Then he went on home.
He found Alice dressing for a ball, and Oliver waiting for her. He went to his room, and took off his coat; and Oliver came up to him, and with a sudden gesture reached over to his shoulder, and held up a trophy.
He drew it out carefully, and measured the length of it, smiling mischievously in the meanwhile. Then he held it up to the light, to see the colour of it.
“A black one!” he cried. “Coal black!” And he looked at his brother, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, Allan!” he chuckled.
Montague said nothing.
CHAPTER XX
It was about a week from the beginning of Lent, when there would be a lull in the city’s gaieties, and Society would shift the scene of its activities to the country clubs, and to California and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. Mrs. Caroline Smythe invited Alice to join her in an expedition to the last-named place; but Montague interposed, because he saw that Alice had been made pale and nervous by three months of night-and-day festivities. Also, a trip to Florida would necessitate ten or fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of new clothes; and these would not do for the summer, it appeared—they would be faded and passe by that time.
So Alice settled back to rest; but she was too popular to be let alone—a few days later came another invitation, this time from General Prentice and his family. They were planning a railroad trip—to be gone for a month; they would have a private train, and twenty five people in the party, and would take in California and Mexico—“swinging round the circle,” as it was called. Alice was wild to go, and Montague gave his consent. Afterward he learned to his dismay that Charlie Carter was one of those invited, and he would have liked to have Alice withdraw; but she did not wish to, and he could not make up his mind to insist.
These train trips were the very latest diversion of the well-to-do; a year ago no one had heard of them, and now fifty parties were leaving New York every month. You might see a dozen of such hotel-trains at once at Palm Beach; there were some people who lived on board all the time, having special tracks built for them in pleasant locations wherever they stopped. One man had built a huge automobile railroad car, shaped like a ram, and having accommodation for sixty people. The Prentice train had four cars, one of them a “library car,” finished in St. Iago mahogany, and provided with a pipe-organ. Also there were bath-rooms and a barber-shop, and a baggage car with two autos on board for exploring purposes.
Since the episode of Mrs. Winnie, Oliver had apparently concluded that his brother was one of the initiated. Not long afterward he permitted him to a glimpse into that side of his life which had been hinted at in the songs at the bachelors’ dinner.
Oliver had planned to take Betty Wyman to the theatre; but Betty’s grandfather had come home from the West unexpectedly, and so Oliver came round and took his brother instead.
“I was going to play a joke on her,” he said. “We’ll go to see one of my old flames.”
It was a translation of a French farce, in which the marital infidelities of two young couples were the occasion of many mishaps. One of the characters was a waiting-maid, who was in love with a handsome young soldier, and was pursued by the husband of one of the couples. It was a minor part, but the young Jewish girl who played it had so many pretty graces and such a merry laugh that she made it quite conspicuous. When the act was over, Oliver asked him whose acting he liked best, and he named her.
“Come and be introduced to her,” Oliver said.
He opened a door near their box. “How do you do, Mr. Wilson,” he said, nodding to a man in evening dress, who stood near by. Then he turned toward the dressing-rooms, and went down a corridor, and knocked upon one of the doors. A voice called, “Come in,” and he opened the door; and there was a tiny room, with odds and ends of clothing scattered about, and the girl, clad in corsets and underskirt, sitting before a mirror. “Hello, Rosalie,” said he.
And she dropped her powder-puff, and sprang up with a cry—“Ollie!” ‘In a moment more she had her arms about his neck.
“Oh, you wretched man,” she cried. “Why don’t you come to see me any more? Didn’t you get my letters?”
“I got some,” said he. “But I’ve been busy. This is my brother, Mr. Allan Montague.”
The other nodded to Montague, and said, “How do you do?”—but without letting go of Oliver. “Why don’t you come to see me?” she exclaimed.
“There, there, now!” said Oliver, laughing good-naturedly. “I brought my brother along so that you’d have to behave yourself.”
“I don’t care about your brother!” exclaimed the girl, without even giving him another glance. Then she held Oliver at arm’s length, and gazed into his face. “How can you be so cruel to me?” she asked.
“I told you I was busy,” said he, cheerfully. “And I gave you fair warning, didn’t I? How’s Toodles?”
“Oh, Toodles is in raptures,” said Rosalie. “She’s got a new fellow.” And then, her manner changing to one of merriment, she added: “Oh, Ollie! He gave her a diamond brooch! And she looks like a countess—she’s hoping for a chance to wear it in a part!”
“You’ve seen Toodles,” said Oliver, to his brother “She’s in ‘The Kaliph of Kamskatka.’”.
“They’re going on the road next week,” said Rosalie. “And then I’ll be all alone.” She added, in a pleading voice: “Do, Ollie, be a good boy and take us out to-night. Think how long it’s been since I’ve seen you! Why, I’ve been so good I don’t know myself in the looking-glass. Please, Ollie!”
“All right,” said he, “maybe I will.”
“I’m not going to let you get away from me,” she cried. “I’ll come right over the footlights after you!”
“You’d better get dressed,” said Oliver. “You’ll be late.”
He pushed aside a tray with some glasses on it, and seated himself upon a trunk; and Montague stood in a corner and watched Rosalie, while she powdered and painted herself, and put on an airy summer dress, and poured out a flood of gossip about “Toodles” and “Flossie” and “Grace” and some others. A few minutes later came a stentorian voice in the hallway: “Second act!” There were more embraces, and then Ollie brushed the powder from his coat, and went away laughing.
Montague stood for a few moments in the wings, watching the scene-shifters putting the final touches to the new set, and the various characters taking their positions. Then they went out to their seats. “Isn’t she a jewel?” asked Oliver.
“She’s very pretty,” the other admitted.
“She came right out of the slums,” said Oliver—“over on Rivington Street. That don’t happen very often.”
“How did you come to know her?” asked his brother.
“Oh, I picked her out. She was in a chorus, then. I got her first speaking part.”
“Did you?” said the other, in surprise. “How did you do that?”
“Oh, a little money,” was the reply. “Money will do most anything. And I was in love with her—that’s how I got her.”
Montague said nothing, but sat in thought.
“We’ll take her out to supper and make her happy,” added Oliver, as the curtain started up. “She’s lonesome, I guess. You see, I promised Betty I’d reform.”
All through that scene and the next one Rosalie acted for them; she was so full of verve and merriment that there was quite a stir in the audience, and she got several rounds of applause. Then, when the play was over, she extricated herself from the arms of the handsome young soldier, and fled to her dressing-room, and when Oliver and Montague arrived, she was half ready for the street.