A GLIMPSE INTO THE PAST
"This is the sun parlor, Pinkie," cried Flossie, ushering in the girl who had just found a haven of refuge and a sanctuary for the penniless at the Springs. "My word, but we do put on style at this rest-cure. I'm having the time of my young life."
Pinkie Lexington gazed around her, and sighed with relief. The well-dressed women in the distance made her instinctively think of her own somewhat bedraggled tailor-made suit, badly wrinkled from the train journey. Even at its best, it suggested the "Take me home for $12.99" signs of the bargain counters. Furthermore, Pinkie's hat was of the early spring vintage, and the ribbon was faded. Her pride and her glory had always been her hair, large blond masses of which protruded from beneath the rim of her straw hat, but a visit to a hair-dresser was a luxury Pinkie had not known in months. Added to this, Pinkie had become unusually heavy—and therefore always in need of the most perfect grooming in order to keep up appearances—and it may be easily understood that she was not appearing to the best advantage. This fact Flossie had noticed with keen inward delight, for her own smartness and prettiness naturally took on added luster when placed in contrast with poor Pinkie's poverty.
But Pinkie sighed with contentment. Notwithstanding a few personal deficiencies of dress and adornment, it was a relief to be in a hotel where one could be assured of three excellent meals a day.
"It's grand to be in a real place after those awful one-night stands," sighed Pinkie. "But I'm afraid I won't really enjoy it—I'm on a diet."
"What?" inquired Flossie.
"I'm reducing," insisted Pinkie, sadly.
"Why didn't you go on a diet last week when you were broke?" demanded Flossie. "Now, you are here as my guest, and if you don't eat I'll be insulted. Just wait until I introduce you to Mr. Zinsheimer."
"I'm just dying to meet him," said Pinkie, demurely. "Feathers, isn't it?"
"One of the biggest importers in New York," said Flossie, proudly. "He's a real gentleman. Nothing but wine."
"I know I shall like him," repeated Pinkie.
Flossie peered at her chum suspiciously, and then laughed.
"Well, don't like him too much. I saw him first."
Pinkie's large eyes almost filled with tears.
"Why, Flossie, how can you? I'm sure I don't want to steal your gentleman friend."
Flossie put her arm affectionately around Pinkie's somewhat large waist and laughed.
"Never mind, dear, I was only joking. Of course you know it is understood that Mr. Zinsheimer and I are to get married as soon as my lawsuit is settled."
Zinsheimer himself entered at this juncture, and Pinkie was formally introduced to the generous feather importer. She started to cry as he patted her hand cordially, holding it just a trifle longer than was absolutely necessary, and thereby eliciting a warning look from the alert Flossie.
"Oh, Mr. Zinsheimer, it's such a relief to meet a real gentleman," cried Pinkie, half in tears. "Honestly, I could almost hug you for your kindness to a poor little shipwrecked, stranded girl. I am so helpless and alone."
"There, there, now, don't cry," protested "Marky." "Your Uncle Marky will see that you don't go hungry this trip."
At this point Flossie dexterously inserted herself between the couple and coughed until "Marky" let Pinkie's hand drop.
"Didn't I say you'd like him, Pinkie?" she observed sharply.
"Let's go over and play roulette," suggested Zinsheimer. "Maybe we can win enough to get Pinkie a new outfit, eh?" And he looked doubtfully over the somewhat worn suit which was poor Pinkie's only possession.
At that Pinkie sobbed audibly. "I'm sorry to disgrace you," she wailed, "but the horrid manager of the hotel in Indianapolis wouldn't let me take my trunk until I paid him seventeen dollars and forty-five cents. And where could I get all that money?"
Zinsheimer patted her hand encouragingly. "Come over to the Casino," he whispered. "We'll try our luck at the wheel." And with Flossie clinging to his right arm and Pinkie to his left, the genial feather importer started toward the Casino. At the head of the stairway the trio almost collided with Mrs. Dainton's footman, who was carrying the Pomeranian. Close behind came Mrs. Dainton herself, her maids, and her manager. Zinsheimer whispered to the girls quickly.
"That's the English actress," he said quietly. "I once knew her, but we don't speak now as we pass by. Let's be real supercilious."
So, as Zinsheimer and the girls passed by ostentatiously, Pinkie and Flossie, taking their cue, broke forth into peals of merry laughter, while Zinsheimer so guided the party that Mrs. Dainton had to step to one side to avoid Flossie's rattling chatelaines.
Mrs. Dainton sank into an easy-chair, and Victor hurriedly adjusted the cushions for her comfort.
"I beg Madame's pardon, but when shall we leave?" inquired the obsequious personal manager.
"I don't expect to leave at all," replied Mrs. Dainton, sharply.
Anxious to get her back to New York, Mrs. Dainton's manager hoped this last annoyance would move her.
"But the rehearsals for your new play," he said.
"Wire the New York management to send the company out here. We will rehearse here."
Weldon could not refrain from an audible expression of despair, being for a moment dumbfounded at the thought of the expense. Neither Mrs. Dainton nor her manager noticed that a young girl in a simple black gown, who had evidently been searching for a magazine left in one of the chairs, had heard what they said.
"But if the players don't suit—" expostulated Weldon.
"Send them back to New York and get another lot."
"But that will be very expensive."
"What of that?" inquired Mrs. Dainton, languidly. "It's not my money."
Weldon hesitated and then bowed.
"Just as you say, Madame," he said weakly. "I will wire the New York management." And scarcely able to conceal his indignation at this latest whim, Weldon withdrew to telegraph their New York backers the full details of her latest eccentricity.
Martha Farnum, still holding the magazine she had recovered, hesitated. Then, struck by a sudden thought, she came forward timidly to the famous actress.
"May I—may I speak to you just for a moment?" she asked nervously.
Mrs. Dainton turned in surprise, looked her over carefully from head to foot, and asked carelessly: "Who are you?"
"My name is Martha Farnum, and—"
"I heard you just now—"
"It isn't a nice thing to listen."
"But I couldn't help it—"
"You mean I spoke so loudly?"
"No—but you spoke so distinctly—"
Mrs. Dainton smiled with pleasure. "The critics always said my voice carried well, and that my enunciation was perfect," she said, flattered. "Well, what can I do for you, my dear?"
Martha hesitated and stammered. "I—I am anxious to go on the stage," she faltered.
"What can you do?" inquired Mrs. Dainton.
"I cannot tell until I have tried," confessed Martha.
"You mean you have had no experience? I'm sorry, but I've made it a rule never to give any young girl her first engagement on the stage."
"But why?" gasped Martha.
"Because I don't approve of their going on the stage."
"Yet you yourself have won success," argued Martha. "And you must have started some time."
Motioning Martha to bring a chair and sit beside her, Mrs. Dainton leaned forward impulsively and took her hands in her own.
"You don't know all that my success has cost me, my dear," she said simply. "Success is a wonderful thing, but the road to it is paved with temptations."
"I know all that, but surely there must be some way to overcome the obstacles," insisted Martha.
"I once thought the same," mused Mrs. Dainton, with a far-away look in her eyes. "But there came a time when I hated myself, and all the world. Shall I tell you a story, my dear?"
"I would love to hear it," replied Martha, earnestly, gazing into the eyes of the elder woman.
"Once there was another girl, like you: young, ambitious, innocent," began Mrs. Dainton, softly. "She, too, was poor and wretched. But some people called her handsome. As so many others have done under similar circumstances, she turned toward the stage. She commenced at the very bottom in the chorus of a London musical production. The company she was with came to America, and little by little she progressed, but oh, it was such hard work and the poverty was so grinding. Her salary was almost nothing. Soon, in this strange country, she was in debt. The landlady of her boarding-house was kind for a week or so, but the girl was hopelessly involved. Then, one day, a note came to the theater. She opened it, and found inside—a hundred-dollar bill."
"A hundred-dollar bill?" repeated Martha, wonderingly.
"Yes, without a word of explanation. The girl didn't know what to do with the money. She could not return it. She finally spent it."
"A hundred dollars!" repeated Martha.
"A few nights later came another note. Another hundred-dollar bill. A third and a fourth followed. Flowers, diamonds, a love-letter, and last of all—a man."
"A man?" repeated Martha, curiously.
"The man had a fortune. The girl was penniless. She couldn't repay the money, for she had spent it. The man was kind, courteous, good-looking—in short, just the kind of man to win a girl's heart."
"And so they were married?" ventured Martha.
"No, my dear." Mrs. Dainton shook her head sadly. "They did not marry. He gave her everything money could buy, and she, poor fool, accepted it. When the inevitable happened, when the man left her without a word of farewell, she reaped the bitterness she had sown. But the experience gave her renewed energy. She was determined to triumph in spite of it. And she did. She succeeded. Years afterward she met that man again. She saw him humble himself a second time before her feet and beg her love in vain."
"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."