"This is another member of our family," explained Aunt Jane. "Miss Flossie Forsythe, Mr. Lawrence."
"How do you do?" Lawrence curtly acknowledged the introduction.
"I seen you in Harlem once," replied Flossie, admiringly. "I recognized you at once by your photograph."
"Indeed? I believe my features are somewhat familiar to the general public."
"Oh, I'm in the profession, too," added Flossie, proudly.
"Indeed? The chorus?"
"Why, the idea—"
"For my part, I am not one of those who regard the chorus as a legitimate branch of the acting profession. It is something beyond the strict limits of our art, like the scene painter, the property master, the musician. The actor is a thing apart."
Flossie collapsed on the sofa as he disappeared into the hall with Mrs. Anderson. "Well, wouldn't that give you tonsillitis!" she ejaculated.
The door from the hall was suddenly thrown open as though Hercules had brushed it aside as he would a fly, and Pinkie Lexington burst into the room looking like a rainbow. In place of the old, dilapidated traveling suit, she wore a smart new gown of purple velvet. A hat with a gorgeous purple plume almost concealed her face, and round her shoulders hung an elaborate set of furs. Close behind this gorgeous apparition was "Marky" Zinsheimer, a trifle nervous and ill at ease at suddenly finding so many persons around.
"Hello, everybody," cried Pinkie. "How do you like my rig?"
"Pinkie!" shouted Flossie, aghast. "Is it really you?"
"For the love of Heaven!" declared Mrs. Anderson, following her in and clasping her hands together in mute admiration.
"Stunning, by Jove!" Even Arnold Lawrence was moved to positive admiration.
"I'd like to see the manager who refuses me an engagement when I drag these togs into his office," cried Pinkie, proudly pirouetting to show the outfit from all sides.
"You look like ready money, my dear," gasped Flossie. "But where on earth did you get the junk?"
"Never you mind," replied Pinkie, obviously embarrassed.
"Mrs. Anderson said you went out riding in a taxi with a man," said Flossie, wonderingly. Then, as her eyes for the first time fell on Zinsheimer, who was trying to edge toward the door and escape unnoticed, she sprang to her feet, pointed her finger at the shrinking "Marky," and screamed: "With him?"
"None of your business," retorted Pinkie.
"Marky, have you been out with Pinkie?" cried Flossie. "Answer me."
"That's the man. Certainly," declared Mrs. Anderson.
"Well, what of it?" stammered "Marky." "I just took Pinkie down to a few of the stores, and there you are."
"Oh, you cat!" cried Flossie, stamping her foot and clenching her fists. "You hypocrite!"
"Now see here, I thought you girls was friends," began Zinsheimer. "Kiss and make up, girls."
"I won't call any one names," responded Pinkie, with the air of a martyr. "She has insulted me, but I will forgive her if she apologizes. Marky, tell her to apologize."
"Never!" cried Flossie, swinging in a circle so abruptly that the rattling chatelaines shot out at an angle of forty-five degrees. "I will never speak to her again, or to you either, Marky Zinsheimer. I'm through with both of you. In all my stage career this is the crowning disappointment. Oh, the degradation! To be cut out by a fat blonde!"
"Marky" Zinsheimer edged toward the door.
"This," he declared, "is where Marky Zinsheimer exits smilingly."
CHAPTER IX
LOVE AND AMBITION
"And I can't do a thing with her," concluded Aunt Jane, in her recital of Martha's shortcomings, while Clayton listened with an amused air at the story of his ward's latest adventure. "She's headstrong and unreliable, and though I love her as I would my own daughter, I think it is time for you to talk to her seriously. When a chorus girl commences to receive hundred-dollar bills and diamonds, she can't stay in my house until I know who sends them, and why. That's all. That's why I telephoned you to come right over."
"I'm glad you 'phoned me, Aunt Jane," said Clayton. "I missed a pretty important business engagement at dinner to be here, but I gathered from your message that something important had developed. I fancy Martha will tell us all about it. After all, it's no crime to admire Martha. I admire her myself. The change in her has been wonderful. I had no idea when I first brought her here that a few months in New York would result in such swift development."
"It's been swift all right, Mr. Clayton. I'll tell her you're here."
Clayton awaited Martha's coming with mingled emotions of pleasure and regret, pleasure at seeing her, for he had grown genuinely to like and admire her; regret, for he feared she was beginning to find her self-imposed bonds a trifle wearisome. In that case, of course, their compact would be at an end, for, though their arrangement had not contemplated any incident which would lead to a breaking of their contract, it was obvious that Martha could not expect him to ignore calmly a violation of it. His own self-respect made this impossible. He would have to protest, and by protesting, perhaps lose completely any influence he might have over her.
The months that had passed since he first agreed to finance Martha's venture into the realm of theatricals had been months of uneasiness. Time and again he had resolved to visit her, talk with her, find out what progress she was making; yet each time he feared he might inject too personal an interest into these inquiries. That had been their agreement: "Down with love and up with ambition." He had warned her of the wayward influences of love at a time when the possibility of caring for her himself had never entered his head. "I suppose," he had said to himself a dozen times, "she'll fall in love with some actor and marry him without even bothering to let me know." This idea first awakened the possibility that he might keenly regret such an indiscretion on her part. Then came the ardent desire to see her himself, advise her, and protect her from the pitfalls of her profession. But he had dismissed this as a subterfuge invented by himself as an excuse for seeing her.
"No," he had concluded. "I will stick by my bargain. I am making an experiment in character development, and I will not let my personal sentiment affect my judgment as a business man. I agreed to aid her until she can become self-supporting, or admits that she is a failure. So long as she keeps her part of the contract, I will keep mine."
Another and more powerful reason for absenting himself from all neighborhoods where he might meet her, and especially from Mrs. Anderson's boarding-house, was the fear that she might consider him in the light of a benefactor to whom she was under obligations. This galled him—to think that she might be outwardly cordial while secretly bored. For Clayton was modest enough to believe that his unassuming airs and reticent ways would not prove attractive to a high-spirited girl so many years his junior.
"What a surprise," cried Martha, entering the parlor suddenly. She was dressed for the street. In fact, had Clayton been a few minutes later, he would have missed her altogether, for Aunt Jane had announced his visit just in the nick of time.
"Hello," said Clayton, greeting her cordially. "What's the trouble between you and Aunt Jane?"
"Trouble?" repeated Martha. "There isn't any."
"Then what did she mean by telephoning that you were getting a bit too wild for her?"
"She dared to say that?" exclaimed Martha, indignantly. "Oh, and so she telephoned you to come and—and tame me—I suppose?"
"Not exactly that," replied Clayton, smiling. "She did 'phone me, but that was only in accordance with my instructions. I have always felt that, as I am responsible for your being in New York, it was my duty to look after you. But that is only part of our agreement, you know. I was to advance you all the money necessary, keeping a strict account of every penny, and you in return were to take my advice, and when you became famous—repay the loan."
"When I become famous?" mused Martha, sinking onto the sofa. "I wonder if I ever will?"
"Of course," cried Clayton, encouragingly. "And I want to help you all I can."
Martha turned her large eyes toward him appealingly.
"Then why don't you come to see me oftener?" she asked softly.
"That wasn't in the agreement," smiled Clayton. "And I hardly thought you'd have any time for a mere man."
"After all you've done for me, it would be strange if I didn't take time for you," replied Martha. Clayton shifted uneasily as she spoke.
"That sounds like 'Thank you, sir,'" he said.
"And I have to stop work sometimes, to eat," added Martha, maliciously, and glancing at him as though trying to convey a subtle hint. "And I hate to eat alone. I hate to eat dinner at Aunt Jane's all the time. I've wanted to go out to dinner so many times since I've been in New York, but I never had any one invite me, until to-day."
"Hm! That's the cause of the row with Aunt Jane?"
"She didn't like the idea."
"Some masculine admirer, of course?"
"Yes, he is," replied Martha, defiantly.
"Who is he?"
As she turned away without response, Clayton added: "Martha, who is he?"
"One you yourself introduced to me," she replied shortly.
"I?" He pondered a moment, surprised. "Not Sanford Gordon?" he said finally, and only by an effort suppressing a faint "Damn."
"Yes," declared Martha. "I am going out with him to dinner now."
"Not with my consent," declared Clayton, emphatically.
"And why not, please?"
"For many reasons," he said, sitting beside her. "Frankly, how long has this been going on?"
"About three months, if you must know," replied Martha, bristling a little at his inquisition.
"Have you seen him often?"
"To-day was the first time."
"He has written to you?"
"Yes."
"Sent you presents, I suppose?"
"A few pieces of jewelry. Every week he has sent me an envelope. Inside, with a blank piece of paper, was a hundred-dollar bill. I never knew until to-day who sent them."
"What have you done with these things?"
"I handed them all back to him, in this room, half an hour ago. I told him I could accept nothing from him, but finally I agreed to go to dinner with him to-night. He's probably waiting out front now, in his car."
Clayton rose to his feet nervously and paced the floor.
"What else did he say?" he inquired.
"He was very nice and respectful. He offered to speak to Mr. Weldon, the manager, and get me a new part—perhaps the leading part—in his new production."
"So that's his little game, is it?" said Clayton, still more annoyed. "Money and jewels returned, his next bribe is an engagement. How do you know you could play the part?"
"I might succeed," pouted Martha. "And even a star who tries and fails, can never forget that she did star—once."
"And so your success means more to you than anything else that life can offer?"
Martha's eyes were still fired by the light of her ambition. "Yes," she said.
"If you please, Miss," interrupted Lizzie, entering at that moment, "Mr. Gordon is outside in his car, and wants to know if you will be ready soon."
"Tell him—" began Martha. Then she hesitated, looking doubtfully at Clayton, who came close to her as though awaiting her decision on a momentous matter.
"Martha," he asked, "are you still determined to keep this dinner engagement with Gordon?"
"Why not?" Martha seemed to take a keen delight in arousing his displeasure. "There's no harm in it, and Mr. Gordon has been very kind to me."
"As he has been to the others—before you," said Clayton, bitterly, almost savagely.
"Never mind. If I can't convince you without blackguarding him, I'll let you go. I only ask you to trust me, and believe that I am doing my best—for you." Clayton paused doubtfully. "If you hate to eat dinner alone," he added suddenly, as an afterthought, "so do I. Martha, come with me."
"But I promised Mr. Gordon. He's waiting."
"But remember, you have a contract with me."
"Yes," replied Martha, half angrily. "With a friend. Not a jailer. Good-night."
Martha started toward the door, but Clayton raised his hand and she hesitated, as he blocked the way.
"Well?" she demanded defiantly.
"You can choose between him and me," declared Clayton, hotly. "But you've got to choose. If you go with him, breaking your contract, I wash my hands of the whole business. Now, choose."
Martha met his gaze squarely, half angrily, half contemptuously. Then she turned to the waiting maid.
"Lizzie," she said, clearly and distinctly, "ask Mr. Gordon—" Yet, even as she spoke her voice faltered, she looked at Clayton, and added, dropping her eyes, in an almost inaudible undertone: "—to excuse me."
Clayton took her arm eagerly, and she looked up again into his face.
"You brute," she said, but she laughed when she said it.
CHAPTER X
THE UNDERGROUND WIRES
The sign on the door of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building bore the legend, in plain black letters:
Suite 1239 was really two small rooms, an outer and an inner office. The outer office, overlooking busy Broadway, which seethed and simmered its hurrying crowds far below, was divided into two parts by a railing. On one side two long benches served as havens of rest for weary stage-folk in search of engagements. Ever and anon one, two, or even three players, perhaps chorus girls, perhaps actors, perhaps character women, would enter timidly, look around the office as though expecting the imperial Jove to hurl thunderbolts at them for their presumption in thus invading the sacred precincts, and then tremblingly ask the red-haired stenographer on the other side of the rail:
"Is Mr. Weldon engaging any one?"
And the red-haired stenographer, invariably without looking up from her machine, would reply:
"Nothing doing to-day."
Sometimes this routine would vary a trifle, in case Mr. Weldon, for reasons of his own, wished to have his office appear like a busy mart. Then the stenographer would say:
"Mr. Weldon is very busy now, but if you want to wait, perhaps you can see him."
This left-handed invitation, containing only the slightest ray of hope that perhaps the great manager would engage some one for something, was invariably pounced upon eagerly, for actors undergoing that sad daily routine known as "making the rounds," knew to their sorrow that invitations even to sit down and wait were few and far between. The "Call to-morrow" slogan was the more usual excuse in getting rid of applicants. In a profession as overcrowded as the theatrical business there are thirty applicants for every possible position, but still the unsuccessful ones keep on "making the rounds" on the chance that sooner or later they will be engaged.
Mr. Weldon's private reasons for wishing his outer office to be filled at certain times possibly had something to do with the fact that on these occasions certain smartly dressed, prosperous men called on business and were instantly admitted to the inner office. Then the stenographer, having had her cues, would drop some casual remark about "The backer of the new show," whereupon the professionals would become more alert at the prospect of "Something doing." Of course, conversely, the mysterious "backers" were impressed by the stage setting of an outer office of players looking for engagements from the great Mr. Weldon.
Contrary to the popular idea, based mainly on the comic weeklies, theatrical backers or "angels" are comparatively rare. Therefore, Victor Weldon's line of procedure since Mrs. Dainton had abruptly closed her American tour because of the illness of her Pomeranian pup, had been exceedingly uncertain. He had planned various productions on his own account, and he had endeavored unsuccessfully to interest certain financial gentlemen of the Wall Street district in the merits of two or three plays he had read. One of them in particular, a simple little comedy of peasant life in Germany, with two or three songs, had greatly impressed him. It was of Viennese origin, skillfully translated and adapted, but preserving the Viennese atmosphere and characters. Entitled "The Village Girl," the central rôle was that of a peasant girl who fell in love with a prince when the latter was hunting in disguise as a mere woodsman. Afterwards, meeting him at the state ball face to face in his gorgeous uniform, she, by renouncing her love for him because of his rank and title, ultimately led the old Emperor to relent and give his consent to their marriage.
"Good plot," murmured Weldon, after reading it in his private office. "The old stuff like this always goes with the public. There's a plot that must succeed, because it has never been known to fail. I can produce this play and make a barrel of money if I can only find a backer. I wonder if I couldn't rope Gordon in on this?"
Which explains why Sanford Gordon had already heard of the play at the time he renewed his acquaintance with Martha, and further explains the fact that three days later he was closeted with Weldon in the inner private office of Suite 1239 in the Knickerbocker Theater Building.
"It will cost about twenty thousand cold, before we ring up the curtain," explained Weldon, skillfully calculating with the aid of a pencil and a pad of paper. "It will take about seven thousand for the production, including costumes and uniforms. Everything is Viennese this season, so we must get the correct atmosphere. Advertising and printing may take up two or three thousand more, and then we'll probably have to guarantee at least twenty-five hundred to the theater we select. I'd like to get a classy theater like the Globe, where they have ushers in English military uniforms, and society people always go there because some one tipped them off that it was the society theater of New York. But it might take a little more money to get the Globe."
"Get the Globe by all means," said Gordon. "A few thousand more or less mean nothing if the thing is a hit, and if it is a failure, I guess I can stand the loss quite as well."
Victor Weldon sprang to his feet excitedly. The "roping in" had been easier than he anticipated, for Sanford Gordon, in spite of his propensity for squandering wealth in certain directions, belonged to the category of "wise people." No one ever wasted postage to send him green-goods catalogues, and Weldon had been extremely doubtful of his ability to get Gordon as a backer, although, of course, he had enjoyed unlimited opportunities to win his confidence while acting as Mrs. Dainton's manager.
"It's the chance of a lifetime," Weldon thought to himself as he clasped Gordon's hand to bind the bargain.
"I'll have the necessary legal papers drawn up by my lawyer," explained Gordon. "The money will be deposited with the Commercial Trust Company to-morrow morning. You will handle this production exactly as though it is your own—with one exception, my dear Weldon."
"What is that?" asked Weldon, apprehensively.
"You will engage for the leading rôle a young lady I will designate—"
"Ah, now I understand—" began Weldon, smiling.
"—who will have no inkling whatever of the fact that I am the backer of this show. In fact, no one must know that I am furnishing the money. Furthermore, at any time I see fit—if, for instance, the young lady cannot, in my judgment, play the part satisfactorily—I reserve the right to stop the whole production instantly, merely paying the necessary bills. Do you understand?"
"But you wouldn't close the show if it's a hit, would you?" demanded Weldon.
"I'm not likely to close the show at all," he laughed. "But I have reasons of my own for reserving that right. Otherwise, however, you are the manager, owner, producer and director. Do as you please, my dear Weldon, but remember the terms of our compact."
"I am not likely to forget them," cried Weldon, enthusiastically. "But," he added nervously, "can the young lady you wish me to engage really act the part?"
"I don't know and I don't care," responded Gordon. "The fact remains that she is going to play the part, and if she doesn't know how to act, teach her. That's all."
Weldon shook his head sadly.
"I had hoped, after my experience, Mr. Gordon, that I was through with those bloomers where they try to force an unknown on the public," he sighed. "But I know you too well to try and argue that a well-known actress of reputation would help the piece and perhaps make it a hit."
Gordon picked up his silk hat and balanced it with one hand while he took his cane and gloves from the desk.
"It is immaterial to me, Weldon, whether the piece is a hit or not," he said carelessly. "Of course, I sincerely hope, for your sake, that it proves a success. But I won't shed any tears if it isn't. Like the respected founders of the New Theater, I am not producing this play to make money. I am simply endeavoring to give a certain young lady a chance to play a star part in a Broadway theater. If she has the merit to succeed, so much the better, for her sake and for yours. But personally I don't give a damn—so long as I pull the strings."
CHAPTER XI
IN THE GREEN-ROOM
Time: Three months later.
"Half hour! Half hour!"
The resonant cry of the call-boy, making the rounds of the dressing-rooms of the Globe Theater, penetrated to the great empty green-room, immediately adjoining the star's dressing-room. Downstairs, from the musicians' room, came the sounds of the scraping of violin bows across the strings, the occasional toot of the French horn or the preliminary notes from a flute. Through the green-baize doors leading to the stage came the sounds of shifting scenery as the stage hands set the first act of "The Village Maid." A curtain was half drawn across the entrance to the adjoining star's room, behind which the faithful Lizzie of the boarding-house, now transformed into a real maid for an actress, was busily engaged preparing the toilette articles and the costumes of Miss Martha Farnum, actress.
Messenger boy 735, his diminutive figure almost hidden beneath a gigantic box of flowers, was escorted through the baize doors by old Pete, the back-door watchman.
"Put 'em down there, sonny," directed Pete, pointing toward a couch in the green-room. "And then vamoose quick. I got to watch the door, 'cause Miss Farnum ain't come in yet."
Number 735 deposited the flowers as directed, carefully cut the strings, opened the box, and was in the act of breaking off a fine American Beauty when Lizzie fortunately caught sight of him from the dressing-room.
"Here, you thief. Don't you dare," she cried.
"I only wanted one, lady," replied 735. "Gee, if I was an actress with all them blooms, I'd be glad to slip one of them to a kid who's going to sit up in the gallery and applaud your old show."
"Are you going to see the play?" asked Lizzie.
"Betcher life. A man give me a ticket and four bits to sit in the gallery and clap everything."
"What—everything?" queried Lizzie.
"Well, everything our leader does. There's forty of us kids, all got gallery tickets free and fifty cents on the side. And say, when Miss Farnum comes on the stage, you bet she'll hear us yell. We got orders to raise de roof den."
"You awful boy," cried Lizzie, genuinely shocked. "Here, take the rose, but don't tell any one about your free tickets. Miss Farnum won't care to have any one know the audience is paid to clap her."
"Aw, quit kidding me," responded 735, moving toward the stage. "Why, we sees 'most all the New York shows that way for nothing. We get paid to clap, even if the show's rotten. Don't try to kid me, baby."
"It's wonderful what you learn when you go on the stage," murmured the horrified Lizzie, after she had chased 735 into the darker regions of the stage. "I wonder what's keeping Miss Farnum?" she added thoughtfully, as she returned to the dressing-room.
Weldon, clad in immaculate evening clothes, and accompanied by an unobtrusive young chap wearing a dinner coat, a gray vest, a gray tie and a small derby, strolled back behind the scenes to make sure everything was all right for the opening. This was really Weldon's most ambitious attempt. For years he had served in a business capacity with many stars, and occasionally he had produced things on his own account, but never before had his bank-roll assumed proportions which would justify him in leasing the exclusive Globe Theater. If the new production made good it would be the making of him as a manager as well. Consequently he was in delightful spirits.
His companion was a trifle more subdued, for upon his somewhat boyish face there was a cloud of anxiety. He was keen, alert, almost deferential in his attitude toward the manager, but a certain experienced air suggested that behind his youthful appearance there was dynamic energy and a fund of vitality which might burst forth at any moment. He was Phil Hummer, the press agent of the Globe Theater, a former newspaper man who, as he often expressed it, "quit writing for the papers because he found he could make more money as a press agent." For weeks he had been assiduously informing the public, through such newspaper mediums as he could persuade to print his effusions, of the importance of Miss Martha Farnum's approaching stellar début—for in the new play, be it known, Martha was being "starred."
A Broadway star! How often have you read of the wonderful luck of some obscure chorus girl, called upon in an emergency to play the leading rôle, and next day proclaimed a star! Pretty fiction it is. Once in a while it happens in real life, but very seldom. It is the alluring tales of the sudden elevation of choristers which attract and fascinate the beginner. The oft-told story of how Edna May rose from the ranks and became a Casino star over-night, has served as the guiding beacon in the life story of many a chorus girl seeking for fame; alas! too often in vain.
"Ready to-night for the stellar début of Miss Martha Farnum," cried Weldon, enthusiastically. "To-night is the night that wins or loses all."
In clear defiance of the printed rules of the Fire Department young Mr. Hummer carefully lighted a cigarette and observed carelessly: "Can't see how any one loses unless it's Miss Farnum."
"Not lose?" repeated Weldon. "Why, man, haven't I rented the theater for six weeks on a guarantee, to say nothing of engaging the company and paying for the most expensive scenic production of the season? With a new Paris gown for every act? If Miss Farnum doesn't make good, where am I?"
"Exactly where you were three months ago," said Hummer.
"Nothing of the sort—" began Weldon, when Hummer, with a warning gesture, held his finger to his lips and nodded toward the dressing-room where Lizzie was preparing for the coming of her mistress.
"Cut it, Weldon," he whispered meaningly. "I know it's not your money, so what's the use?"
"Not my money? Don't I pay you your salary?"
"Certainly; but I know, and every one else in the company guesses, that you are only the figurehead."
"The idea!" sputtered Weldon, pompously. "Don't the bills read: 'Victor Weldon presents Miss Farnum'?—presents, mind you."
Hummer stepped closer a bit, puffed at his cigarette, and motioned toward the dressing-room.
"She's the meal ticket," he added.
"You mean Miss Farnum?"
"Exactly. She found the angel, not you. If he withdrew his support to-night, you couldn't keep this thing going thirty minutes."
Weldon dropped into a chair and asked weakly:
"How did you find out?"
"The day you engaged me to incite public interest in your star, I found out who the angel was. I hadn't been hanging around the Casino for nothing. Half a dozen of the newspaper boys know all about his infatuation for her."
Victor Weldon smiled weakly. "Every one said you were good at guessing things," he remarked. "But listen, Phil. Not a word of this to any one. Even Miss Farnum doesn't know how things really stand."
Hummer whistled.
"She don't know Gordon is putting up the money?"
Weldon shook his head.
"And she thinks it is honest recognition of real merit?"
Weldon said nothing.
"My word, what a good story, and I can't print it," ejaculated Hummer, turning toward the door that led behind the boxes to the front of the house. Just as he was about to open it, Gordon pushed it ajar with one quick stroke of his powerful arm, and strode into the green-room.
"Where's Miss Farnum?" he asked brusquely. "Oh, I thought you were Weldon," he added, turning abruptly from Hummer.
"This is Mr. Hummer, our press representative," explained Weldon, coming forward eagerly.
"Ah, the press agent? Very good," responded Gordon, carelessly turning his back on Hummer.
"Let us say, rather, inciter of public interest," explained Hummer. "Paid to get fiction into the papers, and to suppress facts."
Gordon turned toward him curiously. "Indeed! And what do you suppress?" he asked.
"Well," drawled Hummer, "who is furnishing the money for Miss Farnum's starring venture, for one thing, especially as she doesn't know herself." And with a light laugh Hummer went "in front" by the passage leading behind the boxes.
"See here, Weldon," said Gordon, decisively, "it is now almost eight o'clock. When do you ring up the curtain?"
"At twenty minutes past," replied Weldon.
"Then understand me thoroughly. You will not ring up that curtain until I say so. Understand me—until I say so."
Gordon's tone clearly indicated something unusual. "What do you mean?" asked Weldon.
"Unless things go my way first, that curtain will never go up on this production," said Gordon, tensely. "Oh, don't worry," as he saw the other's face wrinkle. "I'll see that you personally don't lose anything by it. But if I am to pay the piper for this crazy starring scheme, I want some return for my money. Have the orchestra ring in as usual and play the overture. Have all the people ready in their costumes, and then, just before Martha Farnum steps upon that stage, I want to see her here. Do you understand?"
"I didn't before," answered Weldon, meaningly, "but I am just beginning to now."
Alone, Gordon clenched his hands nervously.
"I've given her everything she has wanted for the past three months," he murmured, "even this latest plaything—a theater and a company of her own—but I think we'll have a settlement to-night, my dear Martha; a little clearer understanding before the curtain rises on my latest folly."
CHAPTER XII
AN OVERTURE AND A PRELUDE
"This," said Martha, "is as far as you can venture. There is my dressing-room, sacred only to the star—that's Poor Little Me."
And with a profound courtesy, she bowed low before Clayton. Then rising with the air of a tragedy queen, she pointed toward the door.
"Begone, varlet!" she cried, with mock intensity. "Your queen dismisses you."
Clayton laughed. "So little Martha Farnum has become a great New York star at last," he said seriously. "I couldn't realize that you were really going up so rapidly. This offer from Weldon was really enough to take your breath away, and when he decided during rehearsals to feature you so prominently, I concluded that perhaps you had more talent than either of us ever suspected. But when he actually starred you—say, did you see your name in electric letters as we came by the front of the theater?"
"Yes," cried Martha. "It almost took my breath away."
Clayton shook his head wonderingly.
"I remember your telling me Gordon offered to get you this engagement," he said. "Do you suppose—"
Martha laughed at his half-uttered thought.
"Mr. Gordon has had nothing to do with it," she declared. "I am sure of that, because he never came to one of the rehearsals. Once I saw some one out front in the darkened theater who seemed like Mr. Gordon, but when I asked him if he had attended the rehearsal he declared I was mistaken."
"Yes, a number of times, and since you withdrew your restrictions, I have had dinner with him frequently, but you know all about that."
"I couldn't expect you to be cooped up all the time," Clayton admitted, "especially when your salary leaped upward so amazingly. And I don't blame you for taking a more comfortable apartment in the Webster. Aunt Jane's boarding-house was all right for the chorus girl, but a trifle too passé for the future star."
Martha shook her head sadly. "I think I was happier in those days than now," she mused. "The more one attempts, the greater the chance for failure. To-night I realize what is the ambition of most players, yet, somehow, I am filled with dread. It doesn't seem right that I, plain Martha Farnum, should be rushed upward like a skyrocket. Though the rocket shoots upward in a blaze of glory, the stick must fall."
"Good heavens, you mustn't anticipate bad luck," protested Clayton, cheerily. "I'm going out front and witness your triumph."
"If it only is a triumph!" sighed Martha.
"It will be," insisted Clayton. "However, don't be nervous. Remember if you ever need me, I will be within call. Au revoir—and good luck to you," he added cordially, and in another moment he had gone, while Martha stood staring blankly before her, and wondering what the night would bring forth.
"Oh, Miss Farnum," cried Lizzie, suddenly emerging from the dressing-room, "you'd better hurry and dress for the first act. It is almost time for the overture."
"All right, Lizzie," answered Martha, going to the room and beginning to disrobe. A moment later, Miss Pinkie Lexington, made up for the part of a fashionable society woman, entered the green-room cautiously, and crossed to the door behind the boxes.
"Where can he be?" she murmured to herself. Then, hearing the call-boy crying "Overture, overture," in the distance, she started quickly toward the stage, only to pause abruptly when she found herself face to face with Miss Flossie Forsythe, neatly attired in a maid's costume, and wearing a white apron and cap.
"Oh, I wouldn't have come here, if I'd known you was here," declared Flossie, angrily.
Pinkie extended a conciliating hand and said grandly: "Let's be friends, Flossie. A girl shouldn't have enemies in the company."
"It is hard enough to be compelled to accept an engagement in the same company with you," replied Flossie, sarcastically, "but thank goodness, a girl can choose her own friends."
"It's the first part you ever had with real lines, isn't it?"
"No," cried Flossie, indignantly. "I had lines when I was with the 'Follies' on the New York roof."
"Oh, but I mean in a real play," replied Pinkie, superciliously. "Anyhow, you don't want to get too gay with me. Remember, I got you this engagement. I asked Martha to give you a real part, because I knew you needed the money, now you've lost your lawsuit, and Mr. Zinsheimer, too."
"Zinsheimer!" repeated a stentorian voice behind them, as the proud possessor of that historic name appeared, gorgeous in the resplendency of an expansive shirt bosom and a white carnation in his button-hole. "Now, Pinkie, you know I told you to call me 'Feathers.'"
"Oh, Mr. Zinsheimer," half sobbed Flossie, "you are just in time. Even though you care nothing more for me, you are too much of a gentleman to let me be insulted. This creature has—"
"Nothing of the kind, Feathers," interrupted Pinkie. "Flossie's still sore on me. I say, she'd better forget it. Girls ought to be friends when they're in the same company."
Zinsheimer raised his hands protestingly. "Aw, girls, cut it out, cut it out. People these days have to be important to have enemies. Forget it. There's a great audience out in front and all of them waiting to see the little star. Ach Gott!" he added, as the green-baize doors were suddenly thrown open from the stage, and an excitable whirlwind blew in. "Ach Gott, what is this?"
"This" turned out to be an imposing figure attired in the white huzzar uniform of a German prince. His bronze wig with the pompadour effect, his upturned moustache, his glittering decorations and smart uniform, all indicated that he was a Great Personage. But, alas! from the knees downward the illusion stopped. "This" didn't wear any boots. In fact, he was in his stocking feet, and he trod the boards gingerly but none the less dramatically. "This," in other words, was Arnold Lawrence, leading man, and he was evidently somewhat distrait.
"Miss Farnum," he cried. "Where is Miss Farnum?"
"She's there in her dressing-room," explained Zinsheimer. "But she isn't coming out until—well, until she's more so than she is now. What's the matter?"
"That stupid bootmaker has failed to send my boots," shouted Lawrence. "How can I go on without my boots? I have the part of a royal prince of the German Empire. Do you expect me to appear like this—without boots?"
"Go ask the property man," directed Zinsheimer. "He's got some."
"Bah! A German prince wear property boots? Impossible!"
Martha, all ready for the first act, appeared in the door of her dressing-room.
"Miss Farnum," cried Lawrence, dramatically, "my boots have not arrived. I refuse to go on unless correctly dressed."