Before "William Tell" was half over it became evident that Teddy's
place was more than filled. There were those among the audience who
assured me later that they had penetrated the disguise early in the
performance; but, if so, they exhibited rare powers of self-control,
for they did not remark upon it at the time, nor indeed until the whole
calamitous story had come out and been town-talk for days. Some queer
_esprit de corps_ kept the girls from spreading the miserable truth
about Teddy. Sick! We knew only too well what was the matter with him;
but that was no reason why we should proclaim it to the world. We
entered into the conspiracy of silence, partly from a real generosity
of spirit and desire to shield the poor fellow, and partly because,
as Mazie sagaciously pointed out, talking about it would certainly
discredit a girl (in a manner of speaking) with the other men. Mazie
undoubtedly possessed some of the qualities of a born leader, among
them that of getting herself listened to, without being either
disagreeable or ridiculous; no one of us, not even Kitty, would have
questioned her knowledge of men and their ways. We knew a dozen who
were prettier, better bred, cleverer, and kinder than Mazie Pallinder,
but, when it came to influence, they were nowhere beside her. Even
now, I believe if she came into my life again, with her sallow,
paint-touched face, her slip-shod pronunciation, her odd flat black
eyes, her ineffably appropriate and beautiful clothes--I say, even now,
I should probably follow and imitate her as I did then!
But when the curtain went up on "Mrs. Tankerville's Tiara," and the
moment arrived when Huddesley must appear as Teddy with no disguise
save that of a livery and false whiskers, we trembled for the success
of the deception. We might have spared our worry; Huddesley came on
in the ballroom scene with which the play opened, handing a tray of
ices--and he was so like Teddy in face and movements that even upon the
stage where the devices of his make-up could be studied close at hand,
the effect was startling. _Plus roi que le roi_, he was; he passed his
tray not like a butler imitating a gentleman, but like a gentleman
imitating a butler; he dropped his _h's_ and stumblingly forgot to
drop them with all Teddy's humorous self-consciousness. He managed his
double part so well, no light task even for a finished actor, that
he achieved a kind of equality with us; we forgot that he was Doctor
Vardaman's servant. The thing was so much a matter for gratulations
that I think we scarcely remembered it was also a matter for wonder. If
J. B. or the other men felt any uneasiness they did not reveal it; but,
so ingenuously self-centred is youth, it is probable we were much too
deeply interested, everyone in his own appearance and the impression he
was making, to be genuinely concerned about anybody else.
The audience about whom I had had such fearsome fancies must have
been singularly lenient, even more so than such audiences usually are
to such performers. My recollection is that, excepting Huddesley, we
were too bad even to be funny. "Mrs. Tankerville" is a good stirring
comedy-drama, of the type Boucicault and Tom Taylor made so popular
during the quarter-century succeeding 1850; there is an abundance of
vivid dialogue, with plenty of "points," and plenty of "situations."
But what it all became in our hands is a dire memory. Mazie, it is
true, made a splendid figure on the stage, and was quite dashing and
theatrical, but she forgot two-thirds of her lines, and in the great
scene where she accused Muriel of the robbery, had to be prompted at
every other word. And Muriel--well, there was no blinking the fact,
Muriel was a "stick." She was so big and gentle and honest-looking
that no sane person in stage-land or out of it, could have suspected
her for a moment of anything more criminal, say, than hopping into
bed to say her prayers because her feet were cold! The excitement
flushed her so that it was visible through her paint, and she did not
look so statuesquely calm and finished as usual; nervousness, which
is unbecoming to everybody, set particularly ill on a person of her
weight and inches. She knew every word of her part, and recited it with
the conscientiousness which she would have shown to the Catechism--and
with much the same expression! She replied to Mazie's halting tirades
in the tone and with the air of someone declining a cup of afternoon
tea. "Will you drive me into the street?" she remarked amiably, and her
manner suggested: "Well, all right, just wait till I get my hat on!"
Kitty mimicked her in the bedroom, until the rest of us were feeble
with laughter. Owing to Colonel Pallinder's forethought, the machinery
of the curtain and footlights worked perfectly, and the stage-settings
were orderly and accurate; but aside from these, every accident known
to the production of amateur theatricals befell us. At one juncture,
when there should have been a "loud crash" behind the scenes, none
occurred, no one in particular having been entrusted with that feature
of the performance; and, in the midst of a dead silence, Jimmie
Hathaway found himself obliged to exclaim, "Good Heavens! What is all
that infernal din about?" To make matters worse, some over-zealous
person immediately thereon made a "loud crash," and Jimmie, lacking the
presence of mind to repeat his former remark, went on with the next
speech: "Everything is quiet as the grave, now. What could it have
been?" The general verdict was that J. B. did very well, even in the
love-scenes where we had thought he would make a failure of it; but
J. B. was deservedly popular anyway. He triumphed by sheer force of
personality. The young fellow was so kind and hearty and good-looking
he could not but be pleasing. Whatever applause "Mrs. Tankerville"
brought forth (and that of a sadly feeble and perfunctory nature, I
fear) went to him, and none of us grudged it.
The play has three acts, and our much-enduring audience had sat through
two of them, when Huddesley waylaid Mazie behind the scenes as she
was rushing back for one of her numerous changes of costume. These
afforded a species of entertainment that was "not in the bill," as some
humourist observed; "Mrs. Tankerville's" clothes were one of the few
points of real interest about the performance.
"Miss Pallinder?" said Huddesley, timidly halting in her way.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Here's the di'monds," said Huddesley, presenting the box, done up for
the sake of stage-effect in a rather large and lumbering parcel. "I've
been carrying 'em around like you told me to, so they'd be safe. I
didn't want to give 'em to hanybody but you, and I've got to go now.
You know I don't have to show again, except where Mr. Taylor comes in
and sees me in the mirror, and plugs me over with the pistol-shot, and
then they drag me out from behind the screen. And I thought anybody
could put on the clothes for that, as long as the audience don't see
anything but just a body----"
"Yes, but what's the matter? Why can't you finish?" asked Mazie, a
little startled. She took the box mechanically, and edged toward her
room.
"If you please, ma'am, I ain't feelin' very well. I think maybe it's
the wet cold night. It's just come over me--I've got a kind of bad turn
on the stomach and----"
"Oh, I'm so sorry," interrupted Mazie, fearful from his manner that
Huddesley was about to enter on some embarrassing details. "Better go
down and ask my father for some whisky--he's in the dining-room--tell
him I sent you. But what shall we do--oh, Mr. Carson?"
The enslaved Chorus, who figured in a small part in "Mrs. Tankerville,"
approached; he was always hanging around whenever Mazie went on or
left the stage, in hopes of a word. But the girl now saw him, to her
surprise, in overcoat and hat.
"You're not going?" she asked, with a pang of regret; she wished,
momentarily, that she had been "nicer" to him. Whether a woman cares
for a man or not, she never sees him leave her without dismay. "You're
not going?" said Mazie, directing a troubled and wistful smile upon him.
"Can't help it, Miss Pallinder," said Bob, warming to the very marrow
at her glance. "I--I hate to awfully. But it's getting late, you know,
and I've got to meet my sister; her train will be in about midnight."
"Oh, it's not that yet."
"Pretty near."
"But, Mr. Carson, I don't know what we--I don't know what I shall do
without you. I haven't anybody to go to but you. Such a pity about Mr.
Johns, isn't it--his being taken sick, I mean--it's upset everything
dreadfully. Here's Huddesley----"
Huddesley explained volubly--"And if you, or somebody of the young
gentlemen could just put on the clothes, Mr. Robert, the audience will
never know the difference; they don't see anything but the body when
they drag me out after Mr. Taylor's shot me. I've got a bad turn on my
stomach and----"
"All right," said Bob hastily. "Is that package the diamonds? They have
to find 'em on you, don't they? Here, I'll do it--I guess I can make
the train anyhow. Come along and get the costume off, Huddesley, you
want to hurry."
Mazie stopped him, with a hand on his arm. "Oh, Mr. Carson, we--I ought
to give Huddesley something, oughtn't I? For coming this evening? It
was very accommodating, you know, he isn't like a darky servant. What
ought I to give him? Five dollars? Ten dollars?" she whispered, with a
manner of special confidence that was like a caress to the young man.
"Never mind, Ma--Miss Pallinder," he said, absurdly tremulous and
excited. "I'll see about it--don't worry--it's like you to think of
it--you're so--that is----" words forsook him. "I'll fix Huddesley, you
know," he faltered, chafing privately at the limitations of etiquette
and the English language. Mazie rewarded him with a long look, and
walked off.
By this time, in the crowded area behind the scenes, what with gas-jets
burning full head on, the smell of cookery coming up the back stairs,
sawdust, recent paint, cut flowers, innumerable other odours perfectly
impossible to classify, the air had grown well-nigh unbearable.
Everybody was overheated and out of temper; the play dragged on
stupidly. I went down to the second landing for a breath of fresh air,
and was standing there by the open window, in, I suppose, the only
quiet and cool spot in the whole house, when someone came with a rush
down the stairs. It was Huddesley. I remember being struck, as I turned
and saw him, with the sharp rigidity of his features; devoid of paint
and false beard, they resembled a parchment mask. There was an animal
swiftness in his movements, yet he stopped short as we faced, taking
the last three steps with an air of leisure, and a certain reckless
and impudent triumph in his glance. He had something in his hand, and
I recall the jaunty motion with which he tossed and caught it--it was
a gold coin--and thrust it deep in his pocket; Bob's money, no doubt,
but I knew nothing of that, and seeing the man pause, looked at him
inquiringly "Why, if there ain't little tootsie that I made a face at!"
he said. "Sorry I scared you, toots! Bye-bye!" And while I yet stood in
a helpless stupor of surprise, passed an arm around my bare shoulders,
twitched my chin into his hand, and--he was gone with a laugh, out of
the house, and out of our lives! I may fairly say that of all that
company I was the last to have any dealings with Huddesley; and I took
care, as may be imagined, that no one else should know the picturesque
circumstances of his departure. Fortunately my testimony was not
necessary, was not even asked. He went, and the night received him into
its dark world of wet and wind and tossing branches. No exit could have
been more appropriate, more typical.
A moment later the thunderous rumble of chairs and outburst of voices
overhead announced that "Mrs. Tankerville's Tiara" had at last run
its disastrous course. It was very late; "William Tell" had not begun
until nearly ten o'clock, and the encores had taken up a good deal of
time. The second play had not been prolonged by undue enthusiasm from
the audience, at any rate; yet I doubt if they were as weary of it as
we. It hung on in spite of us; the speeches that we had heard till
flesh and spirit fairly recoiled from the sound of them (and yet no one
knew his own!) simply would _not_ get themselves said. We had reached
the mood when we hated the smooth and conscientious politeness of our
hearers.
"Up at the 'Peoples' they'd guy this thing off the stage," one young
man said to another. "And serves us right, too!"
"I wish to goodness we'd stopped with 'Tell,' the audience wouldn't
have been so tired----"
"Audience! It's a congregation!" said Kitty Oldham savagely. "And I'm
glad the obsequies are over. 'Mrs. Tankerville' is dead and buried--for
mercy's sake, don't anyone mention her name to me again!"
"You did awfully well, Miss Kitty--you reminded me of Lotta."
"Of course," said Kitty with neat sarcasm. "Now go and tell Muriel she
reminded you of Bernhardt!"
"She looked more like Mrs. Langtry, didn't she?" said her companion
diplomatically. "But Miss Pallinder now did have a kind of likeness to
Bernhardt, she's so tall and thin. I thought she was stunning in that
red dress and the diamonds--why didn't she put them on again? Right at
the end there, where they find them, I mean?"
"I don't know, unless she wanted to shorten up the last scene, and get
through. She said she was going to give them back to her mother as soon
as it was over."
"Mrs. Pallinder's not wearing them, though. What became of Huddesley
toward the last there?"
"Mazie said he had to go, the doctor had sent for him or something, I
didn't catch what it was. That was Bob in his clothes, you know."
"Say, Teddy's had a lot of substitutes this evening, hasn't he? Do you
suppose anyone suspects?"
"Nobody's said anything to me anyhow."
"Hello, here's Capoul!"[6]
"Oh, Capoul--Rats!" said Bob, reddening with vexation. He had a
secret conviction that a tenor voice lacked manliness, and mistook
the felicitations of his friends for artfully disguised raillery.
"People will be poking that 'La-_hee_-ho' business at me from now till
doomsday, I suppose."
"We were just wondering if anyone knew about Ted."
"Guess not; I haven't heard anybody say a word about it."
"Look here, how do you happen to be here yet, my son? I thought you
said you had to go and meet Susie."
"Well, I do, but not right away. I got one of the cab-drivers
outside--there's about fifty of 'em, you never saw such a jam in
your life--to go down to the drug-store and telephone, and they say
the train from New York won't be in till two o'clock or after. Tell
you, the telephone's an institution, isn't it? It's like Jules Verne
coming true; they say they'll have 'em all over in private houses and
everywhere before long. Have you seen Miss Pallinder? I've got this
next waltz--oh, there she is with her mother."
He drifted off, and Kitty gave her partner a meaning look. "Bob means
business, I guess," said the latter, returning it.
His hostess welcomed the young man with a wan vivacity. "How do you
do, Mr. Carson? This is the first chance I've had to congratulate you.
Everybody did _so_ well. You were especially good at the last."
Undoubtedly Mrs. Pallinder was not her usual suave and confident self
that night; her attention wandered. She had forgot what part Bob took,
and there was no graciousness in her fixed smile; it might have been
painted on her face like some of her other adornments.
"The last was the best part of the whole performance, I guess, for the
audience," said Bob, grinning. "That was me they dragged in from behind
the screen, you know. It's not everybody that can make believe to be
dead as artistically as I can. I'm the second-assistant-deputy-Ted
Johns. Miss Pallinder told you about Huddesley, didn't she? She said
you knew."
"Yes--very unfortunate, wasn't it?" said Mrs. Pallinder, smiling
mechanically. "I mean fortunate, of course--that he could take Mr.
Johns' part, that is. Did you--have you got my necklace, Mr. Carson?"
"Me? Why, no," said Bob, in surprise. "They were supposed to find the
jewels on _Jenks'_ body, you know, in a bundle, and Miss Pallinder took
them. Don't you remember where she says: 'Oh, my tiara! That poor
child! What has become of her?'"
Mrs. Pallinder ought to have remembered it, for Mazie had begun with:
"'Oh, my child! That poor tiara, what has become of it?'" so that a
number of the audience and nearly all the actors had been extinguished
in giggles. But she only said vaguely, "Oh, ah, yes, I believe there
was something of the kind said. Mazie, honey, I've just been asking Mr.
Carson what he had done with the tiara, the necklace, I mean--I reckon
he thinks _I_ think he's stolen it!"
"Oh, I didn't even undo the parcel," said Mazie languidly. "I just
pretended to on the stage. I couldn't worry around with the thing.
That play's too long anyhow; I cut it short right at the end there on
purpose. We had the necklace all twisted up on wires, you know. I just
pitched it into the bureau-drawer and locked it up. It's safe."
"I'm afraid you're tired," said Bob, as Mrs. Pallinder, with a return
of her accustomed tact, moved unobtrusively away. "I'm afraid you're
worn out," repeated the young fellow tenderly. "You had the hardest
part of anybody."