A Pasteboard Crown: A Story of the New York Stage

by Clara Morris

"N—o!" assented Roberts, regretfully. "I should have enjoyed handing in her dismissal. But go ahead with your orders! The job must be pretty tough, judging from the way you hang fire in naming it."

Thrall turned, and his face startled Roberts. It was so pale, so drawn, so anxious, he seemed to have washed away all its youth and pride and brightness, along with the grease paint and the rouge, in the basin of soapy water. He turned his troubled eyes in silent reproach upon the speaker, who asked, in a more respectful tone: "Well, what is it?"

"It is," said Thrall, turning to the shelf and taking up a brush, which he began to use hurriedly upon his hair, "it's the child, Jim—the Princess! She—well, she's had a blow. The moment I'm out of here I'll run against some of the boys from the papers, then I'll have to see the Missus home—and stay there. And, Jim, those two women are all alone in that house, and should the child go to pieces, and need a doctor's care——"

Jim muttered an oath. "As bad as that?" he asked, fiercely. "Didn't she know?"

"Oh, I don't know—I don't know anything to-night," groaned Thrall, "except her need of protection! Jim, can't you go there? Jane Stivers will let you in, quietly; she'll give you a couch in the parlor to rest until dawn, and you can carry that old medicine case with you, too, so that any early rising neighbor may mistake you for a doctor leaving the house. Then, should any need arise, you would be on hand to serve her, and I—[he dropped the brush and held his head hard between his hands] I should be a trifle farther away from the insane asylum! Will you do it? Say, speak quick! I've got to hurry down to the Missus! Jim, what the devil brought her back from London so suddenly, though she will tell me presently herself, I suppose?"

And Jim answered: "Manice brought her back—well, you see if I'm not right! She's been sending anonymous letters. Y-e-s, I'll follow Stivers, and stand by till morning. Hand down that medicine-case. But I'm doing it for her sake, not yours, mind you!"

And then Stewart Thrall, with a pang at his heart, had seen Sybil leave the theatre on Stivers's arm, while he, with seeming gayety, was presenting Mrs. Thrall to a little group of friends, among whom were a couple of ubiquitous newspaper men—hence the "Stage Notes" next day.

Early Sunday morning Stewart had slipped from his room and the house, and hurrying off in search of Jim Roberts had found him at his boarding-house, already well on the way to complete inebriation, early as it was; and so unruly, headstrong, and unmanageable that it was difficult indeed to learn anything about the passing of the night at Stivers's house; and what he did wring from him only added to his own pain.

"For two hours by that cussed watch," said Jim, flinging the scratched and dented timepiece across the room, "minute by minute, I watched and listened to her unceasing walk—walk—walk over my head. She had shut Stivers out! She had acted a five-act tragedy twice that day, she had had neither dinner nor supper, and there she was walking miles up there alone—in the night! And then we heard speaking, and Jane and I listened on the stairs, and she was saying, over and over—oh, how I wish you had died last summer, Thrall, you with your infernal soft eyes and girl lashes and stony, hard heart! Friendship?—nothing! How can there be friendship without mutual respect and esteem and good will? You've a lot of esteem for me, haven't you? Well, I've less for you! Why should I tell you what she said or did? Oh, the past! You let that past alone, do you hear? Poor child, saying over and over, 'Too early seen unknown and known too late! known too late! known too late!' Oh, you're going, are you? Well, I was starting for a doctor when that cat Stivers played her last card. She said: 'Miss Sybil, dear, you must take a little nourishment, or I shall send this telegram I've written to your mamma, Mrs. Lawton, and she will be here by ten in the morning. I can't have you fainting from exhaustion, and me getting the blame;' and at that the door opened quickly, and the cup of beef-tea was accepted. Stivers even got the chance to brush her hair a bit, but not one word did she speak of any trouble or worry, other than that she 'was suffering from an attack of the nerves.' Poor, plucky little soul! She'd never give anyone away! Well, go! I'm devilish glad to see your back, for your face puts murder in my heart!"

And as Thrall left Jim, who was dragging a full flask from his pocket, he muttered to himself: "God! I begin to understand what makes drunkards of some men! Oh, my beloved! my beloved! If I could only go to you—claim you before all the world—do you public reverence! Perhaps—I wonder if Lettice would accept her freedom, we are such utter strangers to each other—perhaps——"