"That was splendid," cried Martha, clasping her hands.
"It was the only punishment she could inflict," added Mrs. Dainton, bitterly, rising to her feet and beckoning to her maid. "He had made her suffer deeply, and though she had been proud of her success, the proudest moment of her life was when she publicly humiliated the man who had deceived and wronged her in the past."
Martha rose to her feet, and held out her hand in sympathy.
"I am so sorry, Mrs. Dainton," she said simply.
"Sorry, my dear child?" repeated Mrs. Dainton, cheerfully. "Why need you be? That was what happened to a friend of mine, and that's why I will not help you or any one else to go on the stage."
"But surely," cried Martha, desperately, "some people succeed without pain and unhappiness?"
Mrs. Dainton kissed the girl affectionately.
"You are young, and like all young people, you flatter yourself that you will be the exception," she said. "Good-bye, my dear. I dare say all my advice will be wasted, for if it is in the blood, if you have the call of the footlights in your soul and the fire of ambition in your heart, nothing can stop you in your career; neither the advice of an old woman nor the experience of others. Good-bye, my dear. Au revoir."
CHAPTER V
STRICTLY A BUSINESS BARGAIN
Clayton found Martha in a corner of the veranda ten minutes later, in a brown study.
"Here, this will never do," he began cheerfully. "Is it as bad as that?"
Martha looked up with an attempt at cheerfulness.
"It is of no consequence," she said simply. "You wouldn't understand."
"Am I so dense as all that?" he protested. "Any one with half an eye could see that you are in trouble, and I'd like to help if I can be of any assistance."
Martha looked up at the lawyer hopefully. "Mr. Clayton," she said, "Mrs. Kilpatrick says you are from New York. I've never been there. A few moments ago I said I wanted to go on the stage, and you laughed at me. Now, may I ask you seriously for your advice, and will you give me a serious answer?"
Clayton sat down by her side. "Fire away," he commanded.
"In the first place, I have firmly decided to go on the stage," explained Martha. "I have great ambition, I have been told that I read well, and I must make a living somehow. That settled, the only problem is the way to go at it. Will you advise me?"
"But you are not cut out for that sort of life," protested Clayton. "You—you should marry—you'll find more real happiness there."
"Have you done that?" inquired Martha.
"That's different. I'm a man."
"Oh, yes, and being one, you think we women can't get along without you."
"No one can live happily without love."
"If you have success, you don't need love," insisted Martha.
"My dear child," Clayton tried to explain, "the greatest success means nothing if the right person does not share it with you."
Martha rose to her feet proudly.
"I will risk its meaning nothing if I can only have it."
"Do you mean that?" inquired Clayton, looking at her.
"Yes."
"And you have made up your mind that you must have a career?"
"Absolutely."
Clayton half laughed at her earnestness.
"Have you any money?" he asked suddenly.
"No," admitted Martha, reluctantly. "That is, not much."
"Then how will you begin?"
"I don't know."
"You will find money very necessary."
"I'll manage somehow," declared Martha, with conviction.
Clayton gazed at her curiously for a few moments. Something about the girl must have struck him as being distinctly out of the ordinary. Twice he started to speak, but each time hesitated as though uncertain what to say. "I've got an idea," he blurted out finally.
Martha turned toward him inquiringly, but did not speak.
"I'll assist you," explained Clayton. "Suppose I lend you the necessary capital for you to go to New York and live until you meet with this success you are determined shall come to you?"
"Oh, but I couldn't let you do that," protested Martha. "People might talk, and anyhow, I am determined to succeed on my merits, if at all."
"Wait," interrupted Clayton. "This is a cold-blooded business proposition. If a man opens a store, he must have capital to start with. If a miner goes prospecting, he must have some one 'grub-stake' him to start—that is, give him food and money to last until he strikes pay dirt. In any venture it is the same; capital is necessary—why not let me capitalize yours? After you succeed, you can pay back the original investment, with regular business interest."
"But if I fail—you have no security."
"That's my risk. Besides, I've another reason. I have spent enough on the different fads I've had to send a dozen girls through college. I've wasted thousands of dollars collecting useless things like old postage stamps and antiques, but never once has it occurred to me to collect samples of character."
"I don't quite understand." Martha's eyes were wide open in amazement.
"Your attitude toward success interests me."
"I'm sure it is justified," insisted Martha.
"That remains to be seen. It is understood that I will start you on this career purely as a business proposition. But if I am to furnish the money, I must have the controlling interest in the partnership. You are to be absolutely guided by what I say, to be responsible to me, and to follow my advice in all things."
"Won't I even have a minority vote?" pouted Martha.
"Yes, but the presiding officer can overrule you any time he wishes. In other words, I shall be practically your—your—"
"What?"
"Your guardian. But remember—if I start you on this life where you will be plunged at once into the vortex of all that is fascinating and attractive, you will perhaps find many admirers. No dragging Love along with Success if we should meet him on the way."
Martha clapped her hands gleefully.
"I shall be too busy cultivating Success to even recognize Love if I should meet him," she cried gaily.
"Good. Then it's down with Love?"
"Yes," responded Martha. "And up with Success."
"Then that's settled," responded Clayton, in a businesslike tone, looking at his watch. "And now I think we'd better get some dinner."
CHAPTER VI
"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 juvenile," read Lizzie, as Mrs. Anderson turned toward her. "He's in the hall. Say, what's a juvenile?"
"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."
"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?"
"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."
CHAPTER VII
A HUNDRED-DOLLAR BILL
Martha walked home from the theater. It was after the matinée, in early winter, the period of the year when upper Broadway is the most wonderful street in all the world. Crowds of smartly dressed women and well-groomed men surged to and fro; taxicabs and private limousines darted in every direction; the clanging of the gongs of the street-cars and the shrill cries of newsboys added to the general confusion; and the lights of a thousand electric signs glared brilliantly in the semi-darkness of early nightfall. Shop windows tempted the passer-by most alluringly, and Martha gazed longingly into many of them, but shook her head resolutely at the mere notion of purchasing anything. This was New York. This was life. At last she, Martha Farnum, an insignificant atom from a remote country town, was on Broadway, actually a part of Broadway life, for she was the second girl from the end in the new Casino production, "The Pet of Paris," and for more than four months now had been thrilled, fascinated and enthralled by the lure of the stage.
During all these weeks, she had lived quietly and regularly at Mrs. Anderson's boarding-house. Clayton had met her at the Grand Central Station when she arrived in New York and had taken her to the place, introducing her to Mrs. Anderson in words which she had resented, though she had realized at the time that he was quite justified in his demands.
"Miss Farnum will be in your charge," he had explained. "It is understood that she is to do exactly as you direct in all things. She is not to accept dinner invitations from any one, she is to come straight home after each performance, and she is to go nowhere unless you accompany her."
These galling restrictions were now, however, beginning to prove irksome. Youth cannot be chained too tightly without tugging at its bonds. So it was with Martha after four months of the free-and-easy associations behind the scenes, where even the best behaved girl will talk of the little supper at which she was a guest the night before. In fact, the hard work of rehearsals and the unusual hours which the stage requires its people to adopt, often made Martha wish that she, too, could have the freedom and the privileges which the other girls in "The Pet of Paris" enjoyed.
Consequently, when she arrived home this particular afternoon and threw herself into a large easy-chair, utterly tired, and just a little regretful that she had to dine in the somewhat gloomy, old-fashioned house, it was not with the greatest pleasure in the world that she prepared to answer to the usual cross-examination of well-meaning but sharp-tongued Aunt Jane.
"Did you come straight home after the matinée?" inquired the latter.
"Of course," answered Martha, sleepily. "There was such a crowded house. And so many encores, I am dead tired."
"You seem much later than usual?"
"Now, Aunt Jane, don't ask so many questions. It's Martha this and Martha that and 'Martha, where have you been?' all day long, until I am beginning to get sick and tired of it."
"It is all for your own good, and you know whose instructions I am carrying out."
"I know," pouted Martha, regretfully. "But don't you think he is a little unreasonable? How could a bit of supper after the show hurt any one? Other girls go."
"Has your 'unknown admirer' been asking you to dine with him?" inquired Mrs. Anderson, sharply.
"My 'unknown admirer'?" repeated Martha, blankly. "Whom do you mean?"
"The one who sent you these flowers," cried Aunt Jane, bringing the box to Martha, who gazed in surprise at the splendid roses.
"More flowers, and from a man I have never spoken to," exclaimed Martha, reading the note.
At this moment Lizzie opened the door from the hall and entered.
"If you please, ma'am, that messenger boy is here again," she said. "He wants to see Miss Farnum herself."
"It's the boy who brought the flowers," explained Aunt Jane. "He has a note he won't give to any one but you."
"How exciting," cried Martha. "Do have him in."
Messenger No. 109 winked his eye maliciously at Mrs. Anderson, and tipped his cap respectfully to Martha, whom, from the directions regarding his note, he evidently deemed a person of some importance. Martha opened the envelope, and a yellow-backed bill fluttered to the floor. Mrs. Anderson gasped, Lizzie stared, and the messenger boy politely picked it up and returned it to Martha. It was a hundred-dollar bill.
"Is dere any answer, lady?" inquired 109 stolidly.
Martha hesitated. She looked at the envelope again, then looked at the piece of paper which had enclosed the hundred-dollar bill.
"No," she said simply. "Yes—wait a second."
The boy paused at the door, and Martha whispered a few words into his ear. "Do you understand?" she asked.
"Betcher life," cried 109. "I'm on, lady, I'm on." And with a merry whistle and another wink at the excited Aunt Jane, 109 made a dignified and breezy exit, followed by the surprised Lizzie.
"Well," said Mrs. Anderson, grimly, sitting with her arms folded, "I'm waiting."
"Waiting for what, Aunt Jane?" inquired Martha.
"For an explanation of this extraordinary scene. Who sent you that money, and what do you intend to do with it?"
Martha half laughed at her earnestness.
"I can't tell you just now, Aunt Jane," she said.
"But I must know. When Mr. Clayton brought you to me, he asked me to look out for you, and I mean to do so."
"And so you have. You've been everything that you could be, dear and thoughtful, but it's got so I'm the laughing-stock of the entire company. I daren't take a step out of this house but you must be fully informed about everything I do and everywhere I go."
"Mr. Clayton wishes to know."
"If Mr. Clayton wishes to know, why doesn't he come and ask me? He hasn't been here more than twice in the past four months. Am I to blame if I wish some innocent amusement? He never thinks of me, and when some one else does seem to take an interest in my affairs, and show me a little attention, am I to blame if I like it?"
"You are to blame for accepting hundred-dollar bills."
"But I haven't accepted them yet. I haven't been able to return them before this—"
"What? There were others?"
"For the past six weeks a messenger boy has brought me a note every Saturday. Each letter contained a hundred-dollar bill."
"Great heavens!" Aunt Jane collapsed on the sofa. "And wasn't there any name signed to the letters?"
"Only the words 'From your unknown admirer.' I could not return the money, for I didn't know his name—until now. This letter I have just received gives his name."
"Who is it, dearie?" inquired Aunt Jane, confidentially, coming to Martha's side. "Perhaps I know him."
"His name is—but there, it doesn't matter." Martha turned away and put both letter and hundred-dollar bill into her handbag.
"It does matter," cried Aunt Jane, indignation and curiosity battling for supremacy. "This is a very serious thing. If a strange man sends a young girl hundreds of dollars, why, he must be crazy about you. Did he send you anything else?"
"A few trifles—some jewelry."
"Has he asked you to marry him?"
"What nonsense," laughed Martha. "He has only asked me to dinner."
"You must not go, Martha," said Aunt Jane, decisively. "You know Mr. Clayton wouldn't like you to take dinner with other gentlemen."
"Then why doesn't Mr. Clayton take me to dinner himself?" she cried passionately.
"Mr. Clayton has other things to do."
"Then he must not blame me if I dine with some one else."
"I refuse to let you go, Martha."
"And how will you keep me, please?" demanded Martha, petulantly, not because she really desired to break her covenant with her self-appointed backer, but merely to see what steps he might take if she gave evidence of breaking her parole. "Will you lock all the doors and keep me a prisoner?"
"Never mind," replied Aunt Jane. "Is this unknown admirer coming here to see you, or did you send him word to meet you on the street corner?"
"I sent him word to come here," replied Martha, indignantly. "I have no need to meet him elsewhere. I have nothing to be ashamed of."
"Very well, then," retorted Aunt Jane, going toward the library, as the back parlor was ambitiously named. "I'll telephone Mr. Clayton and say I wash my hands of you. If he wants to keep an eye on you, he will have to do it himself after to-night. I'll send for him at once."
"You'll send for him?" cried Martha, gladly.
"I'll telephone him to come as fast as a taxi can bring him," declared Mrs. Anderson. "I guess that will bring you to your senses."
"I hope it does," murmured Martha, softly, burying her face in the fragrant flowers. And to herself she added: "I wonder if he'll come?"
"Come right in, Mr. Zinsheimer," cried the shrill voice of Pinkie Lexington in the outer hall. "I saw you clear across the street and hurried down the back way," she continued, leading him into the parlor. "Flossie has just gone out, but maybe, if you wait, she'll come back soon."
"Well, I don't mind if I do," declared Marcus Zinsheimer, shedding his great fur coat and peering curiously at Martha, who busied herself with her flowers by the piano. "Who's that?" he added softly.
"That's Martha Farnum," whispered Pinkie. "She's at the Casino and that haughty—but I'm going to be friends with her."
"As though two chorus girls could be friends," interrupted the knowing "Marky."
"I'm not a chorus girl," corrected Pinkie. "And anyhow, she has a very wealthy admirer who might star her, and if he does I'd like to be in her company. See?"
"Oho! That's the racket, eh?" laughed "Marky." "You may be right. A ton of money, an ounce of sense, a pretty girl and a love-sick angel have made many a star in the theatrical firmament."
"And while it lasts, I might just as well be in the push," added Pinkie, wisely. "Gawd knows I need the money."
"Marky" surveyed Pinkie carefully.
"Why is it you are always so hard up, Pinkie?" he inquired. "You ought to be able to get a good engagement, but I say, there ain't much style about the way you dress. What I like is style—real flashy style—lots of color and ginger."
"I'm sorry I'm so poor," sobbed Pinkie, plaintively. "But I can't help it, Mr. Zinsheimer. You know the company stranded and I haven't had anything to do since. It's very kind of you to be so considerate, Mr. Zinsheimer. Would you mind if I call you 'Feathers'? That's what I always call you to Flossie."
"Well, if you call me 'Feathers,' I won't call you down," replied "Marky," laughing laboriously at his own joke. "But now I'll tell you what we'll do. Flossie's out and won't know anything about it, so let's you and me jump into a taxicab and go down to some of the shops. We can just make it before six o'clock, and I'll buy you a lot of fancy things. Eh, what?"
"Eh, what?" almost shouted Pinkie. "Do you mean it?"
"Do I mean it?" insisted "Marky." "Sure. I've got a taxi waiting outside. Will you come?"
Pinkie rose majestically to the occasion. Drying her eyes, and looking anxiously at the parlor clock for fear that it might already be time for Flossie to return before she could get into the taxicab, she grabbed her coat, without even waiting to get a hat, seized "Marky" by the arm and dragged him toward the hallway.
"Will I?" she repeated. "Watch me, kid."
CHAPTER VIII
SANFORD GORDON REAPPEARS
A smart limousine car darted across Broadway, turned the corner, and drew up before the door of Mrs. Anderson's boarding-house. A tall, dark, good-looking chap, whose erect figure was completely enveloped in a fur-lined overcoat, emerged, and walked briskly up the steps. Lizzie answered the bell, and started back in surprise when the stranger calmly stepped inside, closed the door, slipped her a dollar bill, and said quietly:
"Take this card to Miss Farnum. She is expecting me."
"Yes, sir," stammered Lizzie. "Will you wait in the parlor, sir?"
"So this is where she lives?" mused the visitor, shaking his head as he looked around the neat but poorly furnished room, with its supply of theatrical photographs and the large picture of Arnold Lawrence, leading man, on the piano. "I'll soon get her out of this miserable hole."
Martha Farnum entered, her step so light that he did not hear her until she touched his arm and extended her hand in greeting. "Mr. Gordon!"
"I received your message," cried Sanford, turning quickly and clasping her hand with such fervor that Martha unconsciously sought to withdraw it. "I'm glad you remember me."
"I remembered the name," explained Martha. "You are a man so much talked about that it is not strange a little country girl should remember the time she first met so celebrated a personage. But when you sent me the note to-night, I realized for the first time that it was you who had been sending me so many presents."
"Only a few trifles—"
"And so I wanted to see you."
"That was kind of you," replied Gordon, as they sat on the sofa. "I have been wanting to see you all these weeks, but somehow I didn't know how to begin. Finally, to-night, I decided to write you a little message and see if you remembered me."
Martha turned toward him frankly.
"I want to know the meaning of your remarkable presents," she said, with the utmost ingenuousness.
Gordon laughed a trifle, as though to dismiss the matter.
"Nonsense," he declared. "They weren't so very remarkable. A few presents and a little pin-money which I thought might come in handy for a girl getting a small income."
"Such presents would be appreciated by some girls," replied Martha, offering him a small packet which she had held in her hand, "but I have no right to take them."
"Then you haven't spent anything?" exclaimed Gordon, in surprise, looking at the roll of yellow-backed bills and the half-dozen trinkets which she returned to him.
"Not a dollar. I would have returned them sooner, but I didn't know who the mysterious donor was."
"Please keep the money, Miss Farnum, and the other things. They mean nothing to me, and think of the comfort and pleasure they can bring you."
"I have no right to accept anything from you."
"Then take the money for some one else. There must be some pet charity, some deserving chorus girl who has a sick mother, some fresh-air fund you want to contribute to. Please don't ask me to take back things so freely given."
"No, I cannot take it," replied Martha, firmly.
Gordon twirled his moustache nervously and peered curiously at her. Here was a case, indeed, one which the fastidious Sanford had never previously encountered. A chorus girl to refuse money and presents? Unprecedented! How the chaps at the club would chaff him if he ever told the story. He—the best-known boulevardier of Broadway, a welcome guest at every Bohemian gathering, who called actors and managers by their first names and was the most flattered and most sought after member of that queer white-light society of night revellers which regarded the setting of the sun as the dawning of a new day—he, Sanford Gordon, virtually flouted by an obscure chorus girl whom he had deigned to honor with his attentions? Why, the thing was unbelievable.
"Are you in earnest?" he demanded.
"Certainly," replied Martha, rising. "I cannot be under obligations to you or any one else, especially in money matters."
"Listen, Miss Farnum," cried Gordon, coming to her. "My conduct may seem strange to you. Call it a whim, if you like. But since I saw you that first night at the Casino, I have wanted to be friends with you. Can't we be friends?"
"Friends? Why, of course," replied Martha, sincerely.
"You want to succeed in your profession. Let me help you."
"What could you do?"
"I know the manager pretty well, for one thing. Victor Weldon is going to make a few new productions this season, and if I asked him to give you a part, he would probably do it."
"But I want to succeed on my merits," insisted Martha. "If I am to win success, I must deserve it. I should be ashamed and humiliated if I secured an engagement through influence, and then failed."
"But why refuse influence?" protested Gordon. "It gives you the opportunity, and that is something every one must have. Many a clever actor and actress is walking Broadway to-day without an engagement, simply because of lack of opportunity. Now, if Weldon offers you a part in his new production at the Globe Theater, you won't refuse it, will you?"
"No, I wouldn't do that," pondered Martha. "But do you think I could play a small part?"
"Of course you can, and anyhow, never give up without a trial. Weldon might even offer you the leading rôle if the part suited you."
"The leading rôle?" gasped Martha. "Impossible!"
"Not at all," continued Gordon. "I happen to know that in his new production the leading rôle is that of a simple little country girl—just the sort of ingénue you were when I first met you at French Lick. The songs are simple. In fact, it's a little play with songs—not a big musical production. Your very simplicity and naturalness would make you splendidly suited to the rôle."
"It sounds like a dream," cried Martha, wonderingly. "Are you sure Mr. Weldon would ever give me a trial in the part?"
Gordon came close to her. "If I ask it," he said impressively and with a queer inflection of his voice which Martha did not understand. "If I ask it, the thing is done. Come out to dinner with me and we'll talk it over."
Martha's heart sank. "I'd like to, really," she said wearily, "but I've never been out to dinner before, and Aunt Jane would be furious if I went."
"You are not responsible to—your Aunt Jane, as you call her—are you?"
"No, but—"
"There isn't any one else, is there?"
"Yes—no—that is—"
"I thought you were here alone?"
"I am alone," replied Martha, with a sudden outburst of rebellion against the conditions with which she had surrounded herself. "I am responsible to no one and can do as I please. Still—" she hesitated tearfully, "I don't think I'd better go."
"I've got my car outside. Come up to Rector's and have a bite. I'll drive you to the theater afterwards."
"Oh, I'd love to," cried Martha. "I wonder if I dared."
"Of course. Come along."
"But I couldn't go in these clothes," exclaimed Martha. "I'd have to change—I've got a little evening frock I used to wear to dances back in Indiana. Oh, I'm sure there can be no harm, and even if Aunt Jane is angry, it will blow over by to-morrow."
"Of course. How soon will you be ready?"
"In twenty minutes."
"I'll drive over to the club and return for you. I'd wait here only these boarding-house parlors are so public. And that reminds me—you'd better move to some other place where you can have some comfort and decent surroundings."
"I'm sure this is very nice, and all I can afford," replied Martha, with some show of spirit.
"Oh, you can afford better quarters when Weldon engages you to-morrow," replied Gordon. "Your salary will be bigger, of course. Hurry up and change your togs. I'll wait out front in the car when I return."
Three minutes later, Martha was still standing alone in the otherwise empty parlor. Indecision was written on her face. Gordon had gone, but still she made no move toward her room and the changing of her gown. The outer door had slammed, and Flossie Forsythe entered with the usual harmonious accompaniment of the rattling chatelaines.
"Hello, Martha," cried Flossie. "Wasn't that Sanford Gordon just got in his limousine in front of the house? Came from here, too. I saw him just as I turned the corner."
"Really?" replied Martha, coldly, moving toward the door. "I suppose you know him better than I do," she added, as she left the room.
"Humph," murmured Flossie. "Stuck-up show-girl."
"Where's Pinkie?" inquired Mrs. Anderson, entering to light the gas. "Hasn't she returned yet?"
"Has Pinkie gone out?" inquired Flossie, munching a caramel.
"Yes. She drove off in a taxicab with some man half an hour ago. I thought he was a friend of yours."
"Pinkie drove off in a taxicab with a man?" Flossie fairly shrieked in amazement. "Will wonders never cease?"
"I couldn't see who it was," explained Aunt Jane, as the door-bell announced another visitor. "But I know it was a man."
"D'je ever hear the like of that?" Flossie shook her head wonderingly. "Seems to me I'm getting the double cross."
"Well, if it isn't Mr. Lawrence," cried Mrs. Anderson, in the hallway, ushering in a distinguished-looking individual with crisp, curly, dark hair, a smoothly shaven face, an elegant bearing and a far-away look in his flashing, dark eyes. "I'm so glad to welcome you home again—for you know I like to feel that all my guests are, after all, members of a happy little family."
"And glad I am to be back in your hospitable house," responded Lawrence. "What's this I see? My photograph?" he added, beaming with delight and gazing admiringly at the large photo on the piano.
"If we cannot have you, Mr. Lawrence," declared Mrs. Anderson, feelingly, "it pleases us to always have your photograph before us."
"The good lady is devoted as ever to me," thought Lawrence to himself. Aloud: "Ah, this is indeed a home for us actors, my dear Mrs. Anderson—a real home."