"WHERE EVERYTHING IS HOMELIKE"
"If there's one thing I'm proud of about my boarding-house," insisted
Mrs. Anderson, when discussing the _pension_ for vagrant Thespians which
she had conducted for many years, "it's the homelike atmosphere. Makes
folks feel at home right away, the moment they set foot in my parlor."
Mrs. Anderson, commonly called "Aunt Jane" by the professional patrons
who came back to her hospitable roof year after year, was justly proud
of the affection and esteem in which she was obviously held. A motherly
old lady of not less than fifty, a widow with no children, Mrs. Anderson
devoted her entire time to maintaining an establishment which should be
unique. Actors as a rule dread boarding-houses. There is something about
such institutions which instinctively causes a chill of apprehension to
run up and down their backs. Especially is this true of boarding-houses
which advertise that they cater to the theatrical profession. But the
instant image of cheapness, squalor, ill-kept rooms and badly cooked
food, which is conjured up by the mere mention of "theatrical
boarding-house," has no relation to Aunt Jane's.
Hers was different. It is hard to tell how, but when once a visitor
entered her front parlor it seemed different from all the rest.
Old-fashioned in some respects, it was strictly up to date in others.
There was no red table-cloth on the table, no gilt-framed chromos on
wooden easels, no landscapes in glaring colors on the walls. Instead, on
the piano, on the mantel, and even on the walls, one found neatly framed
photos of theatrical celebrities, which, as one could see upon close
examination, were autographed, with here and there a few homely
sentiments of good wishes "To Dear Aunt Jane."
Mrs. Anderson's establishment, in fact, was one of the last of a fast
disappearing type of boarding-house, the extinction of which will never
be regretted in spite of the natural sorrow at the passing of a home
with so many virtues as that presided over by the estimable "Aunt Jane."
But modern apartment hotels, in which excellent accommodations can be
had for the same price one formerly gave for a hall bedroom, are
numbering the days of the old brownstone front boarding-houses in the
neighborhood of the New York theatrical district. Mrs. Anderson's was
but a stone's throw from Broadway, in a house which had once been a
feature of the social life of the city; but day after day now, the grim
sound of exploding dynamite in neighboring streets came as a warning
that modern skyscrapers and steel buildings were gradually supplanting
the older structures.
For twenty-three years Mrs. Anderson had conducted her homelike
establishment. As keenly alert to business now as formerly, Mrs.
Anderson was careful not to let her house deteriorate. Which explains
why, on a certain Saturday afternoon in mid-winter, she was busily
engaged in personally superintending the rearrangement of the parlor
furniture and the placing of certain photographs on the mantel and the
piano. Lizzie, the maid of all work, entered with a card, for Mrs.
Anderson had been so absorbed in her work that she had not heard the
bell ring.
"Arthur Mortimer, leading juve_nile_," read Lizzie, as Mrs. Anderson
turned toward her. "He's in the hall. Say, what's a juve_nile_?"
"Refers to the kind of work he does," responded Mrs. Anderson, sharply.
"Work?" repeated Lizzie, astounded. "Why, he's an actor."
The unconscious sarcasm of the remark was passed unnoticed by Mrs.
Anderson.
Mr. Mortimer turned out to be a pleasing young chap, smartly but not
expensively dressed, about twenty-two years of age, and very nervous. He
twirled his derby in his hands, and seemed quite embarrassed when Mrs.
Anderson beamed a cordial welcome upon him.
"I--I am looking for a room," began Mortimer. "I was referred to you."
"Are you in the profession?" inquired Aunt Jane, motioning toward a
comfortable arm-chair.
"I graduated last June from the dramatic school, but I haven't done much
yet. I couldn't afford expensive rooms--"
"That's all right, Mr. Mortimer," interrupted Aunt Jane. "I like to have
beginners. They pay their bills. And I only want refined people who
behave themselves. Of course a little impromptu frivolity makes every
one feel at home, and if there's one thing I always try to do, it is to
make my house homelike."
"I'm sure it is that."
"Yes, sir. A real home, especially for the lonely young girls I have
living with me here. Why, I have one young lady staying here now who is
under my _special_ protection. The gentleman who sent her to me said he
knew of my reputation, and that he wanted me to be a _real mother_ to
her."
"I hope I may be admitted into this happy family," ventured Mortimer,
smiling.
"I'm so proud of his trust in me," continued Aunt Jane, evidently
started on a pet theme, "that I never let that girl out of my
sight--except, of course, when she's at the theater. And I have to
telephone him every day and tell him what she's doing. But how I run
on--here's Lizzie, who will show you some of the rooms. Did you want a
big room or a small room?"
"That depends on the price," stammered Mortimer, rising.
Lizzie had handed Mrs. Anderson a telegram, and stood waiting for
instructions.
"Lizzie, show Mr. Mortimer the vacant rooms on the third and fourth
floors front," directed Aunt Jane, tearing open the dispatch. "Oh, by
the way, Mr. Mortimer, do you happen to have a photograph you can let me
have?"
"My photograph?" repeated Mortimer, surprised and flattered. "I have
some in my trunk."
"If you come with us I'll want to include yours in my collection of
famous actors," explained Aunt Jane.
"But I'm not famous--" protested Mortimer.
"Never mind--you will be some day. You see all these photographs of
celebrities"--she waved her hand--"all of these people are with me now,
except Maude Adams, Ethel Barrymore and one or two others. Somewhere in
this house I have a photograph of every actor or actress who ever stayed
here. Fifteen years and more I've kept them. Many a famous star of
to-day gave me a photograph years ago, when only an unknown lodger in my
happy little home."
"I'll sure bring you one," cried the delighted Mortimer. As he started
toward the hall, with Lizzie as his guide, Mrs. Anderson called after
them:
"One moment, Lizzie," she cried, holding the telegram. "Mr. Lawrence is
coming from Boston this evening and wants his old room. Be sure and have
it ready."
"Yes, ma'am," responded the ubiquitous Lizzie.
"And just a moment," continued Mrs. Anderson, in a confidential tone,
beckoning to the slavey. "Go up to the garret and get me that large
picture of Mr. Lawrence we had on the piano last time he was here."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Here, take this one with you," added Aunt Jane, craftily, picking up a
photograph of a blond man with curly hair. "It's Jimmy Carlton--he's
gone to California and won't be back until spring. Put this one away
with the others. And see that Mr. Lawrence's picture is nicely dusted. I
want him to feel at home when he comes in and sees it on the piano."
Mortimer, who was busily looking at the photographs, suddenly saw one he
recognized.
"Isn't that Flossie Forsythe?" he inquired.
"The very same," answered Mrs. Anderson. "She's staying here, too--she
and her chum, Miss Lexington. Lizzie, show Mr. Mortimer the house--and
Lizzie," she added confidentially, "recommend the fourth floor front. It
ain't no more, but the bath always rents the third easier."
Half a moment later, with Lizzie on the fourth floor, the bell rang
again and this time Mrs. Anderson herself was compelled to answer it. A
messenger boy with a large box of flowers stepped into the hallway. Mrs.
Anderson took the box and looked at the card.
"For Miss Farnum?" she sniffed. "Humph! This is the third time since
Sunday she's had flowers from somewhere. Who sent them, boy?"
The snub-nosed Mercury gazed up at her and winked.
"How d'je t'ink I knows de guy's name?" he retorted.
"Impudent!" replied Aunt Jane.
"An' say, lady, I got a note also for Miss--Miss Farnum."
"Give it to me, then, you young rascal."
"Nixey." The boy shook his head and winked again. "Told me to give it to
Miss Farnum 'erself."
"But I can give it to her."
"Maybe my eye's green, too," answered the messenger. "De gent who give
me dis said give it only to her. If she ain't in, I got to come back
when she is."
"Miss Farnum is not in," declared Aunt Jane, indignantly. "And you're a
rude, disrespectful boy, to speak so to your elders."
"Well, say, when will her nibs get back?"
"In about half an hour," retorted Aunt Jane, slamming the door on him
and taking the box into the parlor. Once there, she peered curiously at
the box. It was only an ordinary florist's box, but a big one, and it
evidently contained costly, long-stemmed American Beauties. There was a
small note attached to the box, with the name "Martha Farnum" on the
envelope.
Mrs. Anderson debated about five seconds whether or not it was her duty
to examine the note. Of course she had no right to look, but she
concluded that her position as Martha's temporary guardian demanded that
she examine carefully anything that would throw light upon the person
who was sending so many flowers to her young charge.
"There's a card inside, sure, and perhaps a name," she argued, with easy
sophistry. "It's my duty to look. Some young spark is trying to make
love to Martha under my very nose."
She nervously tore off the envelope, opened it and took out a card. She
read it and threw up her hands in disappointment. The card was blank,
except for the written words: "From your unknown admirer."
"Hello! Blooms! For me?" cried Flossie Forsythe, resplendent in furs and
a large picture-hat, bursting into the room just as Mrs. Anderson
replaced the card. "Pinkie, look at the flowers some one sent me," she
added, turning to summon the sad-eyed Miss Lexington, who still appeared
dejected and deserted as she stood in the doorway, last season's
walking-suit hanging unevenly from her highly developed figure and
appearing a trifle tight in certain spots.
"I suppose Marky sent them," said Pinkie, dropping upon the sofa in
disgust. "I wish some guy would slip me a beef-steak over the footlights
some time instead of flowers."
Mrs. Anderson politely but firmly rescued the flowers from Flossie's
clutches.
"For Miss Farnum," she said coldly, taking the box to the piano out of
harm's way.
"What rot," ejaculated Flossie. "I never seen a girl get so many
flowers."
Pinkie sighed. "I haven't had an orchid this season," she said sadly.
"Never mind, dear," cried Flossie, sinking onto the sofa by her side.
"Wait until the new show goes on, and we both make hits. You'll be
covered with flowers."
"It will take some flowers to cover me," responded Pinkie, surveying her
ample girth with regret. "But what gets me, is how Martha Farnum wins
out with the boobs who send her flowers. Why, she ain't got no style.
And she's only a beginner in the chorus, too."
"But they do say she's made the biggest hit ever known in the Casino
since I left last spring," drawled Flossie, carelessly.
"Pity you didn't stay, dear," smiled Pinkie. "But then, of course, you
weren't in the chorus."
"I should say not," cried Flossie, indignantly. "I haven't been in any
chorus for two years. It's sextettes or nothing with me hereafter, and
you know I don't have to work."
"How's your lawsuit coming on?" inquired Pinkie, innocently.
"Oh, the lawyers are still fighting."
"Where is this lawsuit, anyhow?"
"Oh, somewhere out in British Columbia. You wouldn't know the name of
the town if I told you. If I win, I am going to star in musical comedy."
"And if you lose?"
[Illustration: "I HAVN'T HAD AN ORCHID THIS SEASON."]
"Back to the sextette, I guess, unless Mr. Zinsheimer will star me."
"Where is 'Feathers'?" yawned Pinkie. "Haven't seen him for a week."
"Never you mind where he is," retorted Flossie, suddenly turning to her
chum, suspiciously. "You've been askin' too many questions about Mr.
Zinsheimer lately. Don't you be ungrateful. Remember all I did for you."
Pinkie almost cried at this unjust insinuation. "Why, Flossie," she half
sobbed, "I don't want Marky. The idea of thinking I'd want to steal him
away from my dearest friend."
As Flossie consoled Pinkie and apologized, Mrs. Anderson approached a
delicate subject nervously but with a determination strengthened by the
memory of many similar occasions. "Young ladies," she began, "I hope you
haven't forgotten about our little account."
"It shall be settled this evening, without fail," replied Flossie,
rising haughtily. "I am sorry if I have inconvenienced you, but you
shall have a check after dinner."
"You know I am perfectly willing to let the bills run on," explained
Mrs. Anderson, with that ever-present doubt that one always has in
dunning delinquents, "but neither of you young ladies has been trying to
get a position."
"Not trying, indeed," repeated Pinkie. "We go to the managers' offices
every day, but the horrid brutes will not see us."
"But look at Miss Farnum," said Aunt Jane. "She came here without
experience, and secured an engagement instantly."
"Yes, in the chorus," sneered Flossie. "Fancy us in the chorus," rising
and glancing admiringly at her well-rounded figure. "I want lines."
"But Martha didn't mind the chorus," cried Mrs. Anderson, warmly. "She
began at the bottom, and if I do say it myself, I am proud of the way
she has succeeded."
"Succeeded?" repeated Flossie. "I guess she has, if you judge by the
number of times messenger boys bring her notes and flowers and presents.
I'll bet there's a diamond tiara hidden in those flowers now." She moved
toward the box, picked it up curiously, and lifted the top. "American
Beauties, eh?" she added. "I counted the number of messenger boys who
came here yesterday to see Martha, and how many do you think there were?
Seven."
"I half believe she sends the things to herself," pouted Pinkie,
maliciously.
"She couldn't, my dear, on eighteen dollars a week in the chorus,"
laughed Flossie. "There's no use talking, Aunt Jane--Martha may have
been a little wild-flower when she blew into New York from the woods of
Indiana or Ohio or wherever it was, but one thing you must give her
credit for: some one must be awfully stuck on her."