PHILADELPHIA, January 27.
Maggie, dear:
I'm writing to you just before dinner while I wait for Fred. He's down
at the box-office looking up advance sales. I tell you, Maggie
Monahan, we're strictly in it--we Obermullers. That Broadway hit of
mine has preceded me here, and we've got the town, I suspect, in
advance.
But I'm not writing to tell you this. I've got something more
interesting to tell you, my dear old Cruelty chum.
I want you to pretend to yourself that you see me, Mag, as I came out
of the big Chestnut Street store this afternoon, my arms full of
bundles. I must have on that long coat to my heels, of dark, warm red,
silk-lined, with the long, incurving back sweep and high chinchilla
collar, that Fred ordered made for me the very day we were married. I
must be wearing that jolly little, red-cloth toque caught up on the
side with some of the fur.
Oh, yes, I knew I was more than a year behind the times when I got
them, but a successful actress wears what she pleases, and the rest of
the world wears what pleases her, too. Besides, fashions don't mean so
much to you when your husband tells you how becoming--but this has
nothing to do with the Bishop.
Yes, the Bishop, Mag!
I had just said, "Nance Olden--" To myself I still speak to me as Nancy
Olden; it's good for me, Mag; keeps me humble and for ever grateful
that I'm so happy. "Nance, you'll never be able to carry all these
things and lift your buful train, too. And there's never a hansom
round when it's snowing and--"
And then I caught sight of the carriage. Yes, Maggie, the same fat,
low, comfortable, elegant, sober carriage, wide and well-kept, with
rubber-tired wheels. And the two heavy horses, fat and elegant and
sober, too, and wide and well-kept. I knew whose it was the minute my
eyes lighted on it, and I couldn't--I just couldn't resist it.
The man on the box-still wide and well-kept--was wide-awake this time.
I nodded to him as I slipped in and closed the door after me.
"I'll wait for the Bishop," I said, with a red-coated assurance that
left him no alternative but to accept the situation respectfully.
Oh, dear, dear! It was soft and warm inside as it had been that long,
long-ago day. The seat was wide and roomy. The cushions had been done
over--I resented that--but though a different material, they were a
still darker plum. And instead of Quo Vadis, the Bishop had been
reading Resurrection.
I took it up and glanced over it as I sat there; but, you know, Mag,
the heavy-weight plays never appealed to me. I don't go in for the
tragic--perhaps I saw too much of the real thing when I was little.
At any rate, it seemed dull to me, and I put it aside and sat there
absent-mindedly dreaming of a little girl-thief that I knew once
when--when the handle of the door turned and the Bishop got in, and we
were off.
Oh, the little Bishop--the contrast between him and the fat, pompous
rig caught me! He seemed littler and leaner than ever, his little
white beard scantier, his soft eye kindlier and his soft heart {?}
"God bless my soul!" he exclaimed, jumping almost out of his neat
little boots, while he looked sharply over his spectacles.
What did he see? Just a red-coated ghost dreaming in the corner of his
carriage. It made him doubt his eyes--his sanity. I don't know what
he'd have done if that warm red ghost hadn't got tired of dreaming and
laughed outright.
"Daddy," I murmured sleepily.
Oh, that little ramrod of a bishop! The blood rushed up under his
clear, thin, baby-like skin and he sat up straight and solemn and
awful--awful as such a tiny bishop could be.
"I fear, Miss, you have made a mistake," he said primly.