Part 8 (1/2)
”He's just crazy about you, ain't he?” chaffed one of the actors. The good-looking girl laughed and winked.
”He sure is,” she answered, ”and I never even gave him as much as _that_,” measuring off an infinitesimal speck of her thumb nail.
A shout of laughter greeted her remark. A little later when she got warmed up she made eyes at Will across the table and threw him violets from her huge corsage bouquet. ”Ev'ry matinee day I send thee violets,”
she paraphrased in song, the significance of which was lost on me until some days later.
Toward the end of the dinner the packages were opened. Each memento was accompanied by a limerick hitting off the idiosyncrasies of the recipient, who was asked to read it aloud. Whoever composed the limericks was well paid for sitting up o' nights, for they caused a deal of merriment even if they were not entirely free from sting. After dinner there was vaudeville. The star gave some imitations of a _cafe chantant_ which brought down the house. The musical director had composed a skit which he called ”Very Grand Opera.” The theme hinged on a leave-taking of one or more characters from the other. The book consisted of one word; _farewell_. I had never realized how long-winded the farewells of opera are until I heard the parody. The humour of it quite spoiled the tender duos, trios and choruses of the genuine article.
Dear old Mr. and Mrs. ---- contributed a cake-walk. No one suspected the grumpy old gentleman to have so much ginger in him. A good old Virginia reel and ”Tucker” limbered everybody into action.
Before we dispersed, old Santa Claus--impersonated by one of the walking gentlemen--again donned his beard and buckskin and accompanied by a noisy crew carried the great tree to the boarding-house where the child-actress of the company was staying. At the street end of the alley which led from the stage-entrance a big burly policeman stopped them; they _were_ noisy to be sure. But even the officer laughed when Santy touched him on the arm and in a ”tough” dialect asked him, ”Say Bill, do youse believe in fairies?”
If Will had any experiences in Boston only one came under my notice; rather, it was forced upon me. It was during the second week of the engagement that Will began to bring me violets. Now, he had not shown me this attention for several years. I was too much flattered at the time to notice that the flowers always came on matinee days, after the performance. Will generally took a walk after a matinee. He said it refreshed him for the evening performance. He would come in, glowing from the exercise, simply radiating health and energy. I knew what time to expect him and I would sit listening for the elevator to stop on our floor. I knew Will's step the minute he came down the hall. When he opened the door I instinctively sniffed the fresh air he brought in with him. I liked to feel his cold cheek against mine ... and to hear him puff and growl to amuse Boy as he pulled off his heavy coat. He was irresistible. The violets came in a purple box with the imprint of the florist in gold letters. The first time he brought them he set the box on the table without handing them to me. One of my weaknesses is flowers.
”What's this?” I asked, pouncing upon the box.
”Open it and see,” he answered with one of his quizzical sidelong glances.
”For me?” I asked a little dubiously. I lost no time in opening the box.
If the shadow of a thought that an admirer of Will's had sent him the flowers flitted across my mind it was lost in Will's smile as he answered,
”For my best girl.”
I buried my face in their cool depths. ”Violets! O, the beauties! I like the single variety best, don't you, Will? They're so fresh and woodsy.”
Then my conscience smote me. Violets are expensive this time of year.
”Will--weren't they _horribly_ expensive?” Just the same I was pleased to death--as I had heard matinee girls say--and I made up my mind to forego something I needed to offset Will's flattering extravagance. I nursed and tended those violets until the next matinee day came round.
When they faded I pressed them between blotting paper, intending when I got back home to put them away with other flowers Will had given me....
It was on Tuesday, the day after Christmas. I had gone out with Mrs.
Mollett to tea at a woman's club. The violets Will had brought me after the Christmas matinee were reinforced by some lilies of the valley. The huge bouquet looked particularly smart against my fur coat. Mrs.
Mollett and I were late in getting back. I felt sure I should miss Will, who was going out to dinner with some friends at a club. As I pa.s.sed through the hall to the lift a bell-boy overtook me. He told me there was someone in the parlour waiting to see me. I asked for a card but none had been sent. Wondering who could be calling on me--I had so few acquaintances in Boston--and antic.i.p.ating a pleasant surprise I followed the boy to the parlour on the second floor. It was a large room and I stopped in the portiered doorway half expectantly. The only occupant of the room was a tall person--whether woman or girl I could not discern.
She stood with her back to the door, looking out the window. As she glanced over her shoulder with no sign of recognition I turned to go.
The bell-boy, however, had waited behind me. ”That's the lady who asked for you over there.” He approached the girl, who turned timidly.
”You wanted to see Mrs. Hartley, didn't you? This is she.”
It was probably the surprise of hearing correct English from the lips of a bell-boy which diverted my attention for a second. When I looked at the visitor I saw that she had flushed and was overcome with confusion.
”There is--there appears to be some mistake,” she stammered, addressing herself to the retreating boy and averting my gaze. ”I asked to see Mr.
Hartley--Mr. William Hartley,” she called after the boy, though her voice was scarcely audible. She looked toward the door in a bewildered manner as if her only desire was to get away. There was something so distressing, so pathetic about her embarra.s.sment; not a modic.u.m of _savoir faire_ or bluff to help her out. I found myself saying in a kindly tone that only added oil to the flames: ”I am Mrs. Hartley; Mrs.
William Hartley. Is there anything I can do?”
For a full minute we stood and looked at each other. Under the full light, which the boy had switched on as he went out, her face and figure were sharply limned. A tall woman has always the best of it in any controversy, though I am sure my _vis-a-vis_ did not realize her advantage. If her mind was as confused as her face indicated she was to be pitied. She was not merely a plain woman; she was the epitome of plainness. Nature had not given her a single redeeming feature; there was not even a hint of sauciness to the upturned nose; not a speculative quirk to the corner of the mouth or a fetching droop to the eyelids which sometimes illuminates the plainest of faces. Perhaps she realized the n.i.g.g.ardliness of her gifts. There was an evident attempt at primping. Her hat sat uneasily upon a head unaccustomed to the hair-dresser's art. The shoes, too, I felt, were painful: they were so new and the heels so high, and unstable--a radical departure from the common-sense last which was as much a component part of her as the feet themselves. I visualized her home, her life and her commonplace a.s.sociates ... the eternal illusion of the stage ... Will's magnetism, combined with the perfections and never-failing n.o.bility of the stage hero.... I saw it all as clearly as I saw the strained, vari-expressioned face before me. All this in a brief fleeting moment. I smiled encouragingly. Her eyes met mine, then wavered and drooped, and drooping rested upon the violets--and we both understood....
”Won't you sit down?” I said, leading the way to a divan with the idea of easing the situation. ”Do have a pillow!--there, is that more comfortable? These sofas seem never to fit in to one's back.... I'm sorry Mr. Hartley is not in. Usually he _is_ in at this hour, but to-night he is dining out. I know he will be sorry to have missed you, for I am sure he wants to thank you in person for the lovely flowers.
Yes, he told me all about it and we both appreciated your sweetness in sending them. I hope Mr. Hartley wrote and properly thanked you,”--I rattled on, hoping to give her time to recover herself. ”He is, as a rule, quite punctilious in these matters, but with the holidays and the extra matinees--” I finished with an expressive shrug. There was a disheartening silence.