The curtain had come down for the ninth and last time. Everyone on the
stage was in a hubbub of frenzied congratulation. Frances West, in
her make-up of Biddy, the old Irish orange-woman, was being embraced
by most of the women in the company, while her hands were warmly
shaken by the men. Then she hurried to her dressing-room and pulled
out a telegraph form, on which she scribbled: “Miss Imogen Lennox,
Central Park School, West 67th Street, New York. Struck it at last.
Fond love. Mother.” The call-boy was summoned to take the dispatch. He
glanced at it with American informality. “That’s so, Miss West. You’ve
struck it sure. Gee, but you got them by the neck!” he elaborated
enthusiastically, as he disappeared.
Miss West smiled at the boy’s assurance. Yes, there was no mistaking
the first real hit she had ever made. What a struggle it had been,
these twenty-five years of touring in third-rate and usually
unsuccessful companies. And she had begun so young, when she was barely
fourteen. For her, the journey of life had been a literal one. A
never-ending succession of one-night stands in small Middle-West towns,
each different and each the same, passed in a phantasmagoria before
her. Often she had not even known the name of the place where she was
staying; it seemed useless to cumber the memory with so transitory a
detail. The one, solid permanent object in her kaleidoscopic existence
was her daughter. During Imogen’s earlier years, the child had
travelled with her mother. What a lovely, laughing, fairy-like little
thing she had been, with her blue eyes and her golden curls, the pet
of the whole company, the mollifier of the ugliest hotel-keeper! But
Miss West had wisely decided that the roving life was unsuitable for a
child, and she had sent her daughter to boarding-school. How the memory
of that wrench still hurt! Since then she had seen Imogen but seldom,
but the thought of her formed a constant background, and a goal.
To-night her success and her child were inextricably interwoven. Each
enhanced her joy in the other.
A knock came at the door, and Mr. Hobson, the manager, appeared. “Come
right in, Mr. Hobson,” Miss West called out. “I ran off to wire to my
little girl. Wasn’t it a real lovely house?” She held out both her
hands.
The stout little man pressed them genially, and laughed in his
characteristically cheery way. “Fine, fine,” he ejaculated. “You’ve
knocked ’em this time, Miss West. Wish I’d fixed it up for you to stop
on right here in Chicago. I guess ‘Biddy’ would draw for a month good.”
“Oh do arrange it. Mr. Parks is threatening a terrible time of one
night stands. If the business keeps up, do let us stop here.” Miss West
broke off almost with a sob. She was still vibrating with the evening’s
excitement.
“Guess it’s too late to change now. But don’t you worry, Miss West.
We’ll have you back here before long.” Mr. Hobson’s tone was soothing.
Long experience of leading ladies had taught him “how to handle them,”
to use his own phraseology. Not that he had ever considered Miss West
as a leading lady before. Giving her the name-part in this new play had
been one of his sudden inspirations. “And don’t forget there’s still
two years of our contract to run,” he went on more sharply.
The words convinced Frances West of her success as nothing else had
done. Lately Mr. Hobson had intimated that if she ever heard of another
engagement, he was far too kind and easy-going to stand in her way. “I
thought it was all the same to you if we did break the contract,” she
replied, not without a touch of malice.
“Nothing of the sort. Why, if it goes on like this, it looks as though
we’d have to star you.”
Miss West gave a gasp of joy. A daring idea came to her. She would have
to broach it at once, as Mr. Hobson was leaving Chicago that night. “If
you can’t keep ‘Biddy’ on here, why don’t you let us try a New York
opening right now?” she suggested.
“Well, well!” Mr. Hobson smiled. “I guess we must wait a while to
decide about that. Good business here ain’t everything. Chicago’s meat
is N’ York’s pisen, don’t you know? A success on tour just makes the N’
York critic get out his tomahawk to show what a superior feller he is.
A budding manager like me, Miss West, can’t afford to take such risks.”
“If I had seven companies on the road, I shouldn’t consider myself much
of a bud.” Miss West’s laugh was still tremulous. “But you will think
about New York, won’t you?” she pleaded. “You know my little girl’s
there. She’s leaving school this quarter, and I’m just crazy to have
her living with me for a spell.” The mother’s glance went involuntarily
to a photograph that stood on the table amid a litter of salves and
powder pots.
Mr. Hobson stretched out his hand for it. “Is that the little girl?”
he asked with kindly interest. “My, ain’t she a beauty! And not such a
little girl, either. How old is she?”
“She’ll be eighteen next fall--though it seems as if I couldn’t believe
it. I just think of her still as a toddling mite.” Miss West’s flush
of pride penetrated even through her make-up. “Imogen’s ever so much
lovelier though than that photo.”
“She’s got a dandy stage appearance. Does she intend to play?” Mr.
Hobson’s tone was keen. He was always on the alert for any possible
addition to his orrery.
Miss West smiled. “No, Imogen hasn’t got a particle of talent for the
stage. She wouldn’t like it, either, and I wouldn’t like it for her. I
suppose all mothers want to keep their girls wrapped up in wadding, but
Imogen’s so dainty and sweet--like that fairy-tale princess who felt
the pea right through a pile of mattresses.”
Mr. Hobson was looking at his watch. “Well, I guess I must be off.
Hello, boy, what d’you want?” The call-boy was hovering uncertainly in
the doorway with a visiting card in his hand.
“Gentleman wants to see Miss West. Says he’s sorry to trouble you, Miss
West, but you sent word you’d see him after the performance.”
Miss West took the card. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. Bring him right along,
please.” She turned to Mr. Hobson. “A man I don’t know from Adam has
been pestering me all the day. Sent in word, could he see me this
morning and then again this afternoon, and you know we were rehearsing
from ten o’clock solid. Said he wasn’t a press man, either. Mr. John P.
Vandeleur--ever heard of him?”
Mr. Hobson stopped buttoning his glove. “John P. Vandeleur--why, that’s
Vandeleur the copper man. Does it give his address?” He almost snatched
the card out of Miss West’s hand. “Fifth Avenue. Yes, that’s him sure.”
“But who is he?” Miss West repeated.
“Never heard of Vandeleur? Why, he’s one of the wealthiest men in the
States--not quite on the Carnegie level, but the next thing to it.
Copper mines down in Nevada, don’t you know? You must have read of
Vandeleur and Son, surely. Certainly the press don’t get hold of him
much. He keeps himself too select for that; never the least bit of show
nor scandal. None of your freak parties for the Vandeleurs; they don’t
hold with advertisement. They’ve just sot there quiet for the last two
hundred years, getting richer all the time in a superior sort of way.
Haven’t you ever noticed a noo house on Fifth Avenue up near 65th
Street--kind of square shape, Renaissance, they call it? Well, that’s
Vandeleur’s. I don’t see much to it myself, but a friend of mine, who’s
an architect, he’s just crazy about it,--says it’s the gem of Noo
York--guess he thinks it’s the pearl and I’m the pig, don’t you know?
Anyway, it’s a million dollar house all right.”
“But why should Mr. Vandeleur leave it to come and see me?” Miss West
asked in not unnatural bewilderment. “You don’t think he’s building a
theatre too, and wants to run ‘Biddy’?”
“Vandeleur! Why, Vandeleur’s dead set against the theatre altogether.
He’s a sort of Mayflower Puritan strayed into the wrong century. But
there must be something to have brought him. You ain’t, by any chance,
got a bit of land where he knows there’s a copper mine and you don’t?”
“Well, that’s curious; I did buy a tiny lot when we were out in
California. It’s way up on the hills, and there’s an elegant view
from it. I thought if ever I got rich I’d have a little summer home
there--they only wanted a hundred dollars anyway. But you don’t
suppose----?”
“That’s it, sure,” Mr. Hobson broke in with growing excitement. “That’s
how them Vandeleurs have built their entire fortune. They’ve got a nose
for copper like a dog after a rat. You just stick it out, Miss West,
and your fortune’s made.”
Miss West stared at the manager in amazement. Did fortunes, as well as
misfortunes, never come singly? A copper mine and stellar rank in one
night! “There he comes,” she said quickly, as they heard steps.
“Well, I’ll quit.” Mr. Hobson went forward, and then turned his head.
“Stick it out,” he muttered. The millionaire collided with him in the
doorway.
Both men apologized, and Mr. Hobson quickly disappeared. Miss West
looked up curiously. Mr. Vandeleur was tall, between forty and fifty as
she guessed, and had a stiff air of distinction. She half held out her
hand, but, as he did not seem to see it, she drew it back. “I am Miss
West,” she said.
“Miss West! Oh--er--yes--of course--I beg your pardon.”
His astonishment had been unmistakable. Miss West could only put it
down to the Biddy costume, of which, for the first time, she became
uncomfortably conscious. “I haven’t had the chance to get out of this
terrible make-up yet,” she explained. “Mr. Hobson has to go back to New
York to-night, so we had to have a business talk first.”
“Er, yes, I suppose so. I must apologise for my intrusion at such an
hour.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Miss West again glanced at the
stranger. His faultlessly-cut Prince Albert, his pince-nez, his smooth
hair, greying at the temples, made him rather impressive. But he
looked flushed and ill at ease. Was he annoyed by the encounter with
Mr. Hobson? To ease the tension she patted a chair invitingly. “Do sit
down, Mr. Vandeleur,” she urged.
“Thank you, no, I prefer to stand.” He cleared his throat. “Again I
must apologise for troubling you in this manner, but like Mr.--er--the
gentleman you mentioned, I, too, have to return to New York on the
night train. I wished to speak to you upon a matter in which you
will--er--be interested.”
“Yes?” Now for the copper mine, Miss West told herself gleefully.
However did they buy mines--by the pound or by the yard?
Mr. Vandeleur seemed to have some difficulty in coming to the point.
“I would have chosen a more suitable occasion for my visit,” he
elaborated, “had I realized that you would be so engaged all day as to
be unable to spare me ten minutes.”
“It was just too bad.” Although Miss West’s tone was apologetic, she
was inwardly fuming. Would the man’s politeness never allow him to
start? However, it would not do to show impatience. “You see, Mr.
Vandeleur, I really couldn’t help it,” she explained. “If the President
himself had come, he’d have had to wait. You just don’t know what
it’s like the day of a new production. I thought I’d been through
some pretty bad sieges, but nothing to touch this. We only got here
yesterday, for up to Saturday night we were touring in ‘Uncle Tom’s’--”
Miss West broke off suddenly. She had not meant to let out that she had
been a “Tommer” for years and was still put back into that evergreen
when business was bad. “Anyway, at nine o’clock this very morning all
our ‘Biddy’ scenery was still on the road! We were nearly crazy. Mr.
Parks puts it down to the transport people, but I guess he’d muddled it
somehow himself. He’s just the worst producer I ever struck!”
There was another pause. Her visitor’s frigid uninterest had penetrated
even Miss West’s growing excitement. He was looking around uneasily
for something on which to lay his silk hat and umbrella. Every place
was littered with feminine apparel. “Oh let me take them,” Miss West
exclaimed, and pushed a clear space on the dressing-table, quite
insensitive to Mr. Vandeleur’s outraged delicacy. His eyes rested for
a moment on the photograph, but poor Imogen’s presentment seemed only
to increase his disapproval. “I suppose your--er--arduous life does not
allow you to spend--er--much time in New York?”
Miss West stared at him. What possible connection could there be
between the copper mine and New York? Perhaps, after all, Mr. Hobson
was wrong and she was right. It _was_ a repertoire theatre and not a
copper mine. “No, I haven’t been to little New York this long while,”
she told him, “but I guess I’ll be there more now. What did you think
of us this evening? I suppose you were in front?”
“In front? Front of what? Oh, I comprehend. No, I am not a
theatre-goer.” Perhaps Mr. Vandeleur felt that his remark was too
uncompromising. “I hear it went very well,” he added stiffly.
“That’s so.” Miss West resolved to imitate her companion’s brevity.
Again conversation languished. What in the world could the man have
come about? A sudden horrid idea struck her, that he might not be quite
right in his mind--but no, he looked almost oppressively sane and
well-balanced.
Mr. Vandeleur cleared his throat suddenly. “Er--Mrs. Lennox.” His
companion almost jumped out of her seat. “I beg your pardon. I
thought----”
“Oh, it’s quite correct.” Miss West laughed. “Mrs. Lennox is my real
name, but I hear it so seldom it surprised me some. Indeed the only
time I do use it is when I’m travelling with my daughter. She says it
sounds better.”
“It is about Miss Lennox----”
Again Mr. Vandeleur was interrupted. The actress started to her feet,
and was clutching his arm with trembling fingers. “Imogen isn’t ill
or--anything?” she faltered. “You haven’t come to tell me?”
“Oh, no, no.” Even Mr. Vandeleur’s glacial deportment was not proof
against such evident distress. “Oh, no, I saw Miss Lennox only the day
before yesterday, and she was looking very well, extremely well.”
“My, how you scared me! But why--how do you know Imogen?”
“My niece too is at Central Park School. Perhaps you have heard Miss
Lennox speak of Grace Sharman?”
“Why, yes, surely. My girl told me she had been to Miss Sharman’s home,
and they were real lovely to her. I didn’t hear a great deal about it,
for Imogen’s not much at letter-writing. Not that I can complain any.
I’m no great hand at it myself. There’s so little time somehow, with
eight performances a week and rehearsals and the travelling and all. Do
you know, I haven’t set eyes on my little girl for ten months? We’ve
been travelling all that time out West. So I just do appreciate your
coming in to tell me about her. Have you been long in Chicago?”
“No, I only arrived this morning.”
“Well, now, that was real kind of you. For I presume you had plenty of
other things to attend to besides coming to see me! I guess you must
have daughters of your own, Mr. Vandeleur?”
“No.”
How uncomfortable the man looked! What could be the matter with him?
Did he find the room too hot, Miss West speculated? Was he--no, it was
absurd--yet it really seemed--could the great Mr. Vandeleur be blushing?
Miss West was seized with a sudden desire to laugh. Even as a girl, she
had not been pretty. She had had no experience of men standing before
her silent and suffused. But in this make-up? How could fat, old Biddy,
with her padded, print-gowned body and untidy grey wig have inspired
a tender emotion? Had Mr. Vandeleur perhaps seen her in another
part?--but, then, he never went to the theatre. It was a mystery.
Partly to set him at his ease, she begged him to tell her more about
her little girl. “Where did you see her? Was it at your niece’s home?”
she asked.
“I first met Miss Lennox at the school. They did me the honour of
asking me to give an address last Graduation Day. I need hardly say
that even among so many charming young ladies, no one could overlook
your daughter.”
“Well, now that _is_ lovely of you. But you said you’d seen Imogen
again just lately. Did you tell her you were coming to Chicago? Has she
sent any message?”
“She sent her best love. Also there was something she wanted me to
discuss with you, something that was difficult to write. If you
have not seen Miss Lennox for so long perhaps you hardly realize
that she is--er--no longer a child. Doubtless, however, considering
her--er--exceptional beauty, you will have anticipated the early
advent of a suitor.”
Miss West looked bewildered. “Whatever are you talking about?” she
asked. “My, I should think the young men had pretty bad taste if Imogen
didn’t get suitors. But there must be more to it than that. Are you
trying to break it to me that she’s fallen in love with one of them?
That’s pretty serious. But why hasn’t she written me about it herself?”
A growing resentment came over the mother. It would be bad enough to
have the first place in Imogen’s affection occupied by someone else,
without the information coming to her through a total stranger. “What
has it got to do with you anyway?” she demanded angrily.
Mr. Vandeleur’s blush--if it was a blush--slowly deepened. “There
are--er--difficulties that need explanation, and Miss Lennox thought it
would be better if I were to make it. The suitor in question moves in
rather a--er--different social circle; in fact, I may say his position
is--er--considerably higher than you--er----”
“I suppose it’s your son that wants to marry Imogen?” Miss West
flared up, cutting short his hesitation. “And instead of having it
out with him like a man, you go playing on my little girl’s feelings
and then come whining to me. It’s the meanest trick I ever heard of!
Oh, you needn’t explain; I know all about it. Last season there was
a little girl in the company, just as sweet and lovely as could be,
and when a wealthy young fellow got engaged to her, his folks never
rested till they broke it off.” Lack of breath here brought a pause;
Biddy’s cushioned embonpoint was rather suffocating. The reminder of
her semi-comic make-up only increased Miss West’s indignation. Why
couldn’t the man have come some other time, when she was the Queen in
“Hamlet,” for instance? Anyway, it was a mercy he hadn’t found her as
a nigger mammy. With an effort she summoned all her dignity to repair
the disrespect due to her tousled grey wig. “You can set your mind at
rest, Mr. Vandeleur,” she told him loftily, “Imogen’s not going where
she isn’t appreciated. Moreover, it’s just as likely that I wouldn’t
consider your son good enough for my daughter, even if she is thinking
of accepting him, and I have only your statement for that.”
“You entirely misunderstand me, Mrs. Lennox.” There was now no
mistaking Mr. Vandeleur’s flush. Indeed, his anger would probably
have taken him out of the room in silence, had his hat been less
embarrassingly entangled. “I can assure you that in my opinion your
daughter would adorn any position. I have no son. It is I who want to
marry Imogen.”
Miss West collapsed. “You! But you are so old--I mean, compared with
Imogen,” she faltered.
“If Imogen does not object, it is hardly necessary for anyone else
to bring up the question. I may say that the real difficulty, Mrs.
Lennox, lies in quite another direction. I refer to the--er--well,
in short, your profession. You must see for yourself that this sort
of thing would hardly be suitable for the mother of my wife.” A
half-contemptuous motion of Mr. Vandeleur’s hand indicated the shabby
little dressing-room, the unashamed toilet accessories, and perhaps
even Miss West’s own costume. “I need hardly say that I have discussed
all this with Imogen, and she completely shares my opinion.”
Miss West sprang to her feet. This was too much. Imogen had discussed
her and her work with this stranger--had let him run them both down.
The very news of the engagement had come through him. Her own daughter
had not thought it worth while to send her a line. “You and Imogen seem
to have fixed it up nicely between you,” she cried, passion and pain
struggling in her voice. “You’ve decided, no doubt, that I am not good
enough for you and your circle. My profession’s too contemptible, but
I’d like to know where Imogen would have been without it. What do you
suppose has fed and clothed her all these years and paid her school
fees? Mighty stiff they were, too, but I’d determined she should have
the best. Why, when she was but three weeks old I had to start playing
again--it was that or starve. What do you think it is like to travel
round on one night stands with a baby at the breast? I guess it’s
harder work than you have ever done--though it didn’t seem hard. I was
so glad to have her, with her cute, little hands and her soft, little
face--something to love when I came back at nights, something to care
for, my little baby, my own.”
“I honour and respect you for it all.” Mr. Vandeleur had been making
several ineffectual attempts to break in on the harangue. He was
genuinely touched by it, although he considered it in part somewhat
indelicate. “Why, Mrs. Lennox, you surely do not imagine for one moment
that I wish to cut you off from your daughter. I only meant that I want
you to allow me, or rather allow her, to put you in a position in which
you would no longer need to earn your living in this--er--laborious
way. It is because we know how hard you have had to work in the past
that Imogen and I are so anxious to make you perfectly happy and
comfortable now. Imogen is thinking almost more about the lovely little
home she is planning for you, close to ours, than about anything else.”
“Oh, so it’s my work you want to cut me off from?” Miss West’s tone was
sullen. This calm appropriation of Imogen was almost unbearable. Even
more galling was the attempt to appropriate herself. All her life she
had been independent, with the ultra independence of the stage--the
only place where earnings are not affected by sex. “Well, I don’t know
that giving up my work isn’t as bad as giving up my daughter. I won’t
consent to either.”
“Really, Mrs. Lennox, I cannot understand you.” Mr. Vandeleur made
a great effort to control himself. “Surely your work cannot be so
attractive,” he suggested; “travelling around the country in cheap,
little Vaudeville companies, dressed up as a vulgar, old Irish woman!”
“The companies may have been cheap, but my work has been good, and
I’ve loved it.” Miss West, too, was trying to regain her self-command.
“Besides, you don’t understand. I’ve always hoped for something better,
and now it’s come. This was the opening night of ‘Biddy,’ and I made a
hit, a real, big hit. There’s not a particle of doubt about it. I feel
certain Mr. Hobson will give us a New York opening.” There was almost
awe in Miss West’s voice as she mentioned the dramatic Mecca.
“New York! Good heavens, that would be worse than ever.” Instead of
being impressed Mr. Vandeleur seemed still further disconcerted.
“Can’t you understand that I have a position to keep up? You know
who I am, don’t you, Mrs. Lennox--John P. Vandeleur? If you realize
this, you surely must grasp that a theatrical connection would be most
undesirable for my wife. I hate even to see Imogen’s photograph here. I
should have thought that for your daughter’s sake you would have been
the first to suggest giving up your--er--stage activities, but you
do not seem to have the least consideration for her position or her
happiness.”
Miss West was silent. Was she selfish, she was asking herself uneasily.
It seemed incredible that she could be selfish towards Imogen. Yet,
after all, she had not a cent saved. If, at any time she were ill,
what was to become of her daughter? Perhaps she ought to welcome this
engagement whatever the conditions. Besides, suppose Imogen had really
fallen in love with this man--or even with his position! “If I were
playing, it would be under my stage name,” she urged sullenly. “No one
need know. What difference would it make to you or to Imogen?”
“My dear Mrs. Lennox, you must realize that such things always leak
out. Of course, if you had parted from Imogen absolutely, I do not say
that concealment would be impossible, but I do not imagine you are
contemplating such a step. It would be a great sorrow for Imogen.”
“But, anyway, if I wanted to give up the stage now, I couldn’t,” Miss
West began with a sudden triumph. “I was forgetting my three years’
contract with Mr. Hobson, and there’s two yet to run. He was speaking
about it just now.”
Mr. Vandeleur smiled. “But, surely, Mrs. Lennox, all these contracts
are a mere question of money. I imagine a few thousand dollars would
set you free.”
“It’s one thousand dollars, I think,” Miss West admitted sullenly.
The sum had always seemed so prohibitive to her, that she had really
forgotten such a possibility. Mr. Hobson’s “stick it out” came back to
her. Well, _he_ would have to do the sticking out now; she herself
had assumed the rôle of the copper mine. However, to whatever sum
Mr. Hobson could run up the fine, it would no doubt be negligible to
this terrible man. But how Imogen would enjoy being so rich, she felt
suddenly--Imogen who had always craved after pretty things!
Mr. Vandeleur had given an actual laugh. “I don’t think we need let
a thousand dollars distress us,” he said pleasantly. He felt he had
won! “Well, I must be going; don’t trouble to call anyone; I have
my carriage waiting at the stage door. Dear me, it is later than I
thought.” He had pulled out his watch and was looking at it uneasily.
“I fear I shall miss the train, but doubtless I can overtake it
with a special. How fortunate that I told them not to attach my car
until I arrived. Good-bye, then, Mrs. Lennox, I will wire Imogen
to-night explaining everything. Probably she can get into telephonic
communication with you in the morning.”
“But she is in New York,” Mrs. Lennox gasped. In the opening Nineties
telephoning a thousand miles was an adventure and an expensive one.
But Mr. Vandeleur had gone. Well, she must get into her street suit
at once, Mrs. Lennox reflected. It must be terribly late. How was it
that the light had not been cut off? Had the omnipotent Mr. Vandeleur
arranged for this too? She began vigorously rubbing off old Biddy’s
jovial complexion. Suddenly she covered her face with her hands; tears
completed the dulling process. “Oh my work, my little girl!” she sobbed.