Before "William Tell" was half over it became evident that Teddy's place was more than filled. There were those among the audience who assured me later that they had penetrated the disguise early in the performance; but, if so, they exhibited rare powers of self-control, for they did not remark upon it at the time, nor indeed until the whole calamitous story had come out and been town-talk for days. Some queer esprit de corps kept the girls from spreading the miserable truth about Teddy. Sick! We knew only too well what was the matter with him; but that was no reason why we should proclaim it to the world. We entered into the conspiracy of silence, partly from a real generosity of spirit and desire to shield the poor fellow, and partly because, as Mazie sagaciously pointed out, talking about it would certainly discredit a girl (in a manner of speaking) with the other men. Mazie undoubtedly possessed some of the qualities of a born leader, among them that of getting herself listened to, without being either disagreeable or ridiculous; no one of us, not even Kitty, would have questioned her knowledge of men and their ways. We knew a dozen who were prettier, better bred, cleverer, and kinder than Mazie Pallinder, but, when it came to influence, they were nowhere beside her. Even now, I believe if she came into my life again, with her sallow, paint-touched face, her slip-shod pronunciation, her odd flat black eyes, her ineffably appropriate and beautiful clothes—I say, even now, I should probably follow and imitate her as I did then!

But when the curtain went up on "Mrs. Tankerville's Tiara," and the moment arrived when Huddesley must appear as Teddy with no disguise save that of a livery and false whiskers, we trembled for the success of the deception. We might have spared our worry; Huddesley came on in the ballroom scene with which the play opened, handing a tray of ices—and he was so like Teddy in face and movements that even upon the stage where the devices of his make-up could be studied close at hand, the effect was startling. Plus roi que le roi, he was; he passed his tray not like a butler imitating a gentleman, but like a gentleman imitating a butler; he dropped his h's and stumblingly forgot to drop them with all Teddy's humorous self-consciousness. He managed his double part so well, no light task even for a finished actor, that he achieved a kind of equality with us; we forgot that he was Doctor Vardaman's servant. The thing was so much a matter for gratulations that I think we scarcely remembered it was also a matter for wonder. If J. B. or the other men felt any uneasiness they did not reveal it; but, so ingenuously self-centred is youth, it is probable we were much too deeply interested, everyone in his own appearance and the impression he was making, to be genuinely concerned about anybody else.

The audience about whom I had had such fearsome fancies must have been singularly lenient, even more so than such audiences usually are to such performers. My recollection is that, excepting Huddesley, we were too bad even to be funny. "Mrs. Tankerville" is a good stirring comedy-drama, of the type Boucicault and Tom Taylor made so popular during the quarter-century succeeding 1850; there is an abundance of vivid dialogue, with plenty of "points," and plenty of "situations." But what it all became in our hands is a dire memory. Mazie, it is true, made a splendid figure on the stage, and was quite dashing and theatrical, but she forgot two-thirds of her lines, and in the great scene where she accused Muriel of the robbery, had to be prompted at every other word. And Muriel—well, there was no blinking the fact, Muriel was a "stick." She was so big and gentle and honest-looking that no sane person in stage-land or out of it, could have suspected her for a moment of anything more criminal, say, than hopping into bed to say her prayers because her feet were cold! The excitement flushed her so that it was visible through her paint, and she did not look so statuesquely calm and finished as usual; nervousness, which is unbecoming to everybody, set particularly ill on a person of her weight and inches. She knew every word of her part, and recited it with the conscientiousness which she would have shown to the Catechism—and with much the same expression! She replied to Mazie's halting tirades in the tone and with the air of someone declining a cup of afternoon tea. "Will you drive me into the street?" she remarked amiably, and her manner suggested: "Well, all right, just wait till I get my hat on!" Kitty mimicked her in the bedroom, until the rest of us were feeble with laughter. Owing to Colonel Pallinder's forethought, the machinery of the curtain and footlights worked perfectly, and the stage-settings were orderly and accurate; but aside from these, every accident known to the production of amateur theatricals befell us. At one juncture, when there should have been a "loud crash" behind the scenes, none occurred, no one in particular having been entrusted with that feature of the performance; and, in the midst of a dead silence, Jimmie Hathaway found himself obliged to exclaim, "Good Heavens! What is all that infernal din about?" To make matters worse, some over-zealous person immediately thereon made a "loud crash," and Jimmie, lacking the presence of mind to repeat his former remark, went on with the next speech: "Everything is quiet as the grave, now. What could it have been?" The general verdict was that J. B. did very well, even in the love-scenes where we had thought he would make a failure of it; but J. B. was deservedly popular anyway. He triumphed by sheer force of personality. The young fellow was so kind and hearty and good-looking he could not but be pleasing. Whatever applause "Mrs. Tankerville" brought forth (and that of a sadly feeble and perfunctory nature, I fear) went to him, and none of us grudged it.

The play has three acts, and our much-enduring audience had sat through two of them, when Huddesley waylaid Mazie behind the scenes as she was rushing back for one of her numerous changes of costume. These afforded a species of entertainment that was "not in the bill," as some humourist observed; "Mrs. Tankerville's" clothes were one of the few points of real interest about the performance.

"Miss Pallinder?" said Huddesley, timidly halting in her way.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Here's the di'monds," said Huddesley, presenting the box, done up for the sake of stage-effect in a rather large and lumbering parcel. "I've been carrying 'em around like you told me to, so they'd be safe. I didn't want to give 'em to hanybody but you, and I've got to go now. You know I don't have to show again, except where Mr. Taylor comes in and sees me in the mirror, and plugs me over with the pistol-shot, and then they drag me out from behind the screen. And I thought anybody could put on the clothes for that, as long as the audience don't see anything but just a body——"

"Yes, but what's the matter? Why can't you finish?" asked Mazie, a little startled. She took the box mechanically, and edged toward her room.

"If you please, ma'am, I ain't feelin' very well. I think maybe it's the wet cold night. It's just come over me—I've got a kind of bad turn on the stomach and——"

"Oh, I'm so sorry," interrupted Mazie, fearful from his manner that Huddesley was about to enter on some embarrassing details. "Better go down and ask my father for some whisky—he's in the dining-room—tell him I sent you. But what shall we do—oh, Mr. Carson?"

The enslaved Chorus, who figured in a small part in "Mrs. Tankerville," approached; he was always hanging around whenever Mazie went on or left the stage, in hopes of a word. But the girl now saw him, to her surprise, in overcoat and hat.

"You're not going?" she asked, with a pang of regret; she wished, momentarily, that she had been "nicer" to him. Whether a woman cares for a man or not, she never sees him leave her without dismay. "You're not going?" said Mazie, directing a troubled and wistful smile upon him.

"Can't help it, Miss Pallinder," said Bob, warming to the very marrow at her glance. "I—I hate to awfully. But it's getting late, you know, and I've got to meet my sister; her train will be in about midnight."

"Oh, it's not that yet."

"Pretty near."

"But, Mr. Carson, I don't know what we—I don't know what I shall do without you. I haven't anybody to go to but you. Such a pity about Mr. Johns, isn't it—his being taken sick, I mean—it's upset everything dreadfully. Here's Huddesley——"

Huddesley explained volubly—"And if you, or somebody of the young gentlemen could just put on the clothes, Mr. Robert, the audience will never know the difference; they don't see anything but the body when they drag me out after Mr. Taylor's shot me. I've got a bad turn on my stomach and——"

"All right," said Bob hastily. "Is that package the diamonds? They have to find 'em on you, don't they? Here, I'll do it—I guess I can make the train anyhow. Come along and get the costume off, Huddesley, you want to hurry."

Mazie stopped him, with a hand on his arm. "Oh, Mr. Carson, we—I ought to give Huddesley something, oughtn't I? For coming this evening? It was very accommodating, you know, he isn't like a darky servant. What ought I to give him? Five dollars? Ten dollars?" she whispered, with a manner of special confidence that was like a caress to the young man.

"Never mind, Ma—Miss Pallinder," he said, absurdly tremulous and excited. "I'll see about it—don't worry—it's like you to think of it—you're so—that is——" words forsook him. "I'll fix Huddesley, you know," he faltered, chafing privately at the limitations of etiquette and the English language. Mazie rewarded him with a long look, and walked off.

By this time, in the crowded area behind the scenes, what with gas-jets burning full head on, the smell of cookery coming up the back stairs, sawdust, recent paint, cut flowers, innumerable other odours perfectly impossible to classify, the air had grown well-nigh unbearable. Everybody was overheated and out of temper; the play dragged on stupidly. I went down to the second landing for a breath of fresh air, and was standing there by the open window, in, I suppose, the only quiet and cool spot in the whole house, when someone came with a rush down the stairs. It was Huddesley. I remember being struck, as I turned and saw him, with the sharp rigidity of his features; devoid of paint and false beard, they resembled a parchment mask. There was an animal swiftness in his movements, yet he stopped short as we faced, taking the last three steps with an air of leisure, and a certain reckless and impudent triumph in his glance. He had something in his hand, and I recall the jaunty motion with which he tossed and caught it—it was a gold coin—and thrust it deep in his pocket; Bob's money, no doubt, but I knew nothing of that, and seeing the man pause, looked at him inquiringly "Why, if there ain't little tootsie that I made a face at!" he said. "Sorry I scared you, toots! Bye-bye!" And while I yet stood in a helpless stupor of surprise, passed an arm around my bare shoulders, twitched my chin into his hand, and—he was gone with a laugh, out of the house, and out of our lives! I may fairly say that of all that company I was the last to have any dealings with Huddesley; and I took care, as may be imagined, that no one else should know the picturesque circumstances of his departure. Fortunately my testimony was not necessary, was not even asked. He went, and the night received him into its dark world of wet and wind and tossing branches. No exit could have been more appropriate, more typical.

A moment later the thunderous rumble of chairs and outburst of voices overhead announced that "Mrs. Tankerville's Tiara" had at last run its disastrous course. It was very late; "William Tell" had not begun until nearly ten o'clock, and the encores had taken up a good deal of time. The second play had not been prolonged by undue enthusiasm from the audience, at any rate; yet I doubt if they were as weary of it as we. It hung on in spite of us; the speeches that we had heard till flesh and spirit fairly recoiled from the sound of them (and yet no one knew his own!) simply would not get themselves said. We had reached the mood when we hated the smooth and conscientious politeness of our hearers.

"Up at the 'Peoples' they'd guy this thing off the stage," one young man said to another. "And serves us right, too!"

"I wish to goodness we'd stopped with 'Tell,' the audience wouldn't have been so tired——"

"Audience! It's a congregation!" said Kitty Oldham savagely. "And I'm glad the obsequies are over. 'Mrs. Tankerville' is dead and buried—for mercy's sake, don't anyone mention her name to me again!"

"You did awfully well, Miss Kitty—you reminded me of Lotta."

"Of course," said Kitty with neat sarcasm. "Now go and tell Muriel she reminded you of Bernhardt!"

"She looked more like Mrs. Langtry, didn't she?" said her companion diplomatically. "But Miss Pallinder now did have a kind of likeness to Bernhardt, she's so tall and thin. I thought she was stunning in that red dress and the diamonds—why didn't she put them on again? Right at the end there, where they find them, I mean?"

"I don't know, unless she wanted to shorten up the last scene, and get through. She said she was going to give them back to her mother as soon as it was over."

"Mrs. Pallinder's not wearing them, though. What became of Huddesley toward the last there?"

"Mazie said he had to go, the doctor had sent for him or something, I didn't catch what it was. That was Bob in his clothes, you know."

"Say, Teddy's had a lot of substitutes this evening, hasn't he? Do you suppose anyone suspects?"

"Nobody's said anything to me anyhow."

"Hello, here's Capoul!"[6]

"Oh, Capoul—Rats!" said Bob, reddening with vexation. He had a secret conviction that a tenor voice lacked manliness, and mistook the felicitations of his friends for artfully disguised raillery. "People will be poking that 'La-hee-ho' business at me from now till doomsday, I suppose."

"We were just wondering if anyone knew about Ted."

"Guess not; I haven't heard anybody say a word about it."

"Look here, how do you happen to be here yet, my son? I thought you said you had to go and meet Susie."

"Well, I do, but not right away. I got one of the cab-drivers outside—there's about fifty of 'em, you never saw such a jam in your life—to go down to the drug-store and telephone, and they say the train from New York won't be in till two o'clock or after. Tell you, the telephone's an institution, isn't it? It's like Jules Verne coming true; they say they'll have 'em all over in private houses and everywhere before long. Have you seen Miss Pallinder? I've got this next waltz—oh, there she is with her mother."

He drifted off, and Kitty gave her partner a meaning look. "Bob means business, I guess," said the latter, returning it.

His hostess welcomed the young man with a wan vivacity. "How do you do, Mr. Carson? This is the first chance I've had to congratulate you. Everybody did so well. You were especially good at the last."

Undoubtedly Mrs. Pallinder was not her usual suave and confident self that night; her attention wandered. She had forgot what part Bob took, and there was no graciousness in her fixed smile; it might have been painted on her face like some of her other adornments.

"The last was the best part of the whole performance, I guess, for the audience," said Bob, grinning. "That was me they dragged in from behind the screen, you know. It's not everybody that can make believe to be dead as artistically as I can. I'm the second-assistant-deputy-Ted Johns. Miss Pallinder told you about Huddesley, didn't she? She said you knew."

"Yes—very unfortunate, wasn't it?" said Mrs. Pallinder, smiling mechanically. "I mean fortunate, of course—that he could take Mr. Johns' part, that is. Did you—have you got my necklace, Mr. Carson?"

"Me? Why, no," said Bob, in surprise. "They were supposed to find the jewels on Jenks' body, you know, in a bundle, and Miss Pallinder took them. Don't you remember where she says: 'Oh, my tiara! That poor child! What has become of her?'"

Mrs. Pallinder ought to have remembered it, for Mazie had begun with: "'Oh, my child! That poor tiara, what has become of it?'" so that a number of the audience and nearly all the actors had been extinguished in giggles. But she only said vaguely, "Oh, ah, yes, I believe there was something of the kind said. Mazie, honey, I've just been asking Mr. Carson what he had done with the tiara, the necklace, I mean—I reckon he thinks I think he's stolen it!"

"Oh, I didn't even undo the parcel," said Mazie languidly. "I just pretended to on the stage. I couldn't worry around with the thing. That play's too long anyhow; I cut it short right at the end there on purpose. We had the necklace all twisted up on wires, you know. I just pitched it into the bureau-drawer and locked it up. It's safe."

"I'm afraid you're tired," said Bob, as Mrs. Pallinder, with a return of her accustomed tact, moved unobtrusively away. "I'm afraid you're worn out," repeated the young fellow tenderly. "You had the hardest part of anybody."

[6] Happening to mention Capoul the other day, I discovered that none of my hearers remembered that dashing Faust, Count Almaviva, Romeo of twenty-five years ago. "And who was Capoul?" their blank looks seemed to ask. Sic transit gloria!—M. S. W.