Eldon was as astounded at hearing this from Winfield as Bret at hearing himself say it. But Bret was in a panic of fear for Sheila’s very life and he had to tell some one. Once he had betrayed himself so far, he was driven on:
“She won’t admit it. She’s trying to fight off the longing. But the battle is wearing her out. You see, we have two children. We have no quarrel with each other. We’re happy—ideally happy together. She feels that she ought to be contented. She insists that she is. But—well, she isn’t, that’s all. I’ve tried everything, but I believe that the only hope of saving her is to get her back where she belongs. Idleness is killing her.”
Eldon hid in his heart any feeling that might have surged up of disprized love finding itself vindicated. His thoughts were solemn and he spoke with earnestness:
“I believe you are right. You must know. I can quite understand. People laugh a good deal at actresses who come back after leaving the stage. They think it is a kind of craze for excitement. But it is better than that. The stage is still the only place where a woman’s individuality is recognized and where she can be really herself.
“Sheila—er—Miss Kemble—pardon me—Mrs. Winfield has the theater in her blood, of course. Almost all the Kemble women have been actresses, and good ones. Your wife was a charming woman to act with. We fought each other—for points. I feel very grateful to her, for she gave me my first encouragement. She and her aunt, Mrs. Vining, taught me my first lessons. I grew very fond of them both and very grateful.
“There’s a natural enmity between a leading woman and a leading man. They love each other as two rival prize-fighters do. The better boxer each of them is, the better the fight. Sheila—your wife, always gave me a fight—on the stage—and after, sometimes, off the stage. She was a great actress—a born aristocrat of the theater.”
Bret took fright at the word “was.” It tolled like a passing-bell. He had made up his mind that Sheila should not be destroyed on his account. He had determined, after the morning’s relapse, that he would restore his stolen sweetheart to her rightful owners as soon as he could. He would keep as close to her as might be. His business would permit him to make occasional journeys to Sheila. His mother would take care of the children and be enchanted with the privilege. Sometimes they could travel a little with Sheila.
His great-grandmother had crossed the plains in a prairie-schooner with five children, and borne a sixth on the way. That was considered praiseworthy in all enthusiasm. Wherein was it any worse for an actress to take her children with her?
There was no hiding from slander in any case, and he must endure the contempt of those who did not understand. The one unendurable thing was the ruination of his beloved’s happiness, of her very life, even.
He had sought out Vickery as an old friend who knew the theater world. But Vickery had failed him. He dreaded to go back to Sheila without definite news.