What on earth did he think of her for ... when he didn’t love her, after all?
Even during his triumphal tour of the Eastern and Western Trust, that Lily, whom he did not love, haunted his memory. At first, he hoped to forget her in his life of excessive activity. And he saw so many theaters, as many as Lily did in England: so many artistes, on so many stages ... faces whom he had already met in England: fair wigs, scarlet legs, boyish voices; “Roofers,” “brothers” and “sisters,” returning from London, Manchester, or Glasgow. He would have ended by seeing them all again in time. There were other Lilies shooting up, Lilies “that high,” elbowed by every vice, petted by every hand, kissed by every pair of lips. His sympathy went out to them all; and Lily had lived amid all that; it was just her life. He found something to remind him of her at every turn, on those stages on which she had performed. He seemed to see her near him, with her light walk, in her little black dress, looking so nice in her “performing-dog” toque: the poor little silly thing, running away with that thief in the night and left alone now, quite alone, it appeared, among the “rotten lot.” The thought drove him mad:
“Damn that girl!” he said to himself. “I don’t love her. Then why am I always thinking about her?”
And he rushed into work, into danger, when he thought of that; risked terrible leaps in “Bridging the Abyss.” He sometimes felt as though he were rushing toward oblivion, into the jaws of death! And his great project also nearly outweighed Lily’s influence:
“What are the leaps in ‘Bridging the Abyss,’” he thought, “if not a fractional flight? If I had two flat surfaces, one on either side, and a motor behind me, it seems to me that I should continue to go upward; and the best rudder would be the man riding it, with his flexible body, his springy back: a live weight is less heavy than a dead weight. How many hundred volts does pluck stand for ... or skill ... or hatred ... or love?”
By dint of composing his machine in his head and studying it on paper, Jimmy grew calmer. He thought less about Lily, or, at least, thought about her only in her interest, not his. For instance, in that little town in the West which was not on his tour, but in which Trampy had appeared, Jimmy tried to obtain information. He went out of his way in order to make inquiries. A marriage with Trampy Wheel-Pad? It was impossible to discover anything; and he would not be able to make Lily the magnificent present which he had dreamed of: her divorce from Trampy!
And “Miss Lily,” Miss Lily, always; he was not satisfied with thinking of her, he heard her name mentioned. Boys and girls who had seen Lily in England and whom the chances of travel brought across his path in America told him with many amplifications, of her outrageous adventures, her passion for flirting. She no longer did all her turn. She paid more attention to her dresses than to her performance. She was extravagant, traveled with her maid, put up at the big hotels. She received bouquets, my, as big as cabs, and invitations to supper and post-cards covered with x x x x! She had an autograph-book full of declarations of love. Motor-cars, furnished houses: she was offered everything. The son of a lord had ruined himself in jewelry for her, the impersonator was nearly off his head for love of her, gee, she did have a good time! She spent her life receiving chocolates and sweets and distributing her photograph as Lady Godiva, with her signature. Lily, according to them, laid waste every heart; men had left wife and children for her sake; her love affairs were going the round of the world, like her whippings. Lily was the thing; and game and mustard for Jim Crow.
These tales left Jimmy very sad. He made allowances for professional exaggeration in matters of love as of smackings, but, nevertheless, there must be some truth in what they said, for it reached him from various sides. Oh, he pitied that dear little Lily from the bottom of his heart! The harm was done, the theater had spoiled the woman. This time, he felt that it was finished, between her and him.... He, no doubt—who could tell?—would continue his forward progress, and, one day, he would have a wife of his own, a woman without a past, and he would take his stand firmly on the earth, with a home and love; and Lily, soon, would be little more than a dead memory....
Meanwhile, his brain, redoubling in vigor amid those stormy squalls, took in everything, seized everything in a wide sense, became steeped in life, rejected bitterness and retained enthusiasm. He heaped up personal observations which he noted every evening, enough to build the ideal music-hall one day. Harrasford, he knew, was cherishing that plan. Perhaps they would realize it together? And the retreat for the aged and the home of rest for the sick, and, in each capital or large town, a local artistes’ home—like the Sailors’ Home—a little corner of England, providing comfort for the man and protection for the girl. And his scheme, his scheme was ripe now, the bold stroke which would enable him to realize all the rest later. He felt the strength within him, if not to succeed, at least to dare everything: “Brass Heart,” as he had been christened at ’Frisco. He had served an apprenticeship to will-power: he had bruised his ribs with a vengeance in a fall at the Columbia Theater at Cincinnati; he had nearly split his skull at the Milwaukee Majestic; he had shed his blood at the Washington Orpheum; and he was going to risk more with his new invention. No matter, he had now but one idea, to return to England, in spite of magnificent offers from Australia.