VIII.
Is that you, Mag? Well, it's about time you came home to look afterme. Fine chaperon you make, Miss Monahan! Why, didn't I tell you thevery day we took this flat what a chaperon was, and that you'd have tobe mine? Imagine Nancy Olden without a chaperon--Shocking!
No, 'tisn't late. Sit down, Maggie, there, and let me get the stooland talk to you. Think of us two--Cruelty girls, both of us--two mangykittens deserted by the old cats in a city's alleys, and left mewingwith cold and hunger and dirt, out in the wet--think of us two in ourown flat, Mag!
I say, it makes me proud of us! There are times when I look at everystick of furniture we own, and I try to pretend to it all that I'm usedto a decent roof over my head, and a dining-room, kitchen, parlor,bedroom and bath. Oh, and I forgot the telephone the other tenant lefthere till its lease is up. But at other times I stand here in themiddle of it and cry out to it, in my heart:
"Look at me, Nancy Olden, a householder, a rent-payer, the head of thefamily, even if it's only a family of two and the other one Mag! Lookat me, with my name in the directory, a-paying milk bills and meatbills and bread bills! Look at me with a place of my own, wherenobody's right's greater than my own; where no one has a right but meand Mag; a place where--where there's nothing to hide from the police!"
There's the rub, Mag, as Hamlet says--(I went to see it the othernight, so that I could take off the Ophelia--she used to be a goodmimic herself, before she tried to be a leading lady.) It spoils you,this sense of safeness that goes with the honesty graft. You lose thequickness of the hunter and the nerve of the hunted. And--worse--youlose your taste for the old risky life. You grow proud and fat, and youlove every stick in the dear, quiet little place that's your home--yourown home. You love it so that you'd be ashamed to sneak round where itcould see you--you who'd always walked upright before it with the stepof the mistress; with nothing in the world to be ashamed of; nothing toprevent your staring each honest dish-pan in the face!
And, Mag, you try--if you're me--to fit Tom Dorgan in here--Tom Dorganin stripes and savage sulks still--all these months--kept away from theworld, even the world behind bars! Maggie, don't you wish Tom was aventriloquist or--or an acrobat or--but this isn't what I had to tellyou.
Do you know what a society entertainer is, Miss Monahan? No? Well,look at me. Yes, I'm one. Miss Nance Olden, whose services are worthfifty dollars a night--at least, they were one night.
Ginger brought me the note that made me a society entertainer. It wasfrom a Mrs. Paul B. Gates, who had been "charmed by your cleverimpersonations, Miss Olden, and write to know if you have the leisureto entertain some friends at my house on Thursday of this week."
Had I the leisure--well, rather! I showed the note to Gray, just tomake her jealous. (Oh, yes, she goes on all right in the act with LordHarold every night. Catch her letting me wear those things of herstwice!) Well, she just turned up her nose.
"Of course, you won't accept?" she said.
"Of course, I will."
"Oh! I only thought you'd feel as I should about appearing before alot of snobs, who'll treat you like a servant and--"
"Who'll do nothing of the sort and who'll pay you well for it," put inObermuller. He had come up and was reading the note I had handed tohim. "You just say yes, Nance," he went on, after Gray had bounced ofto her dressing-room. "It isn't such a bad graft and--and this is justbetween us two, mind--that little beggar, Tausig, has begun his trickssince you turned his offer down. They can make things hot for me, andif they do, it won't be so bad for you to go in for this sort ofthing--unless you go over to the Trust--"
I shook my head.
"Well, this thing will be an ad for you, besides,--if the papers can begot to notice it. They're coy with their notices, confound them, sinceTausig let them know that big Trust ads don't appear in the same papersthat boom anti-Trust shows!"
"How long are you going to stand it, Mr. O?"
"Just as long as I can't help myself; not a minute longer."
"There ought to be a way--some way--"
"Yes, there ought, but there isn't. They've got things down to a finepoint, and the fellow they don't fear has got to fear them.... I'll putyour number early to-night, so that you can get off by nine. Goodluck, Nance."
At nine, then, behold Nancy Olden in her white muslin dress,long-sleeved and high-necked, and just to her shoe-tops, with a bigwhite muslin sash around her waist. Oh, she's no baby, is Nance, butshe looks like one in this rig with her short hair--or rather, like aschool-girl; which makes the stunts she does in mimicking the corkersof the profession all the more surprising.
"We're just a little party," said Mrs. Paul Gates, coming into thebedroom where I was taking of my wraps. "And I'm so glad you couldcome, for my principal guest, Mr. Latimer, is an invalid, who used tolove the theaters, but hasn't been to one since his attack many yearsago. I count on your giving him, in a way, a condensed history inaction of what is going on on the stage."
I told her I would. But I didn't just know what I was saying. Think ofLatimer there, Maggie, and think of our last meeting! It made metremble. Not that I fancied for a moment he'd betray me. The man thathelps you twice don't hurt you the third time. No, it wasn't that; itwas only that I longed to do well--well before him, so that--
And then I found myself in an alcove off the parlors, separated fromthem by heavy curtains. It was such a pretty little red bower. Rightbehind me was the red of the Turkish drapery of a cozy corner, and justas I took my place under the great chandelier, the servants pulled thecurtains apart and the lights went out in the parlors.
In that minute I got it, Mag--yes, stage fright. Got it bad. I supposeit was coming to me, but Lordy! I hadn't ever known before what itwas. I could see the black of the men's clothes in the long parlors infront of me, and the white of the women's necks and arms. There weresoft ends of talk trailing after the first silence, and everything wasso strange that I seemed to hear two men's voices which soundedfamiliar--Latimer's silken voice, and another, a heavy, coarse bass,that was the last to be quieted.
I fancied that when that last voice should stop I could begin, but allat once my mind seemed to turn a somersault, and, instead of lookingout upon them, I seemed to be looking in on myself--to see awhite-faced little girl in a white dress, standing alone under a blazeof light in a glare of red, gazing fearfully at this queer, newaudience.
Fail? Me? Not Nancy, Maggie. I just took me by the shoulders.
"Nancy Olden, you little thief!" I cried to me inside of me. "How dareyou! I'd rather you'd steal the silver on this woman's dressing-tablethan cheat her out of what she expects and what's coming to her."
Nance really didn't dare. So she began.
The first one was bad. I gave 'em Duse's Francesca. You've neverheard the wailing music in that woman's voice when she says:
"There is no escape, Smaragdi. You have said it; The shadow is a glass to me, and God Lets me be lost."
I gave them Duse just to show them how swell I was myself; which showswhat a ninny I was. The thing the world loves is the opposite of whatit is. The pat-pat-pat of their gloves came in to me when I gotthrough. They were too polite to hiss. But it wasn't necessary. Iwas hissing myself. Inside of me there was a long, nasty hiss-ss-ss!
I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear to be a failure with Latimerlistening, though out there in that queer half-light I couldn't see himat all, but could only make out the couch where I knew he must be lying.
I just jumped into something else to retrieve myself. I can doCarter's Du Barry to the Queen's taste, Maggie. That rotten voice ofhers, like Mother Douty's, but stronger and surer; that rocky old facepretending to look young and beautiful inside that talented red hair ofhers; that whining "Denny! Denny!" she squawks out every other minute.Oh, I can do Du Barry all right!
They thought I could, too, those black and white shadows out there onthe other side of the velvet curtains. But I cared less for
what theythought than for the fact that I had drowned that sputtering hiss-ss-ssinside of me, and that Latimer was among them.
I gave them Warfield, then; I was always good at taking off thesheenies in the alley behind the Cruelty--remember? I gave them thatlittle pinch-nosed Maude Adams, and dry, corking little Mrs. Fiske, andHenry Miller when he smooths down his white breeches lovingly and singsSally in our Alley, and strutting old Mansfield, and--
Say, isn't it funny, Mag, that I've seen 'em all and know all they cando? They've been my college education, that crowd. Not a bad one,either, when you come to think of what I wanted from it.
They pulled the curtains down at the end and I went back to thebedroom. I had my hat and jacket on when Mrs. Gates and some of theyounger ladies came to see me there, but I caught no glimpse ofLatimer. You'd think--wouldn't you--that he'd have made an opportunityto say just one nice word to me in that easy, soft voice of his? Itried to believe that perhaps he hadn't really seen me, lying down, ashe must have been, or that he hadn't recognized me, but I knew that Icouldn't make myself believe that; and the lack of just that word fromhim spoiled all my satisfaction with myself, and I walked out with Mrs.Gates through the hall and past the dining-room feeling as hurt asthough I'd deserved that a man like Latimer should notice me.
The dining-room was all lighted, but empty--the colored, shadedcandlesticks glowing down on the cut glass and silver, on delicatechina and flowers. The ladies and gentlemen hadn't come out to supperyet; at least, only one was there. He was standing with his back tome, before the sideboard, pouring out a glass of something from adecanter. He turned at the rustle of my starched skirt, and, as Ipassed the door, he saw me. I saw him, too, and hurried away.
Yes, I knew him. Just you wait.
I got home here earlier than I'd expected, and I'd just got off my hatand jacket and put away that snug little check when there came a ringat the bell.
I thought it was you, Mag--that you'd forgotten your key. I was sosure of it that I pulled the door open wide with a flourish and--
And admitted--Edward!
Yes, Edward, husband of the Dowager. The same red-faced, big-neckedold fellow, husky-voiced with whisky now, just as he was before. Hemust have been keeping it up steadily ever since the day out in thecountry when Tom lifted his watch. It'll take more than one lost watchto cure Edward.
"I--followed you home, Miss Murieson," he said, grabbing me by the handand pushing the door closed behind him. "Or is it Miss Murieson?Which is your stage name, and which your real one? And have you reallylearned to remember it? For my part, any old name will smell as sweet,now that I'm close to the rose."
I jerked my hand away from him.
"I didn't ask you to call," I said, haughty as the Dowager herself waswhen first I saw her in her gorgeous parlor, the Bishop's card in herhand.
"No, I noticed that," he roared jovially. "You skinned out the frontdoor the moment you saw me. All that was left to me was to skin after."
"Why?"
"Why!" He slapped his leg as though he'd heard the best joke in theworld. "To renew our acquaintance, of course. To ask you if youwouldn't like me to buy you a red coat and hat like the one you leftbehind you that day over in Philadelphia, when you cut your visit soshort. To insist upon my privilege of relationship. To call that winkyou gave me in the hall that day, you little devil. Now, don't look atme like that. I say, let's be friends; won't you?"
"Not for a red coat trimmed with chinchilla," I cried.
He got between me and the door.
"Prices gone up?" he inquired pleasantly. "Who's bulling the stock?"
"Never you mind, so long as his name isn't Ramsay."
"But why shouldn't his name be Ramsay?" he cooed.
"Just because it isn't. I'm expecting a friend. Hadn't you better gohome to Mrs. Dowager Diamonds?"
"Bully! Is that what you call her? No, I'll stay and meet yourfriend."
"Better not."
"Oh, I'm not afraid. Does he know as much about you as I do?"
"More."
"About your weakness for other girls' coats?"
"Yes."
You do know it all, don't you? And yet you care for me, Maggie Monahan!
I retreated before him into the dining-room. What in the world to doto get rid of him!
"I think you'd better go home, Mr. Ramsay," I said again, decidedly."If you don't, I'll have to call the janitor to put you out."
"Call, sweetheart. He'll put you out with me; for I'll tell him athing or two about you, and we'll go and find a better place than this.Stock can't be quoted so high, after all, if this is the bestprospectus your friend can put up.... Why don't you call?"
I looked at him. I was thinking.
"Well?" he demanded.
"I've changed my mind."
Oh, Mag, Mag, did you ever see the man--ugly as a cannibal he may beand old as the cannibal's great-grandfather--that couldn't be persuadedhe was a lady-killer?
His manner changed altogether. He plumped down on the lounge andpatted the place beside him invitingly, giving me a wink that wasdeadly.
"But, Mrs. Dowager!" I exclaimed coquettishly.
"Oh, that's all right, little one! She hasn't even missed me yet.When she's playing Bridge she forgets even to be jealous."
"Playing Bridge," I murmured sweetly, "'way off in Philadelphia, whileyou, you naughty man--"
Oh, he loved that!
"Not so naughty as--as I'd like to be," he bellowed, heavily witty."And she isn't 'way off in Philadelphia either. She's just round thecorner at Mrs. Gates', and--what's the matter?"
"Nothing--nothing. Did she recognize me?"
"Oh, that's what scared you, is it? She didn't recognize you. Neitherdid I, till I got that second glimpse of you with your hat and jacketon. But even if she had--ho! ho! ho! I say; do you know, youcouldn't convince the Bishop and Henrietta, if you'd talk tilldoomsday, that that red coat and hat we advertised weren't taken by alittle girl that was daffy. Fact; I swear it! They admit you took thecoat, you little witch, but it was when you were out of your mind--ofcourse--of course! 'The very fact that she left the coat behind herand took nothing else from the house shows a mind diseased,' insistedHenrietta. Of course--of course! 'And her coming for no reason at allto your house,' adds the Bishop.... Say, what was the reason?"
Maggie, I'll tell you a hard thing: it isn't when people think worse ofyou than you are, but better, that you feel most uncomfortable. I gotpale and sick inside of me at the thought of my poor little Bishop. Iloved him for believing me straight and--
"I've been dying of curiosity to know what was in your wise little headthat day," he went on. "Oh, it was wise all right; that wink you gaveme was perfectly sane; there was method in that madness of yours."
"I will tell you, Mr. Ramsay," I said sweetly, "at supper."
"Supper!"
"Yes, the supper you're going to get for me."
His bellowing laughter filled the place. Maggie, our little flat andour few things don't go well with sounds like that.
"Oh, you're all alike, you women!" he roared. "All right, supper itis. Where shall we go--Rector's?"
I pouted.
"It's so much more cozy right here," I said. "I'll telephone. There'sBrophy's, just round the corner, and they send in the loveliest things."
"Oh, they do! Well, tell 'em to begin sending."
I thought he'd follow me out in the hall to the 'phone, but he washaving some trouble in pulling out his purse--to count out his money, Isuppose. I got Central and asked for the number. Oh, yes, I knew itall right; I had called up that same number once, already, to-day.Brophy's? Why, Maggie Monahan, you ought to know there's no Brophy's.At least none that I ever heard about.
With my hand over the mouthpiece, so that nobody heard but Edward, Iordered a supper fit for a king--or a chorus girl! What didn't Iorder! Champagne, broiled lobster, crab meat, stuffed pimentoes,kirschkaffee--everything I'd ever hea
rd Beryl Blackburn tell about.
"Say, say," interrupted Edward, coming out after me. "That's enough ofthat stuff. Tell him to send in a Scotch and soda and--what--"
For at that moment the connection was made and I cut in sweetly with:
"Mrs. Edward Ramsay?--just a minute."
Mag, you should have seen the man's face! It was red, it was white; itwas furious, it was frightened.
I put my hand a moment over the mouthpiece and turned on him then."I've got her on the 'phone at Mrs. Gates' house. Shall I tell yourwife where you are, Edward? ... Just a moment, Mrs. Ramsay, hold thewire; some one wants to speak with you."
"You little devil!" His voice was thick with rage.
"Yes, you called me that some time ago, but not in that tone. Quick,now--the door or ... Waiting, Mrs. Ramsay?"
He moved toward the door.
"How'll I know you won't tell her when I'm gone?" he growled.
"Merely by my saying that I won't," I answered curtly. "You're in noposition to dictate terms; I am."
But I could, without leaving the 'phone, latch the chain on the doorbehind him, leaving it half open. So he must have heard the rest.
"Yes, Mrs. Ramsay, waiting?" I croaked like the driest kind ofhello-girl. "I was mistaken. It was a message left to be delivered toyou--not some one wanting to speak with you. Who am I? Why, this isCentral. Here is the message: 'Will be with you in half an hour.'Signed 'Edward.' ... Yes, that's right. Thank you. Good night."
I hung up, gave the door a touch that shut it in his face and went backinto the dining-room to throw open the windows. The place smelled ofalcohol; the moral atmosphere left behind by that bad old man sickenedme.
I leaned out and looked at the stars and tried to think of somethingsweet and wholesome and strengthening.
"Ah, Nance," I cried to myself with a sob--I had pretended to take itlightly enough when he was here, but now--"if you had heard of a girlwho, like yourself this evening, unexpectedly met two men she hadknown, and the good man ignored her and the bad one followed her--oh,Nancy--what sort of girl would you think she was at heart? What sortof hope could you imagine her treasuring for her own future? And whatsort of significance would you attach to--"
And just then the bell rang again.
This time I was sure it was you. And, O Maggie, I ran to the dooreager for the touch of your hand and the look in your eyes. I wasafraid to be alone with my own thoughts. I was afraid of theconclusion to which they were leading me. Maggie, if ever a girlneeded comfort and encouragement and heartening, I did then.
And I got it, dear.
For there was a man at the door, with a great basket of azaleas--pale,pink earth-stars they are, the sweet, innocent things--and a letter forme. Here it is. Let me read it to you.
"My dear Miss Omar:
Once on a time there was a Luckless Pot, marred in the making, that hadthe luck to be of service to a Pipkin.
It was a saucy Pipkin, though a very winning one, and it had all thehealth and strength the poor Pot lacked--physically. Morally--morally,that young Pipkin was in a most unwholesome condition. Already itsfair, smooth surface was scratched and fouled. It was unmindful of thetreasure of good it contained, and its responsibility to keep that goodintact. And it seemed destined to crash itself to pieces among pots ofbaser metal.
What the Luckless Pot did was little--being ignorant of the art bywhich diamonds may be attained easily and honestly--but it gave thelittle Pipkin a chance.
What the Pipkin did with that chance the Pot learned to-night, withsuch pleasure and satisfaction as made it impossible for him not toshare it with her. So while he sent Burnett out to the conservatory tocut azaleas, he wrote her a note to try to convey to her what he feltwhen, in that nicely polished, neatly decorated and self-respectingVessel on exhibition in Mrs. Gates' red room, he recognized the poorlittle Pipkin of other days.
The Pot, as you know, was a sort of stranded bit of clay that had neverfilled the use for which pots are created. He had little human tointerest him. The fate of the Pipkin, therefore, he had often ponderedon; and, in spite of improbabilities, had had faith in a certainquality of brave sincerity the little thing showed; a quality thatshone through acquired faults like a star in a murky sky.
This justification of his faith in the Pipkin may seem a small matterto make so much of. And yet the Pot--that sleeps not well o' nights,as is the case with damaged pots--will take to bed with him to-night apretty, pleasant thought due just to this.
But do not think the Pot an idealist. If he were, he might have beentempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more pretentiousVessel--a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides, butshallow, perhaps, possibly lacking breadth. No, the Pipkin is apipkin, made of common clay--even though it has the uncommon sweetnessand strength to overcome the tendencies of clay--and fashioned forthose common uses of life, deprivation of which to anything that comesfrom the Potter's hands is the most enduring, the most uncommon sorrow.
O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you are, asyou will be--a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministeringto the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the Potter's 'a goodfellow and 'twill all be well.'
For the Pot--he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad bysome optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share--to a celebratedrepair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched andmended into temporary semblance of a useful Vessel; whether he shallcontinue to be merely the same old Luckless Pot, or whether he shallreturn at all, O Pipkin, does not matter much.
But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, wemet again, and you left me such a fragrant memory.
LATIMER."
* * * * * * * * * *
O Maggie, Maggie, some day I hope to see that man and tell him howsorely the Pipkin needed the Pot's letter!
In the Bishop's Carriage Page 8
