WHEREIN THE FINE ARTS PRESENT BOBBY WITH A MOST EMBARRASSING DILEMMA
It had become by no means strange to Bobby, even before the company
"took the road," that some one of the principals should attach
themselves to him in all his possible goings and comings, for each and
every one of them had some complaint to make about all the others.
They wanted readjustments of cast, better parts to sing, better
dressing-rooms, better hotel quarters, better everything than the
others had, and with the unhappy and excited Monsieur Noire he shared
this unending strife. At first he saw it all in a humorous light, but,
by and by, he came to a period of ennui and tried to rebel. This
period gave him more trouble than the other, so within a short time he
lapsed into an apathetic complaint-receptacle and dreamed no more of
walking or riding to and from the hotel without one of these impulsive
children of art, who seethed perpetually in self-prodded artificial
emotions, attached to him. If it seemed strange at times that Madam
Villenauve was more frequently with him than any of the others he only
reflected that the vivacious little Frenchwoman was much more
persistent; nor did he note that, presently, the others came rather to
give way before her and to let her monopolize him more and more.
It was during the third week that Professor Fruehlingsvogel was to
endure another birthday, and Bobby, full of generous impulses as
always, announced at rehearsal that in honor of the Professor's
unwelcome milestone he intended to give a little supper that night at
the hotel. Madam Villenauve, standing beside him, suddenly threw her
arms around his neck and kissed him smack upon the lips, with a quite
enthusiastic declaration, in very charmingly warped English, that he
was "a dear old sing." Bobby, reverting quickly in mind to the fact of
the extreme unconventionally of these people, took the occurrence
quite as a matter of course, though it embarrassed him somewhat. He
rather counted himself a prig that he could not sooner get over this
habit of embarrassment, and every time Madam Villenauve insisted on
calling him into her dressing-room when she was in much more of
dishabille than he would have thought permissible in ordinary people,
he felt that same painful lack of sophistication.
At the supper that night, Madam Villenauve, with a great show of
playful indignation, routed Madam Kadanoff from her accidental seat
next to Bobby, and, in giving up the seat, which she did quite
gracefully enough, Madam Kadanoff dropped some remark in choice
Russian, which, of course, Bobby did not understand, but which Madam
Villenauve did, for she laughed a little shrilly and, with an engaging
upward smile at Bobby, observed:
"I theenk I shall say it zat zees so chairming Monsieur Burnit is soon
to marry wiz me; ees eet not, monsieur?"
Whereupon Bobby, with his customary courtesy, replied:
"No gentleman would care to deny such a charming and attractive
possibility, Madam Villenauve."
But the gracious speech was of the lips alone, and spoken with a
warning glare against "kidding" at the grinning Biff Bates, who had
found business of urgent importance for that night in the city where
the company was booked. Bobby, in fact, had begun to tire very much of
the whole business. To begin with, he found the organization a much
more expensive one to keep up than he had imagined. The route, badly
laid out, was one of tremendous long jumps; of his singers, like other
rare and expensive creatures, extravagant care must be taken, and not
every place that they stopped was so eager for grand opera as it might
have been. At the end of three weeks he was able to compute that he
had lost about a thousand dollars a week, and in the fourth week they
struck an engagement so fruitless that even the cheerful Caravaggio
became dismal.
"It's a sure enough frost," she confided to Bobby; "but cheer up, for
the worst is yet to come. Your route sheet for the next two months
looks like a morgue to me, and unless you interpolate a few coon songs
in _Tannhaeuser_ and some song and dance specialties between the acts
of _Les Huguenots_ you're gone. You know I used to sing this route in
musical comedy, and, on the level, I've got a fine part waiting for me
right now in _The Giddy Queen_. I like this highbrow music all right,
but the people that come to hear it make me so sad. You're a good
sport, though, and as long as you need me I'll stick."
"Thanks," said Bobby sincerely. "It's a pleasure to speak to a real
human being once in a while, even if you don't offer any
encouragement. However, we'll not be buried till we're dead,
notwithstanding that we now enter upon the graveyard route."
Doleful experience, however, confirmed the Caravaggio's gloomy
prophecy. They embarked now upon a season of one and two and three
night stands that gave Bobby more of the real discomforts of life than
he had ever before dreamed possible. To close a performance at eleven,
to pack and hurry for a twelve-thirty train, to ride until five
o'clock in the morning--a distance too short for sleep and too long to
stay awake--to tumble into a hotel at six and sleep until noon, this
was one program; to close a performance at eleven, to wait up for a
four-o'clock train, to ride until eight and get into a hotel at nine,
with a vitally necessary rehearsal between that and the evening
performance, was another program, either one of which wore on health
and temper and purse alike. The losses now exceeded two thousand
dollars a week. Moreover, the frequent visits of Biff Bates and his
constant baiting of Signor Ricardo had driven that great tenor to such
a point of distraction that one night, being near New York, he drew
his pay and departed without notice. There was no use, in spite of
Monsieur Noire's frantic insistence, in trying to make the public
believe that the lank Dulceo was the fat Ricardo; moreover,
immediately upon his arrival in New York, Signor Ricardo let it be
known that he had left the Neapolitan Company, so the prestige of the
company fell off at once, for the "country" press pays sharp attention
to these things.
A letter from Johnson at just this time also had its influence upon
Bobby, who now was in an humble, not an antagonistic mood, and quite
ripe for advice. Mr. Johnson had just conferred with Mr. Bates upon
his return from a visit to the Neapolitan Company, and Mr. Bates had
detailed to Mr. Johnson much that he had seen with his own eyes, and
much that the Caravaggio had told him. Mr. Johnson, thereupon, begging
pardon for the presumption, deemed this a fitting time, from what he
had heard, to forward Bobby the inclosed letter, which, in its gray
envelope, had been left behind by Bobby's father:
_To My Son in the Midst of a Losing Fight_
"Determination is a magnificent quality, but bullheadedness is
not. The most foolish kind of pride on earth is that which
makes a man refuse to acknowledge himself beaten when he is
beaten. It takes a pretty brave man, and one with good stuff
in him, to let all his friends know that he's been licked.
Figure this out."
Bobby wrestled with that letter all night. In the morning he received
one from Agnes which served to increase and intensify the feeling of
homesickness that had been overwhelming him. She, too, had seen Biff
Bates. She had asked him out to the house expressly to talk with him,
but she had written a pleasant, cheerful letter wherein she hoped that
the end of the season would repay the losses she understood that he
was enduring; but she admitted that she was very lonesome without him.
She gave him quite a budget of gay gossip concerning all the young
people of his set, and after he had read that letter he was quite
prepared to swallow his grit and make the announcement that for a week
had been almost upon his tongue.
Through Monsieur Noire, at rehearsal that afternoon, he declared his
intention of closing the season, and offered them each two weeks'
advance pay and their fare to New York. It was Signorina Caravaggio
who broke the hush that followed this announcement.
"You're a good sort, Bobby Burnit," she said, with kindly intent to
lead the others, "and I'll take your offer and thank you."
It appeared that the majority of them had dreaded some such denouement
as this; some had been prepared for even less advantageous terms, and
several, upon direct inquiry, announced their willingness to accept
this proposal. A few declared their intention to hold him for the full
contract. These were the ones who had made sure of his entire
solvency, and these afterward swayed the balance of the company to a
stand which won a better compromise. When Monsieur Noire, with a
curious smile, asked Madam Villenauve, however, she laughed very
pleasantly.
"Oh, non," said she; "it does not apply, zis offair, to me. I do not
need it, for Monsieur Burnit ees to marry wiz me zis Christmastam."
"I am afraid, Madam Villenauve, that we will have to quit joking about
that," said Bobby coldly.
"Joking!" screamed the shrill voice of madam. "Eet ees not any joke.
You can not fool wiz me, Monsieur Burnit. You mean to tell all zese
people zat you are not to marry wiz me?"
"I certainly have no intention of the kind," said Bobby impatiently,
"nor have I ever expressed such an intention."
"We s'all see about zat," declared the madam with righteous
indignation. "We s'all see how you can amuse yourself. You refuse to
keep your word zat you marry me? All right zen, you do! I bring suit
to-day for brich promise, and I have here one, two, three, a dozen
weetness. I make what you call subpoena on zem all. We s'all see."
"Monsieur Noire," said Bobby, more sick and sore than panic-stricken,
"you will please settle matters with all these people and come to me
at the hotel for whatever checks you need," and, hurt beyond measure
at this one more instance that there were, really, rapacious schemers
in the world, who sought loathsome advantage at the expense of decent
folk, Bobby crept away, to hide himself and try to understand.
They were here for the latter half of the week, and, since business
seemed to be fairly good, Bobby had decided to fill this engagement,
canceling all others. In the morning it seemed that Madam Villenauve
had been in earnest in her absurd intentions, for, in his room, at
eleven o'clock, he was served with papers in the breach-of-promise
suit of Villenauve _versus_ Burnit, and the amount of damages claimed
was the tremendous sum of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, an
amount, of course, only commensurate with Madam Villenauve's standing
in the profession and her earning capacity as an artist, her pride and
shattered feelings and the dashing to earth of her love's young dream
being of corresponding value. Moreover, he learned that an injunction
had been issued completely tying up his bank account. That was the
parting blow. Settling up with the performers upon a blood-letting
basis, he most ignominiously fled. Before he went away, however,
Signorina Nora McGinnis Caravaggio called him to one side and confided
a most delicate message to him.
"Your friend, Mr. Bates," she began with an embarrassed hesitation
quite unusual in the direct Irish girl; "he's a nice boy, from the
ground up, and give him an easy word from me. But, Mr. Burnit, give
him a hint not to do any more traveling on my account; for I've got a
husband back in New York that ain't worth the rat poison to put him
out of his misery, but I'm not getting any divorces. One mistake is
enough. But don't be too hard on me when you tell Biff. Honest, up to
just the last, I thought he'd come only to see you; but I enjoyed his
visits." And in the eyes of the Caravaggio there stood real tears.
A newsboy met Bobby on the train with the morning papers from home,
and in them he read delightfully flavored and spiced accounts of the
great Villenauve breach-of-promise case, embellished with many details
that were entirely new to him. He had not counted on this phase of the
matter, and it struck him almost as with an ague. The notoriety, the
askance looks he would receive from his more conservative
acquaintances, the "ragging" he would get at his clubs, all these he
could stand. But Agnes! How could he ever face her? How would she
receive him? From the train he took a cab directly home and buried
himself there to think it all over. He spent a morning of intense
dejection and an afternoon of the utmost misery. In the evening, not
caring to dine in solitary gloom at home nor to appear yet among his
fellows, he went out to an obscure restaurant in the neighborhood and
ate his dinner, then came back again to his lonely room, seeing
nothing ahead of him but an evening of melancholy alone. His butler,
however, met him in the hall on his return.
"Miss Elliston called up on the 'phone while you were out, sir."
"Did you tell her I was at home?" asked Bobby with quick apprehension.
"Yes, sir; you hadn't told me not to do so, sir; and she left word
that you were to come straight out to the house as soon as you came
in."
"Very well," said Bobby, and went into the library.
He sat down before the telephone and rested his hand upon the receiver
for perhaps as much as five long minutes of hesitation, then abruptly
he turned away from that unsatisfactory means of communication and had
his car ordered; then hurriedly changed to the evening clothes he had
not intended to don that night.
In most uncertain anticipation, but quite sure of the most vigorous
"blowing up" of his career, he whirled out to the home of the
Ellistons and ascended the steps. The ring at the bell brought the
ever imperturbable Wilkins, who nodded gravely upon seeing that it was
Bobby and, relieving him of his coat and hat, told him:
"Right up to the Turkish room, sir."
There seemed a strange quietness about the house, and he felt more and
more as if he might be approaching a sentence as he climbed the silent
stairs. At the door of the Turkish room, however, Agnes met him with
outstretched hands and a smile of welcome which bore traces of quite
too much amusement for his entire comfort. When she had drawn him
within the big alcove she laughed aloud, a light laugh in which there
was no possible trace of resentment, and it lifted from his mind the
load that had been oppressing it all day long.
"I'm afraid you haven't heard," he began awkwardly.
"Heard!" she repeated, and laughed again. "Why, Bobby, I read all the
morning papers and all the evening papers, and I presume there will be
excellent reading in every one of them for days and days to come."
"And you're not angry?" he said, astounded.
"Angry!" she laughed. "Why, you poor Bobby. I remember this Madam
Villenauve perfectly, besides seeing her ten-years-ago pictures in the
papers, and you don't suppose for a minute that I could be jealous of
her, do you? Moreover, I can prove by Aunt Constance and Uncle Dan
that I predicted just this very thing when you first insisted upon
going on the road."
He looked around, dreading the keen satire of Uncle Dan and the
incisive ridicule of Aunt Constance, but she relieved his mind of that
fear.
"We were all invited out to dinner to-night, but I refused to go, for
really I wanted to soften the blow for you. There is nobody in the
house but myself and the servants. Now, do behave, Bobby! Wait a
minute, sir! I've something else to crush you with. Have you seen the
evening papers?"
No; the morning papers had been enough for him.
"Well, I'll tell you what they are doing. The Consolidated
Illuminating and Power Company has secured an order from the city
council compelling the Brightlight Electric Company to remove their
poles from Market Street."
Bobby caught his breath sharply. Stone and Sharpe and Garland, the
political manipulators of the city, and its owners, lock, stock and
barrel were responsible for this. They had taken advantage of his
absence.
"What a fool I have been," he bitterly confessed, "to have taken up
with this entirely irregular and idiotic enterprise, a venture of
which I knew nothing whatever, and let go the serious fight I had
intended to make on Stone and his crowd."
"Never mind, Bobby," said Agnes. "I have a suspicion that you have cut
a wisdom-tooth. I rather imagined that you needed this one last folly
as a sort of relapse before complete convalescence, to settle you down
and bring you back to me for a more serious effort. I see that the
most of your money is tied up in this embarrassing suit, and when I
read that you were on your way home I went to Mr. Chalmers and got him
to arrange for the release of some bonds. Following the provisions of
your father's will your next two hundred and fifty thousand is waiting
for you. Moreover, Bobby, this time I want you to listen to your
trustee. I have found a new business for you, one about which you know
nothing whatever, but one that you must learn; I want to put a weapon
into your hands with which to fight for everything you have lost."
He looked at her in wonder.
"I always told you I needed you," he declared. "When _are_ you going
to marry me?"
"When you have won your fight, Bobby, or when you have proved entirely
hopeless," she replied with a smile in which there was a certain
amount of wistfulness.
"You're a good sort, Agnes," he said a little huskily, and he pondered
for some little time in awe over the existence of women like this. "I
guess the governor was mighty right in making you my trustee, after
all. But what is this business?"
"The _Evening Bulletin_ is for sale, I have learned. Just now it is an
independent paper, but it seems to me you could not have a better
weapon, with your following, for fighting your political and business
enemies."
"I'll think that over very seriously," he said with much soberness. "I
have refused everybody's advice so far, and have taken only my own. I
have begun to believe that I am not the wisest person in the world;
also I have come to believe that there are more ways to lose money
than there are to make money; also I've found out that men are not the
only gold-brick salesmen. Agnes, I'm what Biff Bates calls a 'Hick'!"
"Look what your father has to say about this last escapade of yours,"
she said, smiling, and from her desk brought him one of the familiar
gray envelopes. This was the letter:
_To My Daughter Agnes, Upon Bobby's Entanglement with a
Blackmailing Woman_
"No man can guard against being roped in by a scheming woman
the first time; but if it happens twice he deserves it, and he
should be turned out to stay an idiot, for the signs are so
plain. A man swindler takes a man's money and makes a fool of
him; but a woman swindler takes a man's money and leaves a
smirch on him. Only a man's nearest and dearest can help him
live down such a smirch; so, Agnes, if my son has been this
particular variety of everlasting blank fool, don't turn
against him. He needs you. Moreover, you'll find him improved
by it. He'll be so much more humble."
"I didn't really need that letter," Agnes shyly confessed; "but maybe
it helped some."