For the two performances following there occurred an enforced shift of
actors, owing to Mr. Mooney's being somewhat indisposed; and Winston,
aided by considerable prompting from the others, succeeded in getting
through his lines, conscious of much good-natured guying out in front,
and not altogether insensible to Miss Norvell's efforts not to appear
amused. This experience left him in no pleasanter frame of mind, while
a wish to throw over the whole thing returned with renewed temptation.
Why not? What was he continuing to make such a fool of himself for,
anyhow? He was assuredly old enough to be done with chasing after
will-o'-the-wisps; and besides, there was his constant liability to
meet some old acquaintance who would blow the whole confounded story
through the Denver clubs. The thought of the probable sarcasm of his
fellows made him wince.
Moreover, he was himself ashamed of his
actions. This actress was nothing to him; he thoroughly convinced
himself of that important fact at least twenty times a day. She was a
delightful companion, bright, witty, full of captivating character,
attractively winsome, to be sure, yet it was manifestly impossible for
him ever to consider her in any more serious way. This became
sufficiently clear to his reasoning, yet, at the same time, he could
never quite break free. She seldom appeared to him twice the
same--proving as changeable as the winds, her very nature seeming to
vary with a suddenness which never permitted his complete escape from
her fascinations, but left him to surmise how she would greet him next.
Frank or distant, filled with unrestrained gayety or dignified by
womanly reserve, smiling or grave, the changeable vagaries of Miss
Norvell were utterly beyond his guessing, while back of all these
outward manifestations of tantalizing personality, there continually
lurked a depth of hidden womanhood, which as constantly baffled his
efforts at fathoming. It piqued him to realize his own helplessness,
to comprehend how completely this girl turned aside his most daring
efforts at uncovering the true trend of her heart and life. She
refused to be read, wearing her various masks with a cool defiance
which apparently bespoke utter indifference to his good opinion, while
constantly affording him brief, tantalizing glimpses into half-revealed
depths that caused his heart to throb with anticipation never entirely
realized.
It did not once occur to his mind that such artifices might be directed
as much toward herself as him; he lacked the conceit which could have
convinced him that they merely marked a secret struggle for mastery, a
desperate effort to crush an inclination to surrender before the
temptation of the moment. It was a battle for deliverance being fought
silently behind a mask of smiles, an exchange of sparkling commonplace;
yet ever beneath this surface play she was breathing a fervent prayer
that he would go away of his own volition and leave her free. Far more
clearly than he, the woman recognized the utter impossibility of any
serious purpose between them, and she fought his advances with every
weapon in her armory, her very soul trembling behind the happy smiling
of her lips. It was bravely attempted, and yet those dull weapons of
defence served merely to increase his interest, to awaken his passion,
and thus bind him more strongly to her. Safe once again from general
observation, he returned to the obscurity of the wings and to the
routine handling of trunks and scenery, feeling totally unable to
permit her to pass entirely out of his life. Within her own room she
dampened her pillow with tears of regret and remorse, yet finally she
sank to sleep strangely happy because he lingered. It was the way of a
woman; it was no less the way of a man.