 | VIII. In The Bishop's Carriage |  |
8. VIII.
Is that you, Mag? Well, it's about time you came home to look after me. Fine chaperon you make, Miss Monahan! Why, didn't I tell you the very day we took this flat what a chaperon was, and that you'd have to be mine? Imagine Nancy Olden without a chaperon — Shocking!
No, 'tisn't late. Sit down, Maggie, there, and let me get the stool and talk to you. Think of us two — Cruelty girls, both of us — two mangy kittens deserted by the old cats in a city's alleys, and left mewing with cold and hunger and dirt, out in the wet — think of us two in our own flat, Mag!
I say, it makes me proud of us! There are times when I look at every stick of furniture we own, and I try to pretend to it all that I'm used to a decent roof over my head, and a dining-room, kitchen, parlor, bedroom and bath. Oh, and I forgot the telephone the other tenant left here till its lease is up. But at other times I stand here in the middle of it and cry out to it, in my heart:
“Look at me, Nancy Olden, a householder, a rent-payer, the head of the family, even if it's only a family of two and the other one Mag! Look at me, with my name in the directory, a-paying milk bills and meat bills and bread bills! Look at me with a place of my own, where nobody's right's greater than my own; where no one has a right but me and 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 other night, so that I could take off the Ophelia — she used to be a good mimic herself, before she tried to be a leading lady.) It spoils you, this sense of safeness that goes with the honesty graft. You lose the quickness of the hunter and the nerve of the hunted. And — worse — you lose your taste for the old risky life. You grow proud and fat, and you love every stick in the dear, quiet little place that's your home — your own home. You love it so that you'd be ashamed to sneak round where it could see you — you who'd always walked upright before it with the step of the mistress; with nothing in the world to be ashamed of; nothing to prevent your staring each honest dishpan in the face!
And, Mag, you try — if you're me — to fit Tom Dorgan in here — Tom Dorgan in stripes and savage sulks still — all these months — kept away from the world, even the world behind bars! Maggie, don't you wish Tom was a ventriloquist or — or an acrobat or — but this isn't what I had to tell you.
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 worth fifty dollars a night — at least, they were one night.
Ginger brought me the note that made me a society entertainer. It was from a Mrs. Paul B. Gates, who had been “charmed by your clever impersonations, Miss Olden, and write to know if you have the leisure to entertain some friends at my house on Thursday of this week.”
Had I the leisure — well, rather! I showed the note to Gray, just to make her jealous. (Oh, yes, she goes on all right in the act with Lord Harold every night. Catch her letting me wear those things of hers twice!) 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 a lot 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 in Obermuller. He had come up and was reading the note I had handed to him. “You just say yes, Nance,” he went on, after Gray had bounced of to her dressing-room. “It isn't such a bad graft and — and this is just between us two, mind — that little beggar, Tausig, has begun his tricks since you turned his offer down. They can make things hot for me, and if they do, it won't be so bad for you to go in for this sort of thing — 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 be got to notice it. They're coy with their notices, confound them, since Tausig let them know that big Trust ads don't appear in the same papers that 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
At nine, then, behold Nancy Olden in her white muslin dress, long-sleeved and high-necked, and just to her shoe-tops, with a big white muslin sash around her waist. Oh, she's no baby, is Nance, but she looks like one in this rig with her short hair — or rather, like a school-girl; which makes the stunts she does in mimicking the corkers of the profession all the more surprising.
“We're just a little party,” said Mrs. Paul Gates, coming into the bedroom where I was taking of my wraps. “And I'm so glad you could come, for my principal guest, Mr. Latimer, is an invalid, who used to love the theaters, but hasn't been to one since his attack many years ago. I count on your giving him, in a way, a condensed history in action of what is going on on the stage.”
I told her I would. But I didn't just know what I was saying. Think of Latimer there, Maggie, and think of our last meeting! It made me tremble. Not that I fancied for a moment he'd betray me. The man that helps you twice don't
And then I found myself in an alcove off the parlors, separated from them by heavy curtains. It was such a pretty little red bower. Right behind me was the red of the Turkish drapery of a cozy corner, and just as I took my place under the great chandelier, the servants pulled the curtains apart and the lights went out in the parlors.
In that minute I got it, Mag — yes, stage fright. Got it bad. I suppose it was coming to me, but Lordy! I hadn't ever known before what it was. I could see the black of the men's clothes in the long parlors in front of me, and the white of the women's necks and arms. There were soft ends of talk trailing after the first silence, and everything was so strange that I seemed to hear two men's voices which sounded familiar — 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 all at once my mind seemed to turn a somersault, and, instead of looking out upon them, I seemed to be looking in on myself — to see
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 dare you! I'd rather you'd steal the silver on this woman's dressing-table than 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 never heard the wailing music in that woman's voice when she says:
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 shows what a ninny I was. The thing the world loves is the opposite of what it is. The pat-pat-pat of their gloves came in to me when I got through. They were too polite to hiss. But it wasn't necessary. I was 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 Latimer listening, though out there in that queer half-light I couldn't see him at 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 do Carter's Du Barry to the Queen's taste, Maggie. That rotten voice of hers, like Mother Douty's, but stronger and surer; that rocky old face pretending to look young and beautiful inside that talented red hair of hers; 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 on the other side of the velvet curtains. But I cared less for what they thought than for the fact that I had drowned that sputtering hiss-ss-ss inside of me, and that Latimer was among them.
I gave them Warfield, then; I was always good at taking off the sheenies in the alley behind the Cruelty — remember? I gave them that little pinch-nosed Maude Adams, and dry, corking little Mrs. Fiske, and Henry Miller when he smooths
Say, isn't it funny, Mag, that I've seen 'em all and know all they can do? 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 the bedroom. I had my hat and jacket on when Mrs. Gates and some of the younger ladies came to see me there, but I caught no glimpse of Latimer. You'd think — wouldn't you — that he'd have made an opportunity to say just one nice word to me in that easy, soft voice of his? I tried to believe that perhaps he hadn't really seen me, lying down, as he must have been, or that he hadn't recognized me, but I knew that I couldn't make myself believe that; and the lack of just that word from him spoiled all my satisfaction with myself, and I walked out with Mrs. Gates through the hall and past the dining-room feeling as hurt as though I'd deserved that a man like Latimer should notice me.
The dining-room was all lighted, but empty — the colored, shaded candlesticks glowing down on the cut glass and silver, on delicate china and flowers.
Yes, I knew him. Just you wait.
I got home here earlier than I'd expected, and I'd just got off my hat and jacket and put away that snug little check when there came a ring at the bell.
I thought it was you, Mag — that you'd forgotten your key. I was so sure 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-necked old fellow, husky-voiced with whisky now, just as he was before. He must have been keeping it up steadily ever since the day out in the country when Tom lifted his watch. It'll take more than one lost watch to cure Edward.
“I — followed you home, Miss Murieson,” he said, grabbing me by the hand and pushing the
I jerked my hand away from him.
“I didn't ask you to call,” I said, haughty as the Dowager herself was when first I saw her in her gorgeous parlor, the Bishop's card in her hand.
“No, I noticed that,” he roared jovially. “You skinned out the front door 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 the world. “To renew our acquaintance, of course. To ask you if you wouldn't like me to buy you a red coat and hat like the one you left behind you that day over in Philadelphia, when you cut your visit so short. To insist upon my privilege of relationship. To call that wink you gave me in the hall that day, you little devil. Now, don't look at me 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 go home to Mrs. Dowager Diamonds?”
“Bully! Is that what you call her? No, I'll stay and meet your friend.”
“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 do to 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 a thing 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 best prospectus 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 be and old as the cannibal's great-grandfather — that couldn't be persuaded he was a lady-killer?
His manner changed altogether. He plumped down on the lounge and patted the place beside him invitingly, giving me a wink that was deadly.
“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, while you, you naughty man — ”
Oh, he loved that!
“Not so naughty as — as I'd like to be,” he belllowed, heavily witty. “And she isn't 'way off in Philadelphia either. She's just round the corner 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. Neither did I, till I got that second glimpse of you with your hat and jacket on. But even if she had — ho! ho! ho! I say; do you know, you couldn't convince the Bishop and Henrietta, if you'd talk till doomsday, that that red coat and hat we advertised weren't taken by a little girl that was daffy. Fact; I swear it! They admit you took the coat, you little witch, but it was when you were out of your mind — of course — of course! `The very fact that she left the coat behind her and took nothing else from the house shows a mind diseased,' insisted Henrietta. Of course — of course! `And her coming for no reason at all to 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 of you than you are, but better, that you feel most uncomfortable. I got pale and
“I've been dying of curiosity to know what was in your wise little head that day,” he went on. “Oh, it was wise all right; that wink you gave me 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 and our few things don't go well with sounds like that.
“Oh, you're all alike, you women!” he roared. “All right, supper it is. Where shall we go — Rector's?”
I pouted.
“It's so much more cozy right here,” I said. “I'll telephone. There's Brophy'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 was having some trouble in pulling
With my hand over the mouthpiece, so that nobody heard but Edward, I ordered a supper fit for a king — or a chorus girl! What didn't I order! Champagne, broiled lobster, crab meat, stuffed pimentoes, kirschkaffee — everything I'd ever heard Beryl Blackburn tell about.
“Say, say,” interrupted Edward, coming out after me. “That's enough of that 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; it was 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 your wife where you are, Edward? . . . Just a
“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 no position to dictate terms; I am.”
But I could, without leaving the 'phone, latch the chain on the door behind him, leaving it half open. So he must have heard the rest.
“Yes, Mrs. Ramsay, waiting?” I croaked like the driest kind of hello-girl. “I was mistaken. It was a message left to be delivered to you — not some one wanting to speak with you. Who am I? Why, this is Central. 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 back into the dining-room to
I leaned out and looked at the stars and tried to think of something sweet and wholesome and strengthening.
“Ah, Nance,” I cried to myself with a sob — I had pretended to take it lightly enough when he was here, but now — “if you had heard of a girl who, like yourself this evening, unexpectedly met two men she had known, 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 sort of hope could you imagine her treasuring for her own future? And what sort 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 door eager for the touch of your hand and the look in your eyes. I was afraid to be alone with my own thoughts. I was afraid of the conclusion to which they were leading me. Maggie, if ever a girl needed 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 for me. 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 had the luck to be of service to a Pipkin.
It was a saucy Pipkin, though a very winning one, and it had all the health and strength the poor Pot lacked — physically. Morally — morally, that young Pipkin was in a most unwholesome condition. Already its fair, smooth surface was scratched and fouled. It was unmindful of the treasure of good it contained, and its responsibility to keep that good intact. And it seemed destined to crash itself to pieces among pots of baser metal.
What the Luckless Pot did was little — being ignorant of the art by which diamonds may be attained easily and honestly — but it gave the little Pipkin a chance.
What the Pipkin did with that chance the Pot learned to-night, with such pleasure and satisfaction
The Pot, as you know, was a sort of stranded bit of clay that had never filled the use for which pots are created. He had little human to interest him. The fate of the Pipkin, therefore, he had often pondered on; and, in spite of improbabilities, had had faith in a certain quality of brave sincerity the little thing showed; a quality that shone through acquired faults like a star in a murky sky.
This justification of his faith in the Pipkin may seem a small matter to 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 a pretty, pleasant thought due just to this.
But do not think the Pot an idealist. If he were, he might have been tempted to mistake the Pipkin for a statelier, more pretentious Vessel — a Vase, say, all graceful curves and embossed sides,
O pretty little Pipkin, thank the Potter, who made you as you are, as you will be — a thing that can cheer and stay men's souls by ministering to the human needs of them. For you, be sure, the Potter's `a good fellow and 'twill all be well.'
For the Pot — he sails shortly, or rather, he is to be carted abroad by some optimistic friends whose hopes he does not share — to a celebrated repair shop for damaged pots. Whether he shall return, patched and mended into temporary semblance of a useful Vessel; whether he shall continue to be merely the same old Luckless Pot, or whether he shall return at all, O Pipkin, does not matter much.
But it has been well that, before we two behind the veil had passed, we met again, and you left me such a fragrant memory. LATIMER.”
* * * * * * * * * *
O Maggie, Maggie, some day I hope to see that man and tell him how sorely the Pipkin needed the Pot's letter!
| VIII. In The Bishop's Carriage | |