CHAPTER I

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[Illustration: Book Cover]

A PASTEBOARD

CROWN

[Illustration: "I will place the crown upon your head," said the

actor-manager; "only promise not to reproach me when you find for

yourself that it is only pasteboard!"]

A PASTEBOARD

CROWN

_A Story of the New York Stage_

BY

CLARA MORRIS

_Author of "Life on the Stage," etc._

_WITH A FRONTISPIECE FROM A DRAWING BY

HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY_

[Illustration]

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

NEW YORK

1902

Copyright, 1902, by

Clara Morris Harriott

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE LAWTONS ARRIVE 1

II. A POWERFUL NEIGHBOR 12

III. SHOPPING UNDER DIFFICULTIES 23

IV. AN ACQUAINTANCE RENEWED 32

V. "THE WOMAN OF FATE" 44

VI. A RECOGNITION AND A DINNER 53

VII. A PRAYER AND A PROMISE 64

VIII. "TELL HER YOU HAVE MY PERMISSION" 73

IX. THE ACCIDENT--A FRIEND IN NEED 85

X. CALLING ON THE MANAGER 97

XI. THE DOUBLE BIRTHDAY 113

XII. THE PROMISED CROWN 129

XIII. THE FORMING OF THE CHRYSALIS 143

XIV. THE RETURN FROM THE WEST 152

XV. MRS. LAWTON LAYS PLANS 163

XVI. A STRANGE BETROTHAL 171

XVII. THE COSTUMING OF JULIET 188

XVIII. A LOVER'S PLEA 204

XIX. A FAMILY SCENE 219

XX. A PROFESSIONAL LESSON 228

XXI. SEEKING REFUGE FROM THE STORM 243

XXII. PREPARING THE PIT 265

XXIII. THE WOMAN IN THE BOX 279

XXIV. "I WILL NOT DIVORCE YOU" 294

XXV. "TO LOVE IS TO FORGIVE" 309

XXVI. THE OPAL 325

XXVII. THE FALL OF THE CURTAIN 344

XXVIII. "THOU KNOWEST!" 359

A PASTEBOARD

CROWN

CHAPTER I

THE LAWTONS ARRIVE

It was on a Monday, the 30th of April, that the boys with the grocers'

and butchers' delivery wagons, the gray-uniformed postmen behind their

bony, always-tired horses, and the blue-coated, overfed mounted

policemen began to circulate the report that the old White house had

found a tenant; and every soul that listened made answer: "Impossible!

No one could live in that old rookery!" and then, with incredible

inconsistency, ended with: "Who's taken it?"

At first no answer could be given to that question, but later in the day

a man who strung telegraph wires won a brief importance through

overhearing a conversation between two men standing below him and beside

the pole he was mounted on. One man was Jacob Brewer, who now owned the

old White estate, and the other he ascertained, by careful listening, to

be John Lawton; and he learned that Mr. Lawton was to take possession of

the old house the next day, which would be May 1st, the conventionally

correct day for moving.

Through the usual suburban channels this bit of information was put

into circulation and swiftly reached every householder in the

village--to say nothing of outlying farmhouses. And everywhere women

with towels about their heads--sure sign that the house-cleaning microbe

is abroad in the land--could be seen talking over back fences to

neighbors whose fingers were still puckered from long immersion in the

family wash-tub, and the name Lawton and such disjointed exclamations

as: "Who?" "Why--how many do you suppose?" and "Did you ever hear of

such a thing?" filled the warm air, even as the frail, inconsequent

little May-flies filled it.

The telegraph lineman over his noon beer told many times what old Brewer

had called the stranger: "Lawton--yes, John Lawton--was the name, and he

was coming up the next day; yes, come to think of it, he had said _they_

were coming--so there was a family of some sort." The letter-carrier, in

leaving the mail, paused a moment to catch these last words, and at his

next stopping-place he was enabled to leave with a letter the

information that "John Lawton, who had taken that roofless old sheebang,

had a family coming with him"; and the lady informed made sure "he would

not have a family very long, if he tried to keep them in that mouldering

old ruin." Doctors hearing the news exchanged jests as they met on the

roads, one opining that "some business was coming their way and that

quinine would soon be in demand," while another, always a pessimist,

said that "any one that was poor enough to take the White house to live

in was too hard up to pay a doctor."

But really, no one knowing anything about the old place could help

having a feeling of amazement at hearing of a tenant being found for it.

It was that saddest, most uncanny thing--a deserted house. A great, big,

Colonial-like frame structure, it stood high on the hillside, showing

white and ghostly between the too-closely set evergreens and conifers

before it. That money had been lavished upon the place in the distant

past was evident even in these very trees, which were the choicest of

their kind. He who had planted them must have been a melancholy man.

Drooping, mournful trees seemed particularly to appeal to him, for the

very rare weeping hemlock, like a black fountain, was there as well as

the weeping larch, with its small cones; and a veritable army of white

pines, Norway spruces, balsam firs, and the red cedar that in its

blackish stateliness is so like the Irish yew. A solemn company at the

best of times, when properly spaced and trimmed, but now with unpruned

branches intertwining, the trees that were killing one another in their

struggle for light were positively lugubrious. And behind that screen of

matted, many-shaded evergreen the pallid, bony old house stood trembling

under high winds, while its upper windows stared blankly down upon that

Broadway that, escaping from the hurrying city with its millions of

restless feet, here passed calmly on, by woodland and green meadows,

toward distant Albany.

The cruel roadway had swept away with it all the footsteps that had used

to make life in the old house. Two great gates were let into the stone

wall. One was locked so securely that even a burglar might have failed

to solve the combination of a ten years' twisted leafy growth of

woodbine; but whenever anyone wished to enter the grounds he went to the

second gate, which was easily opened by the simple process of throwing

it down and walking over it. Grass grew in tufts down the old carriage

drive, and all about the lower part of the house were curious stains

that looked as though little green waves had washed up against it, while

on the north side the long streaks of green beneath the windows

painfully suggested tear-marks on its white old face. A melancholy and

unwholesome place for people to seek a home in, and yet the morning's

report proved reliable, for Jacob Brewer's handy man had been over to

the old White house, as people would call it, because Peter White had

lived and died there years ago, and had cleared up a bit; had secured

two or three hanging shutters, put a swing-door in the kitchen and a

bolt on the front door, and had tacked on to the mighty body of an

ancient willow--a landmark for miles about that grew directly by the

unhinged gate--a strip of black painted tin, bearing in gold letters the

word "Woodsedge"--and lo! the old house was ready for the new tenant.

Promptly the Lawtons arrived upon the scene the next day, preceded by a

furniture van under the directorship of a very young, very rumpled, but

most optimistic German maid-of-all-work, who proudly carried a large key

in her hand as a symbol of authority. She had unlocked and thrown wide

the creaking front door, opened the windows, made a fire in the kitchen,

and had undone the bundle she had carried in her lap all the way from

the city, revealing to the astonished men a small black tea-kettle.

"Oh, ja! I carry him mysel', und den I have him alretty und can make

quick de tea for de mistress--right so soon as she gits here!"

And before the van had been emptied a dust-covered hack arrived, with

four people inside and several boxes and a trunk sharing the top with

the driver. A mounted policeman, loitering along Broadway and watching

the debarkation, saw John Lawton--tall and thin and almost white-haired,

a gentleman without a doubt--descending. Then an elderly lady, with

surprisingly red cheeks glowing through a dotted veil, followed, and

then--"Oh, by Jove!" muttered the blue-coat, as out sprang, one after

the other, the two young girls, as fresh and bright and full of bubbling

laughter as the day was bright and full of sunshine and bird song.

Suddenly a voice cried: "Sybil--O Sybil, take care--you've broken the

package of bird seed!"

And with a laugh the girl addressed caught up her skirt to save the

falling seeds, revealing as she did so a pair of pretty feet, that

presently began to dance wildly about as their owner cried: "Dorothy--O

Dorothy! did you see it--a robin? it's over there!"

And up went two veils, and two young faces turned eagerly toward the

spot where Mr. Robin, with black cap, yellow bill, and orange-red

breast, sat and looked at them with round black eyes, quite unmoved by

their human beauty, as was right and proper--seeing that he was himself

a bridegroom just settling in life. But the policeman suddenly put his

horse to the gallop, and in an hour's time everyone in the village knew

that the Lawtons had arrived, that they were gentlefolk, and that the

two girls were "regular beauties." While at Woodsedge, secure in the

privacy the screening evergreens provided, the Lawtons turned to and

assisted the small German maid in setting up their somewhat battered

household gods upon the altars that had been so long empty and cold in

that sad old house.

As Mrs. Lawton crossed the sagging porch the front door was held open by

Lena, who, curtseying and smiling her widest, flattest smile, told her

that "She was com' at de right place und she vas velcom' alretty as

anyt'ing," the dignity of this reception being somewhat marred by the

fact that Lena was hooking herself up as she spoke, she having hastily

exchanged her Sunday clothes for her working ones.

"Ah," moaned the welcomed mistress to her following husband and

daughters, "in former years my butler and housekeeper would have

received me, and with their clothes all on" (the girls choked audibly),

"but," sighed Mrs. Lawton, "that was before your poor misguided father

had lost everything for us!"

"Including the servants' clothes," whispered Dorothy, and with a "Poor

papa!" each girl gave him a pat on the arm as, passing him by, they took

hold of their mother, and with much loving bustle got her bonnet and

veil and gloves and beady mantle off and put her into the only chair yet

brought into the house, where, with a soap-box beneath her feet, she

could sit and comfortably give directions that no one heeded, and scold

people who were unconscious that they were the objects of her wrath.

Some shades were up, two carpets were down, and a gruesome old piano

stood, glooming, from one end of the sitting-room, before the girls

would consent to have lunch, for, said Sybil, "That piano, that noble

instrument of perfect tone and action, standing outside on the grass,

was a direct challenge to Heaven to send down rain."

"My dear," mildly remonstrated Mr. Lawton, "don't be sarcastic."

"John!" interrupted Mrs. Lawton, "I don't see why you should accuse the

child of being sarcastic. You must remember that in about the seventies

some of our greatest pianists sat before that instrument, which was one

of my many wedding gifts, and Sybil very reasonably called it a piano of

perfect tone and action. You should not be so ready to criticise your

children, John. Oh, I do hope that tea is going to be strong, my dears,

for I am positively beyond speech." A declaration which lost

considerable of its force when she continued to describe the glorious

past of her rosewood monster, until she was silenced momentarily by a

cup of strong tea. For, camping in all the wild confusion of boxes and

bundles, they proceeded to enjoy a luncheon of bread and butter and

chipped dried beef, with the soul-reviving accompaniment of fragrant

though forbidden green tea. Just as Mrs. Lawton, groaning over the

thickness of the bread, was starting out to describe the transparent

thinness of the slices cut by some bondwoman of the past, Lena, all

smiles, came tramping in with a boiled egg in a shaving-mug:

"Youst for de mistress," she announced, and placed the mug on that

lady's knee. "Dat's youst laid fresh dis minute alretty. Wat you t'ink

of dat, eh?"

"But--but!" flustered Mr. Lawton, "that doesn't belong to us--we have no

hens!"

"No," acquiesced Lena, "but dot hen she nest on us--so I tak' dot egg!"

"Well, that's dishonest!" declared Mr. Lawton.

"Nein! nein!" contradicted Lena, who always grew more German in

excitement: "Uf it is tree egg--four--six egg, dot may make of de

steal--but youst one eggs only pay for de use of de nest!" And Lena made

a triumphant exit to the laughter of the girls and a thrill of song from

the canary on the mantel-piece, who dearly loved a noise.

Meantime Mrs. Lawton, untroubled by questions of right or wrong, enjoyed

the fresh egg without even a word of protest against the shaving-mug

accompaniment. As she wiped her lips, she asked, suddenly: "Girls, where

on earth are your dear grandparents?"

"Under the piano," promptly replied Sybil, who was worrying a tough chip

of beef between her white teeth.

Dorothy giggled hysterically, while John Lawton exclaimed: "Sybil, are

you absolutely without reverence?"

"Why, papa," replied the indomitable Sybil, "I'm sure the old people are

better off under the piano than they would have been lying with the

tables and chairs in the grass out there, a temptation to Lena's fairy

footsteps. We'll hang the old people up as soon as we finish our

luncheon. They had better stay in this room--don't you think so, mamma?"

And Mrs. Lawton again took up the proffered thread of direction and

never laid it down till she at the same moment laid her head upon her

pillow.

After that picnicky luncheon Mr. Lawton betook himself to the village to

hunt up the butcher, the baker, and, if not the candle-stick maker, at

least his successor, the gas man. Firmly rejecting the piece of string

Mrs. Lawton wished to tie about his thumb as an assistance to his

somewhat unreliable memory, he rearranged his thin locks with the aid of

a pocket-comb, tightly buttoned his well-fitting, seedy old coat, and

with a warm young kiss on either cheek sallied forth, pursued by his

wife's warning cry: "Candles--candles! Now, John, no matter what they

promise at the gas-store, gas-house--er--er, I mean office--don't I,

girls? Oh, well, no matter what _anyone_ promises, _anywhere_, do you

buy some candles for fear of accidents, for light we must have! Food for

to-morrow is desirable, but light for to-night is an absolute necessity!

So get candles, for fear----"--then, as John disappeared, "Do you

suppose your father understood?" she asked, anxiously.

"Why--er! why--er!" hesitated Sybil, as she gently rubbed the canvas

that preserved Grandmamma Bassett's antique prettiness: "Dorothy--what

is the condition of papa's intelligence at present?"

But Dorothy, passing an armful of bed linen to the waiting Lena,

soothingly declared: "It's no fault of yours, mamma dear, if he does not

understand--I'm sure you tried hard enough," and Mrs. Lawton, bridling

and important, at once followed Lena upstairs to make things interesting

for that handmaiden. As soon as they were alone the girls looked

ruefully at each other, and Dorothy exclaimed: "Fancy sending papa on

such an errand!"

"Yes," groaned Sybil, "it _is_ funny--and oh, if he could only throw a

little light on the family finances, I'd forgive him if we all lay in

total darkness to-night. Dorrie! Dorrie! what are we coming to? Is not

this an awful place? I would not say a word against it before poor

papa--he seems so proud of his bargain. But, Dorrie, we'll all find our

teeth rattling like castanets some fine morning, and chills mean

quinine, and quinine means money--money!"

Dorothy sat down dejectedly on a step of the ladder and pushed her sunny

brown hair back from her damp forehead. "Yes--it is dreadful! We must

put mamma and papa in the driest room and see what the cellar is like,

and perhaps we may find some boy about who will cut away some of those

branches and let a little sunlight in on this window that I see mamma

has marked for her own. A little shaking and shivering won't matter so

much for us, Sybil. We are young and can stand it, but papa is not

strong and fever would simply eat him up, poor dear!"

Sybil bent suddenly, and, kissing her sister's cheek: "You're a patient

little soul, Dorrie," she said, "but I tell you I shall go mad presently

over this never-ending mending and turning and dyeing, this wearing of

each other's clothes, this mad effort to keep up appearances! Why can't

we do something as other girls do--who help themselves?"

"Ah, but mamma!" interposed Dorothy. "She would never consent. We are

ladies, you know, dear, and----"

"Idiots!" savagely completed Sybil, "who don't know how to do one single

thing well. I can paint--a little; you can play--a little. We both can

sing--a little, and we both can dance perfectly!"

And she flung her arm about Dorothy's slim waist and together they went

waltzing out into the old hall, their light, swaying figures skimming

swallow-like over the sunken porch and out into the sunshine, where

presently a great brown root tripped them up, and they fell, a laughing

heap, on the moss. Next instant two excited voices were crying:

"Violets! Oh, real violets!" And with fingers trembling with haste, and

eyes wide with delight, they gathered the timid little hooded darlings

of the spring, forgetting their poverty, their makeshifts, and their

anxieties, as God meant young things should forget at times, and only

remembering that they were sisters, who loved each other and had found

out there under the sky their first bed of sweet wild violets.