Complete Works of Earl Derr Biggers, page 268
“I’m going on the stage,” young Nellie announced.
“Sure, you’re old enough,” Joe approved. “And you got what they want — you got youth.”
“Mother doesn’t think she ought to,” Gracie began.
“Oh, is that so?” Joe turned and glared at Nellie Wayne. “And what has Mother got to say about it? What right has she to butt into our affairs? I haven’t seen any of her money paying the grocery bills.”
“Oil stock — that’s where my money is,” Nellie reminded him. “Going to be rich soon. That’s what I was told when I handed it over to the person who got me into it.”
“That’s right, bring that up again!” growled Joe. “I was only trying to do you a favor.”
A knock on the door interrupted him; and, opening it, Nellie admitted Tom Kerrigen. Mr. Kerrigen was in a gay mood, and if he found his old friend in surroundings that surprised him he gave no sign. Presently they all retired and left him in the parlor, while Nellie Wayne made ready for dinner. As she passed through the dining-room on her way Joe resumed their argument.
“Don’t you try to interfere!” he warned. “If Baby wants to break into the profession it’s no business of yours. Somebody’s got to work round here. Somebody’s got to support you, now that the dog’s quit.”
“Hush, Joe! Hush!” Nellie cried.
“Afraid your friend’ll know, eh?” sneered Joe. “Well, I don’t care who knows. You been sponging off that dog—”
“Father!” young Nellie cried. She alone could silence him; he subsided. The girl kissed her grandmother. “Have a good time,” she said.
A good time! Nellie Wayne paused for a moment outside the parlor door, gathering her wits. Then she opened it and swept in as though it had been the entrance at rear center and the shabby parlor lay in the footlights’ glare; swept in with her famous smile, her air of a great and vivacious lady. Tom Kerrigen went back thirty years at sight of her.
He took her to a quiet old restaurant, where the head waiter, a bent veteran of seventy, greeted them in a voice quavering with excitement:
“Nellie Wayne! Mr. Kerrigen! You remember me?”
They recognized in him a relic of their dead past. He had been a slender, blond young waiter at Delmonico’s when that restaurant stood three blocks south of Union Square; a lad who haunted the theaters about Fourteenth Street, who worshiped at the shrine of Nellie Wayne. Only that afternoon she had wondered as to the whereabouts of her gallery boys, and here was one of them — wrinkled, feeble, one foot in the grave, but her admirer still.
During dinner he came again and again to their table with bits of old gossip, shreds of loving reminiscence. His open homage and the gallant attentiveness of Tom Kerrigen, looking very handsome in evening clothes, combined to make the evening a happy one for Nellie. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, her troubles were temporarily forgotten.
They witnessed the last two acts of a modern play and agreed that the acting would not have been tolerated for a moment by Augustin Daly. When Nellie climbed to the fifth floor after her evening with the past she found the little flat silent and in darkness. A bed had been prepared for her on the couch in the parlor. She heard Joe snoring loudly in the room at the rear — the room she had been sharing with Gracie.
As she was stooping over to unlace her shoes a pathetic little creature crept in from the kitchen. Chum, unable to sleep, walking the house, conscious of something wrong, something that was his fault. He came up to her timidly, apologetically, and touched her bare arm with his nose.
But Nellie Wayne was back in the present now, the icy fear again in her heart. The dog’s advances annoyed her.
“Go back! Go back, sir!” she whispered, and he meekly turned to obey. She watched him as he reluctantly left the room, dignified but hurt.
“Chloroform for you!” she said bitterly. “But for me — what? God knows!”
In the morning things looked a little brighter. Joe awoke in an aggressively optimistic mood. Everything, he announced, was all for the best. But for the dereliction of Chum he might have gone on indefinitely wasting his talents in vaudeville, when as a matter of fact he belonged in business, where he would shortly pile up an amazing fortune. He was a bit late starting, but he would show ’em now. He was through with the theater.
“Know a guy up in Columbus Circle sells automobiles,” he said. “Three years ago he tells me I’m a born salesman. I’ll just walk in on him this morning and ask when do I go to work.”
After the meager breakfast Joe put on his hat and called to Chum. The dog ran to him eagerly, barking his joy, anticipating a happy stroll in the sunshine. Joe stooped and removed the rhinestone collar from Chum’s neck.
“I’ll see how much I can get on this,” he told them. He winked. “Chum won’t need it where he’s going.” And he went blithely out, leaving the dog whining his disappointment.
At six o’clock that evening Mr. Karger returned to them, wilted and again in the depths. His day had not been happy.
“Seems the car trade’s all shot,” he announced. “Nothing doing there. And the best I could do on Chum’s collar was six measly ones. ‘But look here, Uncle,’ I says, ‘them stones is set in sterling silver.’ ‘Six bucks,’ he answers, ‘and not a penny more.’”
“Oh, Joe,” cried Gracie, “and the agent for the landlord coming back to-morrow! I told him positively—”
“I’m doing my best, ain’t I?” Joe demanded. “What’s the rest of you doing? Was you round to the agents, Baby?”
“Yes,” said young Nellie. “They told me to call again.”
“The old bunk! Ma, I don’t suppose you got anything up your sleeve.”
“I’d like to help if I could, Joe. I’ve got a sort of a plan—”
“Kerrigen?” he inquired eagerly.
“No, not Kerrigen.”
“Well, Ma, he looks to me like your best bet.”
“That’s not the way he looks to me,” said Nellie Wayne.
“Well, come on, folks.” Joe stood up. “We’ll dine at the automat. While the six last we live high.”
Nellie Wayne asked to be excused. She had lunched well, she said, and had eaten a wonderful dinner only last night. The three went out and left her. For a long time she sat, staring into space.
She was thinking of Madge Foster. An old friend, Madge; they had toured together years ago, shared the same make-up box, the same bed in dreary hotel rooms. Madge was slightly younger. Nellie had given her her first engagement, shown her many a kindness in that dim past. Now that Madge was working, prosperous, she could not well refuse a little temporary aid to her old friend and benefactor.
Nellie sighed. It would not be easy to walk into Madge’s dressing-room, and there amid the many evidences of her old associate’s success and prosperity confess her own plight. Still, the situation was desperate; she must face the ordeal; she owed the sacrifice to Gracie and to Joe.
She arrayed herself in the best she had, and at seven-thirty was on her way up Broadway. The theater crowds were not yet on the streets; only occasional pedestrians, many of them actors hurrying to their work. Their work! With bitterly envious eyes she saw them turn off into narrow alleyways that led to various stage doors. Once she, too, had had a destination at this hour, had known the cheery greeting of the door man, had hurried to the star’s dressing room and found her maid waiting for her in the bright interior, with the lid of the make-up box open under the mirror; the mirror lined with a hundred telegrams and messages, friendly words from camp followers of success.
She came to the alleyway beside the theater where Madge was playing, and turned in. An old man with drooping shoulders was loitering near the tall iron fence.
“Nellie Wayne!” he cried.
“Why, Frank Shore!” she said.
“Hello, Nellie! I ain’t seen you since that week in New Orleans eighteen years ago. Remember? Bidwell’s, in Canal Street — Charlie’s piece, The Midnight Flyer.”
“As long ago as that! Working, Frank?”
“Me? I ain’t had a berth for three seasons, Nellie. I’m — I’m at the end of my rope. Been to the fund five times — I can’t go again. Just — just begging in the street, Nellie.”
Again the easy tears in her eyes. Frank Shore, an artist, a man who respected his profession, come to this!
“Wait for me here,” she said. “I’ll be along again in a few minutes.”
She nodded to the door man, an old acquaintance, and crossed the stage, set for the first act, to the star’s dressing-room. Madge Foster, resplendent in the evening gown she wore at the beginning of her play, greeted her effusively. She kissed Nellie on both cheeks and gushed with all the fervor at the command of a famous emotional actress.
“Nellie darling, this is a treat! Marie, a chair for Miss Wayne. Sit down, dearie — do. You’re not in the way. Really, you’re not. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Oh, I’ve been around,” Nellie said. “How are you, dear?”
“Never better.” Madge sat, too, a handsome woman, a magnetic personality, but with a face that bore the mark of many years of selfishness, of thinking only of Madge Foster. She leaned forward eagerly. “Have you seen me in this piece?”
“Yes; I was out front on Wednesday.” A pause, while Madge waited impatiently for the laurel wreath. “I want to tell you — I think you’re splendid, dear. Growing all the time.”
“Thanks,” said Madge. The implication that there was still room for artistic growth did not please her. “I don’t know anybody I’d rather hear say that. I value your opinion, my dear, even though you’re no longer working.”
The shot went home. Nellie sat straighter in her chair.
“Of course, it’s a wonderful part, dearie. Almost actor- proof.”
“Oh, you think so?”
“But I’m glad to see you going so well, Madge.”
Madge shrugged her white shoulders.
“If I was doing any better I’d be worried. Honest, Nellie, I get scared sometimes, the way things keep breaking for me. You wouldn’t believe the money I’m drawing down! I told Levy it was too much, but he insisted.”
“He would,” smiled Nellie.
“And my children — all artists — all successful — all making big money. I ought to be a very happy woman, Nellie.”
“You certainly ought, dear. Everybody’s not so lucky. I met old Frank Shore in the alley.”
Madge’s face clouded.
“Is he still out there? You wouldn’t believe, Nellie, what a woman in my position is up against. The appeals for help, the panhandlers—”
“I can imagine, dearie. I’ve been through it all myself, as you may recall. And I always tried to be kind — ours is such a precarious profession. One never knows what one’s own finish is to be.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about mine. Did you spend the summer in town?”
“Why, yes! You see, I didn’t know what minute I might be called for rehearsal.”
“Oh,” said Madge, “I thought you’d quit.”
Nellie’s head went up.
“I’m trying to drop out, Madge, but they just won’t let me.”
“Really?” The tone was incredulous. “Well, if I’d known you were about I’d have had you down to my place in Great Neck. Like to have you see it, dearie. It’s a darling little house — tiny, of course; I only paid fifty thousand for it. But that’s enough about me. How about you, Nellie? How’s Gracie?”
“Gracie’s fine, and very happy with Joe. Joe’s doing well.”
“Got a trick dog in vaudeville, I hear.”
“Yes, temporarily,” Nellie admitted. “He’d like to go out alone, but the dog’s so popular. It would be a crime to refuse the money they pay him.”
“Well, dearie, I’m glad to hear that,” Madge said. “Must come in handy in your old age, so few engagements and all.”
Nellie laughed lightly.
“Means nothing to me, Madge. I laid away my pile and I can take care of myself. I’d have been a fool if I hadn’t — and me the best Rosalind of a generation, as Winter called me. Then there was Charlie’s royalties — there’s never been a playwright could touch him. Don’t worry about me, dearie.”
“I’m not worrying,” Madge assured her. “How’s that granddaughter of yours? It must make you feel old to look at her.”
“I’ll never feel old, dear; not while I’ve got my figure. Baby’s well. Just at present we have all we can do to keep her off the stage. Every manager on Broadway is after her. I guess they figure she’s a good deal like me.”
“Oh, they want youth, Nell. Youth’s the ticket. You can’t get by without it.” She glanced complacently at her mirror.
“That’s why I always say you’re such a wonder, Madge,” said Nellie sweetly. She stood up, a triumphant figure, proud, successful, smiling. “I must run along. Just happened to have a free evening, so I thought I’d run in and offer my congratulations.”
“Must you go, dearie?” Madge rose too. “Sorry the place in Great Neck is closed — like to have you down. Perhaps next summer—”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Madge. Next summer, maybe — if I don’t go abroad. I’m thinking of it. So many good friends in London. You remember my big hit over there. They write me to come — I don’t know—”
“Well, it was good of you to drop in. Now don’t be such a stranger.” They kissed — to the outward view warmly, affectionately.
“Good-by,” said Nellie. “Here’s hoping your good luck continues, dear — as mine has.” And with a gracious smile she swept from the room.
She crossed the stage — the old odors, the old thrill! She was extremely well satisfied with herself. But in the alley, where Frank Shore came shuffling toward her, she felt suddenly guilty.
“Well, Nellie, here I am.” His quavering old voice was hopeful.
She took him by the arm and led him along.
“Listen, Frank. I can tell you what I can’t tell many. I’m broke too.”
“Nellie — not you!” There was real distress in his voice. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that! It doesn’t matter about me — I was never much, but you, Nellie, you were so wonderful!”
“Don’t, Frank!” she said. “Don’t, or I’ll cry! It’s the truth, I went in to borrow something from Madge Foster, but — I don’t know exactly what happened. She started boasting, and I — I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell her.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” he said approvingly. “Don’t you take any of her dust, Nellie. She’s an amateur; a rotten little amateur compared with you.”
“But I’m sorry for your sake, Frank. Here — here’s a dollar.”
“Can you spare it, Nellie? I’d rather not—”
“Nonsense! We old-timers — we must stick together. Get yourself a meal and a bed, just for auld lang syne.”
“God bless you, Nellie! There was never one could touch you. An artist and a lady. I always said it. One of my proudest memories — I played with Wayne.”
“Good-by, Frank, and good luck.”
“Good-by, Nellie.” He started to leave her, paused. Trained as he was in the old artificial comedies, the exit line did not suit him. “A meal and a bed,” he added. “And dreams of the old Broadway where we were young together.”
That was better, and he shuffled off into the crowd. Nellie turned toward home. The theatergoers filled the street, shining limousines drew up to the curb, expensively dressed people alighted. Inside, the orchestras were tuning up, the actors were strolling about in the wings; presently would come the rise of the curtain. The rise of the curtain! Then on for that first sweet laugh, that first beloved ripple of applause.
She climbed wearily to the fifth floor and knocked. No answer at first, and then the sharp bark of Chum. Taking out her key, she unlocked the door and entered the dark passageway. Chum, overjoyed, frisked at her feet. She turned on the light and glanced down at him. He looked strange without his collar; but he wouldn’t need it where he was going, and it meant six more dollars, the last he had to give.
There was a note from Gracie on the table— “Joe and I have gone to the Palace.” How like them — the precious six fading fast! “Baby will be in soon.”
Removing her hat, Nellie sat down by a parlor window — the one at the side that overlooked the alleyway of the theater next door. She could see far up the street the electric signs flashing in front of half a dozen playhouses, the dense throngs daring the August heat — the pleasure seekers.
The hour of eight! It was the hardest of all the twenty-four for her. Every evening at eight a feeling of restlessness overwhelmed her. What was she doing here, at home?
She leaned far out into the humid August night. A thousand memories assailed her, little pictures out of her past: a dress rehearsal that lasted till morning — and the greatest manager of all time on his knees before her in the dawn, thanking her for the genius she had shown; a big dinner table back stage, a Christmas tree in the center, and the great Nellie Wayne passing out the presents to her retinue; a moonlit night on Boston Common after the show, with Charlie Farren walking beside her, beseeching her to marry him; the dining-room of the house on Twenty-Second Street at midnight, dear, handsome Charlie standing at the head of the table, a champagne glass in his hand; a first night at the Lyceum, her dressing-room banked with flowers, flushed, excited people crowding in to acclaim her newest triumph.
Down below, through the open doors of the theater, she heard the orchestra tuning up. She began to speak, the magic voice choked and uncertain: old lines from forgotten plays, deathless lines from the classics, lines taken at random from the jumble for ever passing through her mind. Little wonder she could not learn a new role now. Up from below came a quick crash of music. The overture! Nellie Wayne was silent, and her head sank down on her arms.
Suddenly close beside her sounded a loud, sharp, excited bark. She turned, startled, and there stood Chum, every muscle alert, trembling with anticipation, his ears pointed, his absurd little tail wagging furiously. And then Nellie Wayne realized — it was eight o’clock for Chum!
