Andy was going on--to Betheclass="underline"
'Never. And he'll ignore you. He'll scoff at your dearest beliefs. He represents the return of barbarism to the theatre, the revolt against civilization: lights and sound tracks and trick stages instead of beauty and dignity. He belongs with a Wild West Show. He's one of the young men who get credit for genius by wearing flannel shirts and never getting their hair cut. You can't see him in a gracious New England farmhouse!'
Quite cheerfully this time, Zed interrupted again: 'I don't know about that. The guy's a good actor. Maybe he could learn to feed clover to a polo pony--is that what you feed polo ponies?'
Zed had stopped gobbling his sandwich long enough to hold Bethel's hand. The back of her hand felt cold against the marble top of the table.
From Andy:
'I won't say anything about your rudeness, Zed. Or your letch for power over everybody around you. Or your contempt for the gentler drama, like Barrie. You are a good actor. You have power and a love of life, and that's what we chiefly need in the theatre. But I think it's time to speak of myself a little! Before you charged in, I was telling Beth of some of my future plans. I'm not sure that, without her help, I can tackle them. I need her more than ever, now that I'm completely broke--'
Zed snarled, 'What does a scion like you mean by "completely broke"? Only got a hundred thousand dollars left?'
Andy counted the bills in his fold, the change in his pockets.
'It means that I have, in the whole world, exactly seventeen dollars and forty-three cents--plus a promise from my mother that I shall not get one cent more from her, beyond car-fare to New York, until she dies. Maybe I really do need a little coddling.'
Zed stood up abruptly; he spoke earnestly; he looked worn.
'Yes. You do need her, Andy. And when you need her so much, she won't desert you. This is the one thing that could lick me. And so: good-bye and bless you both.'
He had started for the door. Bethel flew after him, tugged at his sleeve. 'Don't! Zed! I won't give you up again! I won't!'
Zed turned with a smile like heaven.
'Not even for what you think is your duty? You love me enough to give up your baby, your Andy?'
'Oh, Zed, I don't know how much I love you, but I love you!'
That was late at night on Saturday, January 21st, in Pike City, Kansas.
They were married in Pike City on Monday the 23rd, and Andy, the best man, wasn't too insultingly cheerful about it, and Zed lent him the money for his fare back to New York.
On Thursday, February 16th, Bethel awoke in their 'one-room apartment' in the Hotel Mountbatten, on West Forty-eighth Street, and smiled at the sleeping Zed, who was sternly clutching his pillow, with nothing much of him to be seen but his thick hair.
In dressing-gown and mules, she cooked their breakfast of fried eggs and toast and coffee. Their kitchen was a percolator, a two-burner electric stove, and a pint-sized electric icebox in the bathroom, and their dining-room did not for the moment exist, since it was a folding card-table stowed under the bed.
She was singing, minutely, happily.
She went over to kiss his ear and cry, 'Breakfast! Wake up, stupid, or we'll be late for rehearsal.'
She gave her lord and master the morning paper.
'Looks like war in Europe before 1939 is over,' he yawned. 'If America gets into it, I'll be just right for cannon fodder--strong young gent with no dependants but a smart wife who can support herself by high-class refined work on the stage.'
'Will you go in?' fretted Bethel.
'That's like asking somebody if he'll go into an earthquake if it comes along, or just ignore it. My only propaganda is against these apologetic actors who say that their work seems insignificant compared with the big events abroad. Now's just the time when every artist has got to take even his tiniest job more seriously than ever, so that civilization may have a chance to go on. Come on, pet. Let's get going.'
They trotted, arm in arm, two blocks over to the Acanthus Theatre; entered it proudly not by the stage door but at the front.
In that dark Mammoth Cave, Bethel sighed like one happily at home. Only the stage was lighted. On it, Nathan Eldred the stage manager and Jerome Jordan O'Toole the director were moving chairs about, to outline an imaginary set that would represent a New York penthouse.
It was the first rehearsal of Alas in Arcady, a comedy about a world-weary New Yorker who was smug about his cosmopolitan vices until he went for vacation to a New England village and, among the young jitterbugs, discovered that he was nothing but an old-fashioned Puritan.
Zed was to play a country beau, and Bethel his girl, whom the alarmed urbanite tried to reform.
'We may not have another chance to play together till we organize our own company--as we will!--so let's enjoy it, my rabbit,' said Zed.
O'Toole shook hands. 'Glad to see you children. Here's your parts. I'll give you an hour to look 'em over, and then we'll start right in walking the play.'
A man with silver hair but a face round and youngish marched out on the stage.
'Do you know Caryl McDermid?' said O'Toole. 'This is Mr. and Mrs. Zed Wintergeist--Beth Merriday.'
'I've never had the pleasure of seeing them before,' said McDermid, 'but I've heard a great deal about you, Zed. I hear you're our future Sacha Guitry. It'll be a pleasure to play with you.'
'Beth is to be your daughter, Caryl--on the stage, I mean,' said O'Toole.
'Off-stage too, I hope, when we get into the terrors of touring,' said McDermid. 'Have you done any touring, Miss Merriday?'
'Oh, sure--she's a veteran trouper--she's a real actress,' said Jerome Jordan O'Toole.
'You bet she is!' said Zed.
So Bethel had come home, and it was good.
THE END