you refuse to see me is that cross, I’m telling you it makes no difference.”
His craggy face lit with that brilliant smile. “You’ll have to forgive me for being so forward, Mrs. Goldman. I probably ought to be horsewhipped for speaking so soon after your husband’s death. But I fell in love with you the minute I saw you in Johnstown. The first time we spoke, I knew you were the only woman I wanted. The only one I ever would want. I have very little money, poor prospects—not much to offer except my feeling for you and a
conviction that I don’t dare waste time—not all that much of it is given to us in this life. Your poor husband is proof of that.”
He drew a breath. “Now may I take you to supper?”
Fear surged within her. She wanted to believe his assurances. She couldn’t. “No, Mr. Martin. I don’t think—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he broke in gently. “What happened is long in the past. But if it’s still a burden, think of this. Two can carry a cross more easily than one.”
“This—this is absolutely insane—”
In a querulous voice, the hack driver called, “Getting kind of late, ma’am. I’ve got a long drive to my place in Chester.”
Martin leaned down to her and whispered, “Just supper. From there on, we’ll trust to luck.”
She formed the word no. But she couldn’t utter it. Five seconds went by. Five more—
“Mrs. Goldman?”
Then, incredibly, something loosened within her— loosened, broke free, and was swept away. She would always feel the shame. Yet its power suddenly seemed less potent, simply because the secret was no longer hers alone.
He didn’t scorn her. He wanted her exactly as she was—
She was sure her face was red. She certainly felt foolish, surrendering to hope so quickly and eagerly. But she’d lived too long with grief. It was time that a little happiness—or at least a little hope—came her way—
“All right, Mr. Martin.”
“You mean we’ll go?”
“Yes. The truth is, I don’t have an engagement, and I’m famished. I never eat dinner before a performance.”
Grinning, Martin sprang to the hack door. He handed it open and stood aside. “After you.”
She bent to enter the hack, then paused to look at him. “Did you really expect I’d say yes to this kind of wild proposal?”
“Well, I had hopes. I told you I’m persistent. And while I’m not much for the formal ways of churches, I don’t believe our lives are ruled purely by chance. After I survived that bullet in Johnstown, I figured I must have been spared for a reason. Let’s trust to luck, Mrs. Goldman. Maybe we’ll find out the nature of that reason.”