The DESTROYING ANGEL

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 839, 6 December 1929, Page 5

The DESTROYING ANGEL

BY

CHAPTER XXXIX. “Jules Max has sprung another and perhaps his greatest surprise on the theatre-going public of this city. In the face of the rumour that he was in (lire financial straits and would make no productions whatever this year, the astute manager has been out of (own for two months secretly rehearsing the new- comedy entitled ’Faith,’ <>t which he is the author and in which Sara Law will return finally to the stage. ' Additional interest attaches to this announcement in view of the fact ihat Miss Law has authorised the publication of her intention never ■'gain to retire from the stage. Miss Law is said to have expressed herself ns follows: ‘lt is my dearest wish to •lie in harness. I have come to realise that a great artiste has no duty greater than her duty to her art. I dedicate my life and artistry to the American public.’ “The opening performance of Faith’ will take place at the Theatre Max tomorrow evening. Friday, October 15. The sale of seats opens at the

LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

(Copyright by Public Ledger.)

box-office this morning. Despite the short notice, a bumper house is confidently expected to welco: a back this justly popular and most charming American actress in the first play of which Mr. Max has confessed being the author.”

Whitaker glanced up incredulously at the date-line of the sheet. Short notice, indeed; the date was Thursday, October 14! Max had planned his game and had played his cards cunningly, in withholding this announcement until the last moment. So much was very clear to him whose eyes had wit to read between those lines of trite press-agent phraseology. After a pause Whitaker rose and began to walk the length of the room, hands in his pockets, head bowed in thought. He was telling himself that he was not greatly surprised, after all; he was wondering at his coolness; and he was conning over, with a grim, sardonic kink in his twisted smiles, the needless precautions taken by the dapper little manager in his fear of Whitaker’s righteous wrath. For Whitaker had no intention of interfering in any way. He conceived it a possibility that h-is conge might have been more kindly given him, but ... he had received it, and he was not slow to recognise it as absolute and without appeal. The thing was finished. The play was over, so far as concerned his part therein. He had no doubt played it poorly, but at least his exit would not lack a certain quality of dignity. Whitaker promised himself that. He thought it really astonishing, his coolness. He analysed his psychological processes with a growing wonder and with as much, if less definite, resentment. He would not have thought it credible of himself. Search as he would, he could discover no rankling indignation, no smouldering rage threatening to flame at the least breath of provocation, not even what he might have most confidently looked forwa-J to—the sickening writhings of self-love mortally wounded and impotent to avenge itself; nothing but some selfcontempt, that he had allowed himself to be so carried away by infatuation for an ignoble woman, and a cynic humour that made it possible lor him to derive a certain satisfaction from contemplating the completeness of this final revelation by herself.

However, he had more important things to claim his attention than the spectacle of a degraded soul making public show of its dishonour. He halted by the window to look out. Over the withered trectops of Bryant Square, set against the rich turquoise of that late autumn sky, a gigantic signboard heralded tLe news of perfidy to an unperceptive world that bustled on, heedless of Jules

Max, ignoran (largely) of the existence of Hugh Whitaker, unconcerned 'vi... Sara Law save as she employed herself for its amusement. After all, the truth was secret and like to stay so, jealously husbanded in four bosoms at most. Max would guard it as he would a system for winning at roulette; Mary Whitaker might well be trusted never to declare herself; Ember was as secret as the grave. . . . Returning to the breakfast table, he took up the paper, turned to the shipping news and ran his eye down the list of scheduled sailings; nothing for Friday; his pick of half a dozen boats listed to sail Saturday. The telephone enabled him to make a hasty reservation on the biggest and fastest of them all.

He had just concluded that business and was waiting with ins hand on the receiver to call up Ember and announce his departure when the doorbell interrupted. Expecting the waiter to remove the breakfast things, 1 ' he went to tile door, threw it open, and went back instantly to tho telephone. As his fingers closed round the receiver a second time, he looked round and saw his wife. . . .

His hand fell to his side. Otherwise he did not move. But his glance was that of one incuriously comprehending the existence of a stranger.

The woman met it fairly and fearlessly, with her head high and her lips touched with a trace of her shadowy, illegible smile. She was dressed for walking, very prettily and perfectly. There were roses in her cheeks; a healthful glow distinguishable even in the tempered light of the hallway. Her self-possession was faultless. After a moment she inclined her head slightly. “The hall boy said you were busy on the telephone. I insisted on coming directly up. I wish very much to see you for a few moment. Do you mind?” “By no means,” he said, a little stiffly but quite calmly. “If you will be good enough to come in ” He stood against the wall to let her pass. For a breath she was top close to him: he felt his pulses quicken faintly to the delicate and indefinite

perfume of her person. But it was over in an instant; she had passed into the living room. He followed, grave, collected, aloof. “I had to come this morning,” she explained, turning. “This afternoon we have a rehearsal. . . .” He bowed an acknowledgment. “Won’t .you sit down?” “Thank you.” Seated, she subjected him to a quick, open appraisal, disarming in its naive honesty. “Hugh . . . aren’t you a bit thinner?” “ I believe so.” He had a match for that impertinence: “But you, I see, have come off without a blemish.” “I am very well,” she admitted, unperturbed. Her glance embraced the room. “You’re very comfortable here.” “I have been.” “X hope that doesn’t mean I'm in the way.” “To the contrary; but I sail day after tomorrow for Australia.” “Oh? That’s very sudden, isn't it? You don’t seem to have done any packing. Or perhaps you mean to come back before a great while?” “I shan’t come back, ever.” “Must I believe you made up your mind this morning?” “I have only just read the announcement of your opening tomorrow' night.” “Then ... I am driving you out of the country?” Her look was impersonal and curious. He prided himself that he was managing his temper admirably - —at least until he discovered that he had, inexplicably, no temper to speak of; that he, in fact, suffered mostly from what seemed to be nothing more than annoyance at being hindered in making the necessary arrangements against his departure. His shoulders moved negligently. “Not to rant about it,” he replied. “I find I am not needed here.” “Oh, dear!” Her lips formed a fugitive, p.e’ulant moue. “And it’s my fault?” “There's no use mincing matters, is there? I am not heartbroken, and if I am bitterly disappointed I don’t care to —in fact, I lack the ability—to dramatise it.” “You are taking it well, Hugh,” she said, critical. Expressionless, he waited an instant before inquiring pointedly: “Well Deliberately laying aside her light muff, her scarf and handbag, she rose; equality of poise was impossible if he would persist in standing. She moved a little nearer, examining his face closely, shook her head, smiled almost diffidently, and gave a helpless gesture. “Hugh,” she said in a voice of sincerity. "I’m awfully sorry—truly I am! ” He made no reply; waited. “Perhaps I'm wrong,” she went on. “but I think most women would have spared themselves this meeting ” “Themselves and the man,” he interjected dryly. “Don’t be cross, Hugh. ... I had to come. I had to explain myself. I wanted you to understand. Hugh, I .” She' was twisting her hands together w-ith a manner denoting great mental strain. Of a sudden she checked and dropped them, limp and open by her sides. “You see,” she said, with the apologetic smile, “I’m trying not to act.” “Oh,” he said in a tone of dawning comprehension—“so that’s it!” “I’m afraid so, Hugh. . . . I'm dreadfully sorry, for you—poor boy! —but I’m afraid that’s the trouble with me, and it can never be helped. I was born with a talent for acting; life has made me an actress. Hugh . . . I've found out something.”

Her eyes appealed wistfully. I’m not genuine.” He nodded interestedly. • “I’m just an actress, an instrument for the music of emotions. I’ve been trained to respond, until now I respond without knowing it, when there’s no true response here.” She. touched the bosom of her frock. He said nothing. With a half sigh'she moved away to the window, and before she spoke again posed herself very effectively there, looking out over the park while she cleared her mind. Whitaker’s wife glanced furtively at him and continued: “I meant to be sweet and faithful when I left that note for you on the yacht, Hugh; I was grateful, and I meant to be generous. . . . But when I went to the Waldorf, the first person I met was Max. Of course, I had to tell him what had happened. And then he threw himself upon my compassion. It seems that losing me had put him in the most terrible trouble about money. He was short, and he couldn’t get the backing he needed without me, his call upon my services, by way of assurance to his backers. “And I began to think. I knew I didn’t love you honestly, Hugh, and that life with you would be a living lie. What right had I to deceive you that way, just to gratify my love of being loved? And especially if by doing that I ruined Max, the man to whom, next to you, I owed everything? I couldn't do it. But I took time to think it over—truly I did. I really did go to a sanatorium, and rested there while I turned the whole matter over carefully in my mind, and at length reached my decision to stick by Max and let you go, free to win the heart of a woman worthy of you. “Max was afraid you might upset the performance again, as you did on my last appearance, Hugh,” she said; “but I assured him it was just the shock of recognising you that bowled me over. So I’ve brought you a box for tomorrow night. I want you to use it—you and Mr. Ember.” He broke in with a curt monosyllable: “Why?” “Why why because because I want you—l suppose it’s simply my vanity—to see me act. Perhaps you'll feel a little less hardly toward me if you see that I am really a great actress, that I give you up for something bigger than just love “What rot!” he said with an odd, short laugh. “Besides, I harbour no resentment.” She stared, losing a little colour, eyes darkening with apprehension. “I did hope you’d come,” she murmured. “Oh, I'll come,” he said with spirit. “Wild horses couldn't keep me away.” “Really, Hugh? And you don’t mind? Oh, I'm glad!” (To be continued tomorrow.)