In the Bishop's Carriage Page 7

  VII.

  And that's why, Marguerite de Monahan, I want you to buy in with themadam here. Let 'em keep on calling it Troyon's as much as they want,but you're to be a partner on the money I'll give you. If this fairystory lasts, it'll be your own, Mag--a sort of commission you get on mytake-off of you. But if anything happens to the world--if it should gocrazy, or get sane, and not love Nancy Olden any more, why, here'll bea place for me, too.

  Does it look that way? Divil a bit, you croaker! It looks--itlooks--listen and I'll tell you how it looks.

  It looks as though Gray and the great Gray rose diamond and the threeCharities had all become a bit of background for Nance Olden to playupon.

  It looks as though the audience likes the sound of my voice as muchalmost as I do myself; anyway, as much as it does the sight of me.

  It looks as though the press, if you please, had discovered a new stagestar, for down comes a little reporter to interview me--me, NancyOlden! Think of that, Mag! I receive him all in my Charity rig, andin Obermuller's office, and he asks me silly questions and I tell him alot of nonsense, but some truths, too, about the Cruelty. Fancy, hedidn't know what the Cruelty was! S. P. C. C., he calls it. And allthe time we talked a long-haired German artist he had brought with himwas sketching Nance Olden in different poses. Isn't that the limit?

  What d'ye think Tom Dorgan'd say to see half a page of Nancy Olden inthe X-Ray? Wouldn't his eyes pop? Poor old Tom! ... No danger--theywon't let him have the papers.... My old Tommy!

  What is it, Mag? Oh, what was I saying? Yes--yes, how it looks.

  Well, it looks as though the Trust--yes, the big and mighty T.T.--short for Theatrical Trust, you innocent--had heard of that sameNance Olden you read about in the papers. For one night last week,when I'd just come of and the house was yelling and shouting behind me,Obermuller meets me in the wings and trots me of to his private office.

  "What for?" I asked him on the way.

  "You'll find out in a minute. Come on."

  I pulled up my stocking and followed. You know I wear it in that actwithout a garter, and it's always coming down the way yours used to,Mag. Even when it doesn't come down I pull it up, I'm so in the habitof doing it.

  A little bit of a man, bald-headed, with a dyspeptic little blackmustache turned down at the corners, watched me come in. He grinned atmy make-up, and then at me.

  "Clever little girl," he says through his nose. "How much do you stickObermuller for?"

  "Clever little man," say I, bold as brass and through my own nose;"none of your business."

  "Hi--you, Olden!" roared Obermuller, as though I'd run away and he wastrying to get the bit from between my teeth. "Answer the gentlemanprettily. Don't you know a representative of the mighty T. T. whenyou see him? Can't you see the Syndicate aureole about his noble brow?This gentleman, Nance, is the great and only Max Tausig. He humbleththe exalted and uplifteth the lowly--or, if there's more money in it,he gives to him that hath and steals from him that hasn't, but wouldmighty well like to have. He has no conscience, no bowels, no heart.But he has got tin and nerve and power to beat the band. In short, andfor all practical purposes for one in your profession, Nancy Olden,he's just God. Down on your knees and lick his boots--Trust gods wearboots, patent leathers--and thank him for permitting it, you luckybaggage!"

  I looked at the little man; the angry red was just fading from the topof his cocoanut-shaped bald head.

  "You always were a fool, Obermuller," he said cordially. "And you werealways over-fond of your low-comedian jokes. If you hadn't been sosmart with your tongue, you'd had more friends and not so many enemiesin--"

  "In the heavenly Syndicate, eh? Well, I have lived without--"

  "You have lived, but--"

  "But where do I expect to go when I die? Good theatrical managers,Nance, when they die as individuals go to Heaven--they get into theTrust. After that they just touch buttons; the Trust does the rest.Bad ones--the kickers--the Fred Obermullers go to--a place wheresalaries cease from troubling and royalties are at rest. It's a slowplace where--where, in short, there's nothing doing. And only onething's done--the kicker. It's that place Mr. Tausig thinks I'm boundfor. And it's that place he's come to rescue you from, from sheergoodness of heart and a wary eye for all there's in it. Cinch him,Olden, for all the traffic will bear!"

  I looked from one to the other--Obermuller, big and savage underneathall his gay talk, I knew him well enough to see that; the little man,his mouth turned down at the corners and a sneer in his eye for thefellow that wasn't clever enough to get in with the push.

  "You must not give the young woman the big head, Obermuller. Her ownis big enough, I'll bet, as it is. I ain't prepared to make anystartling offer to a little girl that's just barely got her nose abovethe wall. The slightest shake might knock her off altogether, or shemightn't have strength enough in herself to hold on. But we'll giveher a chance. And because of what it may lead to, if she works hard,because of the opportunities we can give her, there ain't so much in itin a money way as you might imagine."

  Obermuller didn't say anything. His own lips and his own eyes sneerednow, and he winked openly at me, which made the little man hot.

  "Blast it!" he twanged. "I mean it. If you've got any notion throughmy coming down to your dirty little joint that we've set our hearts onhaving the girl, just get busy thinking something else. She may beworth something to you--measured up against the dubs you've got; but tous--"

  "To you, it's not so much your not having her as my having her that--""Exactly. It ain't our policy to leave any doubtful cards in theenemy's hands. He can have the bad ones. He couldn't get the goodones. And the doubtful ones, like this girl Olden--"

  "Well, that's just where you're mistaken!" Obermuller thrust his handsdeep in his pockets and put out that square chin of his like thefighter he is. "'This girl Olden' is anything but doubtful. She's abig card right now if she could be well handled. And the time isn't sofar off when, if you get her, you people will be--"

  "Just how much is your interest in her worth?" the little man sneered.

  Obermuller glared at him, and in the pause I murmured demurely:

  "Only a six-year contract."

  Mag, you should have seen 'em jump--both of 'em; the little man withvexation, the big one with surprise.

  A contract! Me?--Nance Olden! Why, Mag, you innocent, of course Ihadn't. Managers don't give six-year contracts to girl--burglarswho've never set foot on the stage.

  When the little man was gone, Obermuller cornered me.

  "What's your game, Olden?" he cried. "You're too deep for me; I throwup my hands. Come; what've you got in that smart little head of yours?Are you holding out for higher stakes? Do you expect him to buy thatgreat six-year contract and divvy the proceeds with me? Because hewill--when once they get their eye on you, they'll have you; and toturn up your nose at their offer if in just the way to make them itchfor you. But how the deuce did you find it out? And where do you getyour nerve from, anyway? A little beggar like you to refuse an offerfrom the T. T. and sit hatching your schemes on your little old 'steendollars a week! ... It'll have to be twice 'steen, now, I suppose?"

  "All right, just as you say," I laughed. "But why aren't you in theTrust, Fred Obermuller?"

  "Why aren't you in society, Nance?"

  "Um!--well, because society's prejudiced against lifting, but the Trustisn't. Do you know that's a great graft, Mr. Obermuller--liftingwholesale? Why don't you get in?"

  "Because a Trust is a lot of sailors on a raft who keep their places bykicking off the drowning hands that clutch at it. Can you fancy afellow like Tausig stooping down to help me tenderly on board to dividethe pickings?"

  "No, but I can fancy you grappling with him till he'd be glad to takeyou on rather than be pulled off himself."

  "You'd be in with the push, would you, Olden, if you were managing?" heasked with a grin.

  "I'd be at the top, wherever t
hat was."

  "Then why the deuce didn't you jump at Tausig's offer? Were you reallycrafty enough--"

  "I am artiste, Monsieur Obermuller," I gutturaled like MademoisellePicotte, who dances on the wire. "I moost have about me those whoarre--who arre congeniale--"

  "You monkey!" he laughed. "Then, when Tausig comes to buy yourcontract--"

  "We'll tell him to go to thunder."

  He laughed. Say, Mag, that big fellow is like a boy when he's pleased.I guess that's what makes it such fun to please him.

  "And I, who admired your business sagacity in holding off, Nance!" hesaid.

  "I thought you admired my take-off! of Mademoiselle Picotte."

  "Well?"

  "Well, why don't you make use of it? Take me round to the theaters andlet me mimic all the swell actors and actresses. I've got more chancewith you than with that Trust gang. They wouldn't give me room to domy own stunt; they'd make me fit into theirs. But you--"

  "But me! You think you can wind me round your finger?"

  "Not--yet."

  He chuckled. I thought I had him going. I saw Nance Olden spendingher evenings at the big Broadway theaters, when, just at that minute,Ginger, the call-boy, burst in with a note.

  Say, Mag, I wouldn't like to get that man Obermuller hopping mad at me,and Nancy Olden's no coward, either. But the way he gritted his teethat that note and the devil in his eyes when he lifted them from it,made me wonder how I'd ever dared be facetious with him.

  I got up to go. He'd forgotten me, but he looked up then.

  "That was a great suggestion of yours, Olden, to put Lord Gray on toact himself--great!" His voice shook, he was so angry.

  "Well!" I snapped. I wasn't going to let him see that a big man ragingcould bluff Nance Olden.

  What did he mean? Why--just this: there was Lord Harold Gray, the realLord behind the scenes, bringing the Lady who was really only a chorusgirl to the show in his automobile; helping her dress like a maid;holding her box of jewels as he tagged after her like a bigNewfoundland; smoking his one cigarette solemnly and admiringly whileshe was on the stage; poking after her like a tame bear. He's a funnyfellow, that Lord Harold. He's a Tom Dorgan, with the brains and thegraft and--and the brute, too, Mag, washed out of him; a Tom Dorganthat's been kept dressed in swagger clothes all his life and living attop-notch--a big, clean, handsome, stupid, good-natured, overgrown boy.

  Yes, I'm coming to it. When I'd seen him go tagging after her chippyLadyship behind the scenes long enough, I told Obermuller one day thatit was absurd to send the mock Lady out on the boards and keep the liveLord hidden behind. He jumped at the idea, and they rigged up a littleact for the two--the Lord and the Lady. Gray was furious when sheheard of it--their making use of her Lord in such a way--but LordHarold just swallowed his big Adam's apple with a gulp or two, and said:

  "'Pon honor, it's a blawsted scheme, you know; but I'm jolly sure I'dmake a bleddy ass of myself. I cawn't act, you know."

  The ninny! You know he thinks Gray really can.

  But Obermuller explained to him that he needn't act--just be himselfout behind the wings, and lo! Lord Harold was "chawmed."

  And Gray?

  Why, she gave in at last; pretended to, anyway--sliding out of theCharity sketch, and rehearsing the thing with him, and all that.And--and do you know what she did, Mag? (Nance Olden may be prettymean, but she wouldn't do a trick like that.) She waited till tenminutes before time for the thing to be put on and then threw a fit.

  "She's so ill, her delicate Ladyship! So ill she just can't go on thisevening! Wonder how long she thinks such an excuse will keep LordHarold off when I want him on!" growled Obermuller, throwing her noteover to me. He'd have liked to throw it at me if it'd been heavyenough to hurt; he was so thumping mad.

  You see, there it was on the program:

  THE CLEVER SKETCH ENTITLED

  THEATRICAL ARISTOCRACY.

  The Duke of Portmanteau .... Lord Harold Gray. The Duchess ................ Lady Gray.

  The celebrated Gray jewels, including the great Rose Diamond, will beworn by Lady Gray in this number.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  No wonder Obermuller was raging. I looked at him. You don't like totackle a fellow like that when he's dancing hot. And yet you ache tohelp him and--yes, yourself.

  "Lord Harold's here yet, and the jewels?" I asked.

  He gave a short nod. He was thinking. But so was I.

  "Then all he wants is a Lady?"

  "That's all," he said sarcastically.

  "Well, what's the matter with me?"

  He gasped.

  "There's nothing the matter with your nerve, Olden."

  "Thank you, so much." It was the way Gray says it when she tries tohave an English accent. "Dress me up, Fred Obermuller, in Gray's newsilk gown and the Gray jewels, and you'd never--"

  "I'd never set eyes on you again."

  "You'd never know, if you were in the audience, that it wasn't Grayherself. I can take her off to the life, and if the prompter'll standby--"

  He looked at me for a full minute.

  "Try it, Olden," he said.

  I did. I flew to Gray's dressing-room. She'd gone home deathly ill,of course. They gave me the best seamstress in the place. She let outthe waist a bit and pulled over the lace to cover it. I got into thatmass of silk and lace--oh, silk on silk, and Nance Olden inside! BerylBlackburn did my hair, and Grace Weston put on my slippers. Topham,himself, hung me with those gorgeous shining diamonds and pearls andemeralds, till I felt like an idol loaded with booty. There were somany standing round me, rigging me up, that I didn't get a glimpse ofthe mirror till the second before Ginger called me. But in thatsecond--in that second, Mag Monahan, I saw a fairy with blazing cheeksand shining eyes, with a diamond coronet in her brown hair, puffedhigh, and pearls on her bare neck and arms, and emeralds over thewaist, and rubies and pearls on her fingers, and sprays of diamondslike frost on the lace of her skirt, and diamond buckles on her veryslippers, and the rose diamond, like a sun, outshining all the rest;and--and, Mag, it was me!

  How did it go? Well, wouldn't it make you think you were a Lady, sureenough, if you couldn't move without that lace train billowing afteryou; without being dazzled with diamond-shine; without a truly Lordtagging after you?

  He kept his head, Lord Harold did--even if it is a mutton-head. Thathelped me at first. He was so cold, so stupid, so slow, sogood-tempered--so just himself. And after the first plunge--

  I tell you, Mag Monahan, there's one thing that's stronger than wine toa woman--it's being beautiful. Oh! And I was beautiful. I knew itbefore I got that quick hush, with the full applause after it. Andbecause I was beautiful, I got saucy, and then calm, and then I caughtFred Obermuller's voice--he had taken the book from the prompter andstood there himself--and after that it was easy sailing.

  He was there yet when the act was over, and I trailed out, followed bymy Lord. He let the prompt-book fall from his hands and reached themboth out to me.

  I flirted my jeweled fan at him and swept him a courtesy.

  Cool? No, I wasn't. Not a bit of it. He was daffy with the sight ofme in all that glory, and I knew it.

  "Nance," he whispered, "you wonderful girl, if I didn't know about thatlittle thief up at the Bronsonia I'd--I'd marry you alive, just for thefun of piling pretty things on you."

  "The deuce you would!" I sailed past him, with Topham and my Lord inmy wake.

  They didn't leave me till they'd stripped me clean. I felt like aChristmas tree the day after. But, somehow, I didn't care.