It was Saturday night on the North Side, and shortly after six o'clock.
That part of the world that centres in North Clark Street between
Lincoln Park and the Bridge was already beginning to stir and stretch
and shake off the dust of the day; was swarming in from scores of
cross streets, to parade before the show-windows and pour into the
beer-gardens and restaurants, to crowd at the corners--a motley company
of washed and unwashed; of labourers and shopgirls hurrying home, and of
more fortunate ones, old and young, sauntering from home, to get out of
life what North Clark Street had to offer.
Strains of dance music floated out over board fences that were gaudy
with posters, out over evergreen hedges that thrived in green tubs.
All the world was gay to-night; all the world was in the mood to sit at
white tables under the trees and dine on the best of German fare, to
tip back and listen to German music from German orchestras, to toss the
waiter half a dollar; life was gay, life was jolly; all was well with
the world. No half-lights here, no miserly crouching in shadows, no
gloomy ones to spoil it all; nothing but froth on the glass, a laugh on
the lip, and here's looking at you!
But think again. Of all these houses of amusement was there not one
standing empty--was there not one where gloom reigned? Glance along the
street, pass the policeman on the corner--the fat policeman, for whose
sake we will hope all thieves are slow of foot--down past other corners
and other fat policemen, down almost to the river, so near that the
smell of the water poisons the air. Was there not a dingy little
playhouse, overwhelmed by the soot and grime of the city, by the noise
of the trains that seemed to be rushing into the building with bells
ringing and every steam-valve open--overwhelmed, too, by the rattle and
struggle of the street, and the large buildings that crowded so close on
each side that they threatened to come together with a snap and leave no
trace of the dingy little structure with its _porte cochere_ front. If
there was, anywhere in this big city, a building that spoke of failure,
of pitiful inadequacy for any metropolitan purpose, of aimlessness and
inevitable wreckage, here it stood, bearing the hesitating announcement
that within might be found Somebody's Original Oriental Burlesquers and
Refined Vaudeville.
Not long after six o'clock was it, and the lingering remnants of a
very thin audience were rapidly escaping before the onslaught of the
“chasers.” The particular chaser that held the stage at the moment was a
tall, thin young man, rather nimble as to the legs, who was exercising
a sound pair of lungs on a song, a tender memory of a certain Bridget
O'Grady, who, he vowed, was a perfect lady. The fiddles squeaked and
rasped, the piano tinkled, the bass viol rumbled in loudest of all; and
the audience grew thinner and thinner--narrowed down, in fact, to a few
questionable individuals who had, one feared, no better place to go.
After the song there was a dance in which the nimble legs appeared to
some advantage. And if we had been tucked away in a corner of that
dirty stage, behind the wings that were slit and frayed from years
of service--if we had watched the Irish vocalist when he came off and
readjusted his carroty wig, we could not have failed to recognize in the
possessor of the nimble legs and the sound lungs our old friend Apples.
Somewhere in the course of his career Apples had dropped a stitch; for
the goal of all true Thespians, the myriad-minded Shakespeare, was
still only a waking dream for Apples, was still no more than a twinkling
constellation that shone and shone in the far heavens, serenely
unconscious that one Appleton Le Duc was striving upward. But was it
not an encouragement to recall the inspiriting words of the professor
of elocution, that Shakespeare himself had been a country boy; that
he, too, had gone to the city to seek his fortune; that he, too, had
stumbled and struggled, and climbed and climbed until he had reached the
highest pinnacle of fame?
Something was certainly on the mind of the rising actor
to-night--something that elevated him above the dingy hall and the
sleepy audience. Pausing only to mop his brow, back he went in response
to his encore--the encore that was mentioned in his contract--as
cheerfully as if the audience had really given him a hand; and the
sound lungs burst out again, to another scraping, tinkling, rumbling
accompaniment; and the voice of Apples rose high in the praise of 'Mary,
my fairy, the Maid of Ochlone,' whose heart-dum-de-dumdy-dum-surely-my-own.
The sight of a newspaper spread wide before the face of the only
occupant of an orchestra seat could not disturb Apples this evening;
the glimpse of two newsboys in the gallery, aiming with peanuts at the
bald head behind the newspaper, could not so much as ruffle him; for
golden-haired Mary, dee-doodle-dee-fairy, dee-iddle-dee-airy, ta
raddle-my-own. Very blithe was Apples, strangely blithe for an underpaid
chaser in the most despondent theatre on the North Side.
There was another little scene taking place at this time in which we are
interested. In the lodging of Mrs. Craig--not two rooms now, but one,
with a decrepit cook-stove in one corner and a ragged quilt hung across
another corner to serve as a partition between George's bedroom and the
rest of the space--a silent woman was cooking a meager supper. A very
silent woman was Mrs. Craig at this time, even more so than formerly.
The room was hot and close with the odour of cooking.
Into this home, at a little before six, came Lizzie Bigelow, grown
rather more mature in appearance since we last saw her, of a rounder
figure and a brighter colour. She was in good spirits to-night. By some
miracle she was as fresh and healthy as if she had been given nothing
but the best of food, the purest air and plenty of time for exercise;
and to the mother it seemed as if a whiff of fresh air had come with her
into the room.
“Well, Lizzie, you are back early.”
“Yes; I got off at half-past five. Where is George?”
“He has to work late to-night.”
“Oh, yes; I forgot. You are tired, ma. You sit down awhile and let me
finish the supper.” She was throwing aside her hat and jacket as she
spoke, and she smiled at her mother in a way that brought an expression
of gratefulness and surprise to the face of the older woman. “Now you
just sit down awhile. I'm going to get supper ready to-night.”
It appeared that she really meant it; and the mother, after a little
protesting, made way for her by the stove. Indeed, it promised to be
quite a jolly evening, if only George could get home in time to share
it. Even without him, what with a merry recital of the funny things that
had happened at the office during the day, and with other talk of an
equally unusual good humour, Mrs. Craig was almost bewildered. She knew
only too well how unexpectedly Lizzie's high spirits could turn corners,
how petulant this merry, black-eyed girl could be.
After supper, announcing that she was going to get a breath of fresh
air, Lizzie went out, first ingeniously smuggling a small package
outside the door under pretense of opening it for air. Next she put on
her hat and jacket and stood for a moment smiling; finally she bent over
her mother and kissed her, an act so surprising that Mrs. Craig flushed
with pleasure. Then, with a nervous little laugh and a fling of her
skirts, she had whisked out and the door was closed. There was a pause
at the top of the stairs while she fumbled in her pocket for a folded
slip of paper which she tucked silently into the crack of the door;
but at last she was off, running down the stairs with her bundle held
tightly under her jacket, and hurrying across the street to avoid
meeting George in case he should be returning home at this hour.
*****
The encore was over and Apples was hurrying, wig in hand, to the
dressing-room. There he threw off his costume, dressed for the street,
packed all his “properties” hastily in an old valise, and went out at
the stage-door. The doorkeeper nodded to him.
“You're off now, are you?”
“Yes; I'm through here.”
“Got your pay?”
“Some of it.”
“You're lucky.”
“Guess I am. Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
Apples, still hurrying, still wanting breath, turned the corner, paused,
looked up the street and down, seemed disappointed and irresolute, and
finally turned his valise on end and sat on it. From where he sat in
the shadow of a dark building he could see the flow of life along North
Clark Street, and he watched it nervously. He seemed somewhat oppressed
by the rush and whirl of things, as if in mid-course of a tempestuous
career he had paused to think. The soot-laden air was portentous
to-night; the rattle and rumble of the street, the guffaws from the
actors' saloon at his elbow, the roar and hurry of it all, bore heavily
on his spirits as he sat waiting there. For Apples was on the brink
of something--something new and strange. Before him lay an unexplored
country, and who could say if it should prove a land of roses or a
black abyss. For better or worse it was to be, a plunge into the
future, vastly unlike certain other plunges that he had been forced to
take--alone. Circumstances had swept him on; the offer had come, bearing
the guarantee that at last his name should appear on all posters in
letters not shorter than three and one-half inches; the other one, whose
face and voice had helped to make it all possible, was willing, with a
fluttering heart, to keep her promise; the small boy with the wizened
face, whose thin legs were to help make their joint fortunes, had jumped
at the chance; and here he was on the brink. Henceforth the three Le
Ducs, three, were to be a feature in the theatrical world. And the black
sky, bearing oppressively down like an emblem of great grim Chicago, was
portentous indeed.
At last a woman, with a small package under her jacket, slipped out from
the crowd and came hesitatingly down the side street. Apples rose.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.”
“Got everything?”
“Yes; where's Jimmie?”
“He's waiting at the pier.”
And so, without speaking further, these two young persons, who were
about to take the plunge hand in hand, set out together toward the east.
A block farther on she said, with a show of petulance, “Have we got to
take Jimmie along?”
[Illustration: 0051]
“Yes, we'd have to come back here if we didn't. We've got to join the
company Monday night, you know, at South Bend.”
They crossed over the Rush Street bridge and took the early steamer
for St. Joseph. From now on they should have no difficulty. There was a
reverend person in St. Joseph who was always glad to marry foolish young
men and foolish young girls, for a consideration. And this reverend one,
in the evening's rest after a day given to guiding his flock heavenward,
could surely find a few moments in which to make these two one. They
could be sure of finding discretion here, sure that no awkward questions
would be asked, that no permission from unreasonable parents would be
hinted at; sure, in brief, that the good divine would be entirely at
their service, would wish them Godspeed on the up-road or the down-road
or any conceivable road--for a consideration.