The afternoon of the next day Dominick came home earlier than usual. His New York friend, who was en route to Japan, had but a couple of days in San Francisco, and again claimed his company for dinner. The theater was to follow and Dominick had come home to change his clothes, and incidentally either to see Berny and explain his absence or to leave a message for her with the Chinaman.
He felt rather guilty where she was concerned. He had seen nothing of her for two days. The only time they met was in the evening after business hours, the only meal they took together was dinner. With every spark of affection dead between them, their married life the hollowest sham2, she had so long and so sternly trained him to be considerate of her and keep her on his mind, that he still instinctively3 followed the acquired habit of thinking of her comfort and arranging for it. He knew she would be annoyed at the two lonely dinners, and hoped to see her[448] before he left and suggest to her that she telephone for one of her sisters to join her.
The flat was very quiet when he entered, and after looking into one or two rooms for her he called the Chinaman, who said Mrs. Ryan had gone out early in the afternoon, leaving no message except that she would be home to dinner. Dominick nodded a dismissal and walked into the den1. He carried the evening papers in his hand, and looking at the clock he saw that he had an hour before it would be necessary for him to dress and leave the house. Berny would undoubtedly4 be home before then; she was rarely out after six. Meantime, the thought that she was not in and that he could read the papers in unmolested, uninterrupted silence caused a slight sense of relief to lighten the weight that was now always with him.
He had hardly opened the first sheet when a ring at the bell dispelled5 his hopes. It was one of his wife’s habits never to carry a latch-key, which she looked upon as a symbol of that bourgeois6, middle-class helpfulness that she had shaken off with her other working-girl manners and customs. Dominick dropped the paper, waiting for her entrance, and framing the words with which he would acquaint her with the fact that he was to be absent again. Instead, however, of the rustle7 of feminine skirts, he heard the Chinaman’s padding steps, and the servant[449] entered and presented him with a card. Traced on it in a sprawling8 handwriting was the name “James Defay Buford.” Dominick remembered his invitation to the man to call, and realized that this probably was the only time that the actor could conveniently do so. There was an hour yet before dinner would be served, and turning to the servant Dominick told him to show the gentleman up.
A moment later, Buford entered, smiling, almost patronizingly urbane9 and benign10. He was dressed with a rich and careful elegance11 which gave him a somewhat dandified air. After bestowing12 upon Dominick greetings that sounded as unctuous13 as a benediction14, he took his seat at the end of the cozy15 corner facing the door which led into the hall. From here he looked at the young man with a close, attentive16 scrutiny17, very friendly and yet holding, under its enfolding blandness18, something of absence, of inattention, as though his mind were not in the intimate customary connection with the words that issued from his lips. This suggestion of absence deepened, showed more plainly in an eye that wandered to the door, or, as Dominick spoke19, fell to the carpet and remained there, hidden by a down-drawn20 bush of eyebrow21. Dominick was in the middle of a query22 as to the continued success of the “Klondike Monologue” when the actor raised his head and said politely, but with a[450] politeness that contained a note of haste and eagerness beneath it,
“Is Madame at home?”
“No, she’s not at home,” said Madame’s husband. “But she may be in any moment now. She generally goes out for the afternoon and gets back about this time.”
“Perhaps you can tell me,” said Buford, looking sidewise at his gloves and cane23 as they lay on the end of the divan24, “who—you’ll pardon my seeming curiosity, but I’ll explain it presently—who was the lady that came in here last night at about half-past seven?”
He looked up and Dominick was suddenly aware that his face was charged with the tensest, the most vital interest. Thrust forward, it showed a hungriness of anticipation25 that was almost passionate26. The young man was not only surprised at the expression but at the question.
“I haven’t an idea,” he said. “I wasn’t home to dinner last night, and didn’t get in till late. Why do you want to know?”
“For many reasons, or for one, perhaps—for one exceedingly important reason.”
He paused, his eyes again turned slantingly on the stick and gloves, his lips tight-pressed, one against the other.
“How did you know any woman came in here last night at that hour? Did you come up to call?” asked Dominick.
[451]“No—no—” the other spoke with quick impatience27 evidently from the surface of his mind, “no, it was—at first, anyway—purely accidental. I saw the woman—and—and—afterward28 I saw her enter here. Mr. Ryan,” he said suddenly, looking at his vis-à-vis with piercing directness and speaking with an intensity29 of urgency that was almost a command, “can you give me half an hour of your time and your full attention? I want to speak to you of a matter, that to me, at least, is of great—the greatest—importance. You can help me; at least you can, I hope, throw some light on what is a dark subject. Have I your permission to talk freely to you, freely and at length?”
Dominick, who was beginning to feel as if he were in a play, and was exceedingly surprised and intrigued30, nodded, remarking,
“Why, certainly, go on. If I can be of any help to you or explain anything for you, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Let me hear what it is.”
The actor dropped his glance to the floor for what seemed an anxiously-considering moment, then he raised his head and, looking directly at his host, said,
“You may remember that, while at Antelope31, I once spoke to you of having been married—of having, in fact, been unfortunate enough to lose my wife.”
[452]Dominick remembered, but it seemed imperfectly, for he said in a doubtful tone, which had more than a suggestion of questioning,
“She—er—she died?”
“No,” said the other, “she did not die. I lost her in a way that I think was more painful than death. She left me, voluntarily, of her own free will.”
“Oh, of course,” said the young man hastily. “I remember perfectly32, one day by the sitting-room33 fire. I remember it all as clearly as possible now.”
“That was the time—the only time I mentioned the subject to you. On another occasion I spoke to that lovely and agreeable young lady, Miss Cannon34, on the matter, and told her more fully35 of my domestic sorrows. But to you I made but that one allusion36. May I now, more at length, tell you of the misfortunes—I may say tragedy—of my married life?”
Dominick, mystified, nodded his head. He could not imagine why Buford should come to him at this particular moment and in this particularly theatrical37 manner with the history of his domestic troubles. But he was undeniably interested, and feeling himself more than ever like a character in a play, said,
“Go on. Tell me anything you like. And if in any way I can be of use to you, I’ll be only too happy to do it.”
[453]Looking at the carpet, a heat of inward excitement showing through the professional pomposity38 of his manner, Buford began slowly and solemnly:
“I’ll go back to seven years ago, when I was in Chicago. Previous to that, Mr. Ryan, I will tell you in confidence I had been a preacher, a Methodist, of good reputation, though, I am fain to confess, of small standing39 in the church. I left that esteemed40 body as I felt there were certain tenets of the faith I could not hold to. I am nothing if not honest, and I was too honest to preach doctrines41 with all of which I could not agree. I left the church as a pastor42 though I have never deserted43 it as a disciple44, and have striven to live up to its standards.”
He paused, and Dominick, feeling that he spoke sincerely, said,
“That was the only thing to do.”
“So it seemed to me. I left the town where I was living and moved to Chicago where, through the influences of a friend, I obtained a position in a school of acting45 and elocution. I instructed the pupils in voice production. You may have noticed that I have an unusually deep and resonant46 voice. Through that, I obtained this work and received the stipend47 of thirty-five dollars a week. It was fairly good pay, the hours were not too long, there was no demand made of a sacrifice of conscience, and I confess that I[454] felt much freer and more contented48 than I had in the church.
“It was at this stage of my career that I met the lady who became my wife. We lived at the same boarding-house—Mrs. Heeney’s, a most elegant, well-kept place, and Mrs. Heeney a lovely woman of one of the best southern families. It was at her table that I met the girl who was destined49 to have such a fatal influence on my life. She was a stenographer50 and typewriter in one of the largest firms in the city, earning her twenty dollars a week, as she was an expert and not to be beaten in the state. She was very pretty, the brunette type of beauty, black-eyed, and as smart as a steel trap. She was as dainty as a pink, always well-dressed and up-to-date, never anything sloppy51 or slouchy about her. Ask her to go to the theater and there wouldn’t be a woman in the house who could beat her for looks and style. Besides that, she was a fine conversationalist, could talk as easily as a book on any subject. If I brought her a novel, she’d read it and have the whole plot at her finger-ends, and be able to talk it all over, have her own opinions about every character. Oh, she was an accomplished52, fascinating woman, if I say it myself! Any man might have taken to her. She was for ever telling me about California, and how she wanted to get back there—”
[455]“California?” interrupted Dominick. “Did she come from California?”
“From here—from San Francisco. She was a native daughter of the state and the town. I was interested in California myself at that time............