"I supposed you knew," was Will's response.
"O, you did! Um! I never say anything about being married, either, when I go away for a lark.... Never mind, I'll forgive you if you'll call me up. Where are you stopping? How long is your wife going to be in town?" The rest was drowned in the approach of the car.
We did not go to Mamma Heward's this time. Heretofore when Will played Chicago we had lived at a theatrical boarding-house kept by a dear little old Scotch lady. Her's was one of the few good ones throughout the country. Unfortunately one had to take a long trolley ride to reach her house and Will's performances ended late. Then, too, he had heard that the table had gone off and that the service was inadequate. I imagine, however, that Will felt he had outgrown the boarding-house days. He decided upon a family hotel on the north side.
During the week I called on Mamma Heward and took Boy with me. It was the first time she had seen him and she raved over him sufficiently to satisfy even a young mother's vanity. She enquired after Will and had kept in touch with his progress. She had always been fond of him and had dubbed him Bobby Burns, whom he somewhat resembled. I saw she felt hurt by our apparent desertion and tried to assure her that we should be much happier and more comfortable with her; that if it were not for the distance from the theatre——
The dear little old lady patted my hand as if to spare me further dissemblance.
"That's the excuse they all give, but it's no farther than ever it was and the theatres are as near as ever they were," she said sadly, the Scotch burr falling musically upon the ear. "It isn't that.... They're forgetting me now they're getting up in the world. It didn't use to be too far when they couldn't pay more than eight or ten dollars a week for their board ... and the little suppers Mamma had waiting for them after the theatre...."
She sighed but there was no trace of bitterness. "It's what you must expect when you get old and worn out.... It's the way of the world and God was always harder on women than he is on men."
There was no answer I could make; I could not have spoken had there been anything to say. I felt choked and on the verge of tears. It was all so pitiful. There was an air of desolation about the place. The warmth which prosperity radiates was no longer evident. Where formerly there had been leading players, even a star or two, now there were only the lower ranks, and but few of them. Nothing remained of the good old days save the rows and rows of photographs which lined the walls, all of them autographed and inscribed "With love, to Mamma Heward." Arm in arm we reviewed this galaxy of players.
"There is ——," she said, stopping in front of a well-known actor. "And that's his first wife. She was a dear, good girl. I'm afraid Herbert didn't treat her as well as he should. Many's the time she has cried out her heart in Mamma's arms.... She's married again—no, not an actor—and she's got two boys, the littlest one the size of yours.... Now could you ever guess who that is? Yes, that's —— when he was leading man with Modjeska. The women were crazy about him.... And he was a dear—such a kind-hearted man. I remember once how he kept the furnace going when our man got drunk and disappeared for three days. If only I had a picture of him shovelling in coal—his sleeves rolled up and spouting Macbeth at the top of his lungs.... Dear old Morry! He was his own worst enemy...."
She sighed heavily over the actor's bad end. "And there! Do you recognize that? And isn't the boy the livin' image of his father?"