Part 9 (1/2)

While we were waiting for the automobile one of the women chaffed Will in the following manner: ”Why, you sly, handsome pup! You never told me you were married when you were here before.”

”I supposed you knew,” was Will's response.

”O, you did! Um! I never say anything about being married, either, when I go away for a lark.... Never mind, I'll forgive you if you'll call me up. Where are you stopping? How long is your wife going to be in town?”

The rest was drowned in the approach of the car.

We did not go to Mamma Heward's this time. Heretofore when Will played Chicago we had lived at a theatrical boarding-house kept by a dear little old Scotch lady. Her's was one of the few good ones throughout the country. Unfortunately one had to take a long trolley ride to reach her house and Will's performances ended late. Then, too, he had heard that the table had gone off and that the service was inadequate. I imagine, however, that Will felt he had outgrown the boarding-house days. He decided upon a family hotel on the north side.

During the week I called on Mamma Heward and took Boy with me. It was the first time she had seen him and she raved over him sufficiently to satisfy even a young mother's vanity. She enquired after Will and had kept in touch with his progress. She had always been fond of him and had dubbed him Bobby Burns, whom he somewhat resembled. I saw she felt hurt by our apparent desertion and tried to a.s.sure her that we should be much happier and more comfortable with her; that if it were not for the distance from the theatre----

The dear little old lady patted my hand as if to spare me further dissemblance.

”That's the excuse they all give, but it's no farther than ever it was and the theatres are as near as ever they were,” she said sadly, the Scotch burr falling musically upon the ear. ”It isn't that.... They're forgetting me now they're getting up in the world. It didn't use to be too far when they couldn't pay more than eight or ten dollars a week for their board ... and the little suppers Mamma had waiting for them after the theatre....”

She sighed but there was no trace of bitterness. ”It's what you must expect when you get old and worn out.... It's the way of the world and G.o.d was always harder on women than he is on men.”

There was no answer I could make; I could not have spoken had there been anything to say. I felt choked and on the verge of tears. It was all so pitiful. There was an air of desolation about the place. The warmth which prosperity radiates was no longer evident. Where formerly there had been leading players, even a star or two, now there were only the lower ranks, and but few of them. Nothing remained of the good old days save the rows and rows of photographs which lined the walls, all of them autographed and inscribed ”With love, to Mamma Heward.” Arm in arm we reviewed this galaxy of players.

”There is ----,” she said, stopping in front of a well-known actor. ”And that's his first wife. She was a dear, good girl. I'm afraid Herbert didn't treat her as well as he should. Many's the time she has cried out her heart in Mamma's arms.... She's married again--no, not an actor--and she's got two boys, the littlest one the size of yours....

Now could you ever guess who that is? Yes, that's ---- when he was leading man with Modjeska. The women were crazy about him.... And he was a dear--such a kind-hearted man. I remember once how he kept the furnace going when our man got drunk and disappeared for three days. If only I had a picture of him shovelling in coal--his sleeves rolled up and spouting Macbeth at the top of his lungs.... Dear old Morry! He was his own worst enemy....”

She sighed heavily over the actor's bad end. ”And there! Do you recognize that? And isn't the boy the livin' image of his father?”

I looked more closely at the photograph. Boy's resemblance to his father was even more clearly marked in some of Will's earlier pictures.

”Do you remember the first time you came to me? You hadn't been married long. You had a dog, a bull terrier pup. Let me think, now, what was his name? Yes, Billy, that's it! And do you mind how ye locked him up in your bathroom when you went to the theatre and how he ate the matting off the floor while ye was gone?”

We both laughed at the recollection, though I had not laughed at the time. I was in fear lest Billy be relegated to the cellar where he would cry out his puppy heart. But Mamma Heward was never in a bad humour. She was all kindness and consideration ... and now she was getting old and could no longer please an exacting clientele. The cost of living had gone up; rents were higher; but the little old lady could get no more for her rooms. To make both ends meet she dispensed first with one servant, then with another, until she and one frail daughter shared the entire work of the house. It was no easy matter to cook and serve a dozen breakfasts in the rooms at any and all hours; to cater and prepare meals and then to wait up until midnight that the players might have a hot supper after the performance. How many of those whom she had tided over the hard times, how many who had ”stood her up” for a board bill, or whom she had nursed in times of illness, remembered her now in her time of need?

”I'm not finding fault,” she said softly, breaking a long silence while we looked beyond the pictures. ”I don't blame them for not coming here to live ... only--I wish they'd drop in to see me sometimes when they come to town, just for auld lang syne....”

When I told Will of my visit he looked very serious. I am sure he felt sorry we had not gone back to her. The next day we went together to see her. Will took her a bottle of port wine. Later he sent her two seats for the performance and I promised her that the next time we came to Chicago we should stay with her, even if Will were a star....

CHAPTER X

Will's friends certainly provided one continual round of pleasure, if dissipation may be cla.s.sed under that head. I was brought to wonder how they found time for ”the petty round of irritating concerns and duties”

of life. They appeared always to be dining or lunching out. One met them in the various restaurants at all hours, drinking round upon round of c.o.c.ktails, and polis.h.i.+ng them off with cognac. The Pompeian room at the Annex between five and six in the afternoon is Chicago typified. The artistic gentleman who conceived the decorative scheme of the Pompeian room had a sly sense of the eternal fitness of things. He also knew his Chicago. The great bacchic amphorae--copies of those cla.s.sic receptacles utilized as relief stations by old Romans who had wined too well--are concrete reminders of his sense of humour. I have seen more women in Chicago under the influence of liquor than in any other city in the world. This probably accounts for their low standard of morality as well as for the emotional debauches in which they indulge.

There was one couple typical of the cla.s.s of high-flyers in which Chicago abounds. The husband was a throat specialist with a splendid practice. He was popular among stage-folk. Will had met the doctor and his wife during a former engagement. The wife expressed herself as ”strong for” Will. Scarcely a day pa.s.sed without a telephone message or a call from Mrs. Pease. She would drop in at the most inopportune times.

”Don't mind me,” she would say, settling herself comfortably. ”I've seen gentlemen in dressing-gowns before. That red is very becoming to your peculiar style of beauty, sir. Nothing if not artistic.”

Mrs. Pease was a tall woman, built on the slab style. She affected mannish tailormades and heavy boots. When she sat down she invariably crossed her legs. The extremities she exhibited were not prepossessing.

She was also expert in innuendo and _double entente_. She flirted outrageously with Will and made me feel like the person in the song, ”Always in the way.” In fact I came to the conclusion that wherever we went I was accepted as a necessary evil--among the women. There was always a ”pairing off” after dinner or supper; surrept.i.tious _rendezvous_ in the obscure cosey corners; _sotto voce_ conversations, not intended for my ears. I found myself getting the habit of talking stupid nonsense with persons in whom I was not interested, simply to cover the follies of the others.

The men flattered me. Flattery is a habit with men; they think most women expect it--and they do. After a little practice a woman can tell to a certainty just what a man is going to say under certain conditions.

How can any one be flattered by the saccharine plat.i.tudes which are ground out automatically like chewing-gum from a slot-machine? So few women have a sense of humour. They have less self-respect.