My Actor-Husband: A true story of American stage lifeAnonymous
General
My Actor-Husband: A true story of American stage life
Anonymous
Actors -- Fiction; Married people -- Fiction; Theater -- Moral and ethical aspects -- Fiction
It was on Tuesday, the day after Christmas. I had gone out with Mrs.
Mollett to tea at a woman's club. The violets Will had brought me after
the Christmas matinée were reinforced by some lilies of the valley. The
huge bouquet looked particularly smart against my fur coat. Mrs.
Mollett and I were late in getting back. I felt sure I should miss Will,
who was going out to dinner with some friends at a club. As I passed
through the hall to the lift a bell-boy overtook me. He told me there
was someone in the parlour waiting to see me. I asked for a card but
none had been sent. Wondering who could be calling on me--I had so few
acquaintances in Boston--and anticipating a pleasant surprise I followed
the boy to the parlour on the second floor. It was a large room and I
stopped in the portièred doorway half expectantly. The only occupant of
the room was a tall person--whether woman or girl I could not discern.
She stood with her back to the door, looking out the window. As she
glanced over her shoulder with no sign of recognition I turned to go.
The bell-boy, however, had waited behind me. "That's the lady who asked
for you over there." He approached the girl, who turned timidly.
"You wanted to see Mrs. Hartley, didn't you? This is she."
It was probably the surprise of hearing correct English from the lips of
a bell-boy which diverted my attention for a second. When I looked at
the visitor I saw that she had flushed and was overcome with confusion.
"There is--there appears to be some mistake," she stammered, addressing
herself to the retreating boy and averting my gaze. "I asked to see Mr.
Hartley--Mr. William Hartley," she called after the boy, though her
voice was scarcely audible. She looked toward the door in a bewildered
manner as if her only desire was to get away. There was something so
distressing, so pathetic about her embarrassment; not a modicum of
_savoir faire_ or bluff to help her out. I found myself saying in a
kindly tone that only added oil to the flames: "I am Mrs. Hartley; Mrs.
William Hartley. Is there anything I can do?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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