Mrs. Mollett's Saturday suppers were as much of an institution as the beans themselves. Our hostess was a bright, intelligent little woman without the pretense of the intellectual. Externally, she had all the ear-marks of a Boston woman. She wore the practical but disfiguring goloshes of a Boston winter and she carried a reticule. Her dress might have been made in Paris, but it had a true New England hang to it. It wasn't a component part of her; it was a thing apart. Her skin was rough and fretted with pin-wrinkles. I never saw a jar of cold cream on her dressing-table.
The Molletts enjoyed a comfortable income which they appeared to use judiciously. Their home was comfortable and in good taste. Their library was a treat; not merely fine bindings and rare editions. The volumes showed an intimate acquaintance with the owner. By the process of elimination they had formed a selected chain of the better class of actors, who found a warm welcome awaiting them whenever they played Boston. The Molletts' leaning toward the artistic had no taint of the free-and-easy predilection. The element of illusion furnished by their player friends was precisely the variety needed to counteract the monotony of their daily routine. Both sides benefited by the exchange.
Boston was the first stand on tour. The second season had opened with a six weeks' engagement in New York and one, two or more weeks were booked in the larger cities. The original company was advertised and—rare integrity—maintained. Will decided that it was cheaper to carry the boy and me on the road than to keep up two establishments. Luckily we sublet our apartment. I was for sending Experience back to her home, though I had become sincerely attached to her and so had Boy. Will declared we could not manage without a nurse. I assured him we could. "You don't suppose you can carry that Buster around in your arms, do you? And wouldn't I look nice climbing on and off trains, and coming into hotels with a baby in my arms? Pretty picture for a matinée idol! No, ma'am, Experience remains. Besides," he smiled at me, "a nurse and a valet help to make a good front. It'll keep the management guessing."
Unfortunately the management were not the only ones kept guessing. Good hotels were expensive and Will's position did not permit him to stop at any other kind. It worried me a great deal to see Will's envelope come in on Tuesday and scarcely anything left on Wednesday when we had paid the bills. I suspected, too, that Will had some debts hanging over from last season. I knew he had drawn on the management during the summer. We foolishly took a cottage at Allenhurst on the sea, where we spent our holidays. The week-end parties proved expensive. It was easily accessible to New York and I never knew how popular Will was with the profession until that summer. I regretted we had not gone back to the farm in the Catskills.
I saw a great deal more of Will on the road than I had in New York. There was no Lambs' Club and, though Will had guest-cards to clubs in various cities, there was not the lure of intimate association. We took long walks together, browsed in the book-shops, visited public buildings such as the library in Boston, and sometimes lunched or "tead" with friends. Will did not care to accept invitations to dinner; he said it made him "logey" to dine late and interfered with his evening performances. Altogether we came nearer to the old intimacy and comradeship than we had known for several years. At Christmas time we planned the boy's first tree. We believed he was now old enough to appreciate it. Santa Claus now became a name to conjure with; it acted as a bribe to good behaviour or a threat of punishment.
Will and I went shopping together. The big toy-shops proved the most fascinating things in the world. We spent hours looking at the wonders of toy-land which the present-day child enjoys. Will said it made him feel like a boy and surely it brought out all the youth in his nature. His eyes would snap and sparkle with delight over a miniature railway with practicable engine and carriages, electric head-lights, block signals and the like. "Gee! What wouldn't I have given for an outfit like that when I was a kid!" he would exclaim. As for me, I couldn't make up my mind which I enjoyed the most; the pretty children who crowded the shop or the toys they came to see.
We made several visits to Santa Claus land without being able to decide what would best please Boy. Experience advised us to have him make his own choice. When Experience took him for a tour of the shops he decided upon everything in the place. Suddenly the whole world faded into insignificance: "Senyder!" he stuttered, pointing imperiously to a dog whose breed seemed as indeterminate as the prototype. All dogs were Snyders to Boy, but perhaps the perpetual motion of the tail which wagged automatically reminded him most strongly of the original. It did no good to tell him that Santa Claus would bring Snyder down the chimney. Boy had his own ideas about fairies and their ilk. He refused to leave the shop without the dog. Needless to say the dog went home with us. Will never could endure Boy's shrieks. But, in extenuation, let it be said that not one of the toys Boy found grouped about his tree on Christmas morning—and their name was legion—gave him the joy he found in the mongrel pup. Miss Burton sent a box from far-off San Francisco, where she was playing. The Chinese dolls interested him for a moment, but his heart was true to Snyder. He slept with him, shared his food with him, sobbed out his childish grief with Snyder in his arms, and refused to part with his faithful friend even when old age robbed him of his woolly coat and shiny eyes.
The star gave a party on Christmas Eve. When the curtain went down on the last act, the applause was choked off by the flashing on of the house lights. The stage-manager gave the order to strike, and in a short time the stage was clear. The carpenters then put together the improvised banquet board—great long planks of lumber resting upon saw-horses. From the iron landing of the first tier of spiral stairs upon which Will's dressing-room gave I watched the caterer's men lay the table. I had spent the latter part of the evening in the cubby hole—a rare occurrence, since I seldom went behind the scenes except with friends of Will's who had attended the performance and who wanted to see what the back of the stage looked like.
Shortly before twelve o'clock the members of the company and a few outside guests assembled on the stage—where they were received by the star-hostess. In the midst of the chatter the lights went out. At first everyone thought it an accident until a bell in the distance chimed the witching hour. As the last stroke died away a faint jingle of sleigh bells wafted across the air. Nearer and louder they came, interspersed with the snap of a whip. A great shaft of light from above shot obliquely across the stage. From out of the clouds, as it seemed, a full-fledged Santa Claus descended like a flying machine. With the aid of a little "sneaky" music furnished by the orchestra and the faithful spot-light which dogged his very footsteps, Santy placed the huge tree in the centre of the table and unloaded his pack. With many a grotesque antic he surveyed his labour of love and finally, having sampled the contents of a decanter which graced the table, he rubbed his much padded pouch in satisfaction, laughed merrily, shouted a "merry Christmas to you all," and disappeared into the clouds. The effect was so bewitching and so eerie that old Kris received a spontaneous "hand" on his exit.
I thought of Boy and how much he would have enjoyed the scene. Myriad little lights twinkled like stars upon the wonderful trees. A warm, red glow poured from imaginary fireplaces off stage. To the accompaniment of ohs! and ahs! and a merry potpourri from the orchestra we took our seats at table. I am sure any audience would gladly have paid a premium for tickets to this special performance.