by Edna Ferber
The leading lady lay on her bed and wept. Not as you have seen leading ladies weep, becomingly, with eyebrows pathetically V-shaped, mouth quivering, sequined bosom heaving. The leading lady lay on her bed in a red-and-blue-striped kimono and wept as a woman weeps, her head burrowing into the depths of the lumpy hotel pillow, her teeth biting the pillow-case to choke back the sounds so that the grouch in the next room might not hear.
Presently the leading lady’s right hand began to grope about on the bedspread for her handkerchief. Failing to find it, she sat up wearily, raising herself on one elbow and pushing her hair back from her forehead–not as you have seen a leading lady pass a lily hand across her alabaster brow, but as a heart-sick woman does it. Her tears and sniffles had formed a little oasis of moisture on the pillow’s white bosom so that the ugly stripe of the ticking showed through. She gazed down at the damp circle with smarting, swollen eyes, and another lump came up into her throat.
Then she sat up resolutely, and looked about her. The leading lady had a large and saving sense of humor. But there is nothing that blunts the sense of humor more quickly than a few months of one-night stands. Even O. Henry could have seen nothing funny about that room.
The bed was of green enamel, with fly-specked gold trimmings. It looked like a huge frog. The wall-paper was a crime. It represented an army of tan mustard plasters climbing up a chocolate-fudge wall. The leading lady was conscious of a feeling of nausea as she gazed at it. So she got up and walked to the window. The room faced west, and the hot afternoon sun smote full on her poor swollen eyes. Across the street the red brick walls of the engine-house caught the glare and sent it back. The firemen, in their blue shirt-sleeves, were seated in the shade before the door, their chairs tipped at an angle of sixty. The leading lady stared down into the sun-baked street, turned abruptly and made as though to fall upon the bed again, with a view to forming another little damp oasis on the pillow. But when she reached the center of the stifling little bedroom her eye chanced on the electric call-button near the door. Above the electric bell was tacked a printed placard giving information on the subjects of laundry, ice-water, bell-boys and dining-room hours.
The leading lady stood staring at it a moment thoughtfully. Then with a sudden swift movement she applied her forefinger to the button and held it there for a long half-minute. Then she sat down on the edge of the bed, her kimono folded about her, and waited.
She waited until a lank bell-boy, in a brown uniform that was some sizes too small for him, had ceased to take any interest in the game of chess which Bauer and Merkle, the champion firemen chess-players, were contesting on the walk before the open doorway of the engine-house. The proprietor of the Burke House had originally intended that the brown uniform be worn by a diminutive bell-boy, such as one sees in musical comedies. But the available supply of stage size bell-boys in our town is somewhat limited and was soon exhausted. There followed a succession of lank bell-boys, with arms and legs sticking ungracefully out of sleeves and trousers.
“Come!” called the leading lady quickly, in answer to the lank youth’s footsteps, and before he had had time to knock.
“Ring?” asked the boy, stepping into the torrid little room.
The leading lady did not reply immediately. She swallowed something in her throat and pushed back the hair from her moist forehead again. The brown uniform repeated his question, a trifle irritably. Whereupon the leading lady spoke, desperately:
“Is there a woman around this place? I don’t mean dining-room girls, or the person behind the cigar-counter.”
Since falling heir to the brown uniform the lank youth had heard some strange requests. He had been interviewed by various ladies in varicolored kimonos relative to liquid refreshment, laundry and the cost of hiring a horse and rig for a couple of hours. One had even summoned him to ask if there was a Bible in the house. But this latest question was a new one. He stared, leaning against the door and thrusting one hand into the depths of his very tight breeches pocket.
“Why, there’s Pearlie Schultz,” he said at last, with a grin.
“Who’s she?” The leading lady sat up expectantly.
“Steno.”
The expectant figure drooped. “Blonde? And Irish crochet collar with a black velvet bow on her chest?”
“Who? Pearlie? Naw. You mustn’t get Pearlie mixed with the common or garden variety of stenos. Pearlie is fat, and she wears specs and she’s got a double chin. Her hair is skimpy and she don’t wear no rat. W’y no traveling man has ever tried to flirt with Pearlie yet. Pearlie’s what you’d call a woman, all right. You wouldn’t never make a mistake and think she’d escaped from the first row in the chorus.”
The leading lady rose from the bed, reached out for her pocket-book, extracted a dime, and held it out to the bell-boy.
“Here. Will you ask her to come up here to me? Tell her I said please.”
After he had gone she seated herself on the edge of the bed again, with a look in her eyes like that which you have seen in the eyes of a dog that is waiting for a door to be opened.
Fifteen minutes passed. The look in the eyes of the leading lady began to fade. Then a footstep sounded down the hall. The leading lady cocked her head to catch it, and smiled blissfully. It was a heavy, comfortable footstep, under which a board or two creaked. There came a big, sensible thump-thump-thump at the door, with stout knuckles. The leading lady flew to answer it. She flung the door wide and stood there, clutching her kimono at the throat and looking up into a red, good-natured face.
Pearlie Schultz looked down at the leading lady kindly and benignantly, as a mastiff might look at a terrier.
“Lonesome for a bosom to cry on?” asked she, and stepped into the room, walked to the west windows, and jerked down the shades with a zip-zip, shutting off the yellow glare. She came back to where the leading lady was standing and patted her on the cheek, lightly.
“You tell me all about it,” said she, smiling.
The leading lady opened her lips, gulped, tried again, gulped again–Pearlie Schultz shook a sympathetic head.
“Ain’t had a decent, close-to-nature powwow with a woman for weeks and weeks, have you?”
“How did you know?” cried the leading lady.
“You’ve got that hungry look. There was a lady drummer here last winter, and she had the same expression. She was so dead sick of eating her supper and then going up to her ugly room and reading and sewing all evening that it was a wonder she’d stayed good. She said it was easy enough for the men. They could smoke, and play pool, and go to a show, and talk to any one that looked good to ’em. But if she tried to amuse herself everybody’d say she was tough. She cottoned to me like a burr to a wool skirt. She traveled for a perfumery house, and she said she hadn’t talked to a woman, except the dry-goods clerks who were nice to her trying to work her for her perfume samples, for weeks an’ weeks. Why, that woman made crochet by the bolt, and mended her clothes evenings whether they needed it or not, and read till her eyes come near going back on her.”
The leading lady seized Pearlie’s hand and squeezed it.
“That’s it! Why, I haven’t talked–really talked–to a real woman since the company went out on the road. I’m leading lady of the `Second Wife’ company, you know. It’s one of those small cast plays, with only five people in it. I play the wife, and I’m the only woman in the cast. It’s terrible. I ought to be thankful to get the part these days. And I was, too. But I didn’t know it would be like this. I’m going crazy. The men in the company are good kids, but I can’t go trailing around after them all day. Besides, it wouldn’t be right. They’re all married, except Billy, who plays the kid, and he’s busy writing a vawdeville skit that he thinks the New York managers are going to fight for when he gets back home. We were to play Athens, Wisconsin, to-night, but the house burned down night before last, and that left us with an open date. When I heard the news you’d have thought I had lost my mother. It’s bad enough having a whole day to kill but when I think of to-night,” the leading lady’s voice took on a note of hysteria, “it seems as though I’d—-“
“Say,” Pearlie interrupted, abruptly, “you ain’t got a real good corset-cover pattern, have you? One that fits smooth over the bust and don’t slip off the shoulders? I don’t seem able to get my hands on the kind I want.”
“Have I!” yelled the leading lady. And made a flying leap from the bed to the floor.
She flapped back the cover of a big suit-case and began burrowing into its depths, strewing the floor with lingerie, newspaper clippings, blouses, photographs and Dutch collars. Pearlie came over and sat down on the floor in the midst of the litter. The leading lady dived once more, fished about in the bottom of the suit-case and brought a crumpled piece of paper triumphantly to the surface.
“This is it. It only takes a yard and five-eighths. And fits! Like Anna Held’s skirts. Comes down in a V front and back–like this. See? And no fulness. Wait a minute. I’ll show you my princess slip. I made it all by hand, too. I’ll bet you couldn’t buy it under fifteen dollars, and it cost me four dollars and eighty cents, with the lace and all.”
Before an hour had passed, the leading lady had displayed all her treasures, from the photograph of her baby that died to her new Blanche Ring curl cluster, and was calling Pearlie by her first name. When a bell somewhere boomed six o’clock Pearlie was being instructed in a new exercise calculated to reduce the hips an inch a month.
“My land!” cried Pearlie, aghast, and scrambled to her feet as nimbly as any woman can who weighs two hundred pounds. “Supper-time, and I’ve got a bunch of letters an inch thick to get out! I’d better reduce that some before I begin on my hips. But say, I’ve had a lovely time.”
The leading lady clung to her. “You’ve saved my life. Why, I forgot all about being hot and lonely and a couple of thousand miles from New York. Must you go?”
“Got to. But if you’ll promise you won’t laugh, I’ll make a date for this evening that’ll give you a new sensation anyway. There’s going to be a strawberry social on the lawn of the parsonage of our church. I’ve got a booth. You shed that kimono, and put on a thin dress and those curls and some powder, and I’ll introduce you as my friend, Miss Evans. You don’t look Evans, but this is a Methodist church strawberry festival, and if I was to tell them that you are leading lady of the `Second Wife’ company they’d excommunicate my booth.”
“A strawberry social!” gasped the leading lady. “Do they still have them?” She did not laugh. “Why, I used to go to strawberry festivals when I was a little girl in—-“
“Careful! You’ll be giving away your age, and, anyway, you don’t look it. Fashions in strawberry socials ain’t changed much. Better bathe your eyes in eau de cologne or whatever it is they’re always dabbing on ’em in books. See you at eight.”
At eight o’clock Pearlie’s thump-thump sounded again, and the leading lady sprang to the door as before. Pearlie stared. This was no tear-stained, heat-bedraggled creature in an unbecoming red-striped kimono. It was a remarkably pretty woman in a white lingerie gown over a pink slip. The leading lady knew a thing or two about the gentle art of making-up!
“That just goes to show,” remarked Pearlie, “that you must never judge a woman in a kimono or a bathing suit. You look nineteen. Say, I forgot something down-stairs. Just get your handkerchief and chamois together and meet in my cubbyhole next to the lobby, will you? I’ll be ready for you.”
Down-stairs she summoned the lank bell-boy. “You go outside and tell Sid Strang I want to see him, will you? He’s on the bench with the baseball bunch.”
Pearlie had not seen Sid Strang outside. She did not need to. She knew he was there. In our town all the young men dress up in their pale gray suits and lavender-striped shirts after supper on summer evenings. Then they stroll down to the Burke House, buy a cigar and sit down on the benches in front of the hotel to talk baseball and watch the girls go by. It is astonishing to note the number of our girls who have letters to mail after supper. One would think that they must drive their pens fiercely all the afternoon in order to get out such a mass of correspondence.
The obedient Sid reached the door of Pearlie’s little office just off the lobby as the leading lady came down the stairs with a spangled scarf trailing over her arm. It was an effective entrance.
“Why, hello!” said Pearlie, looking up from her typewriter as though Sid Strang were the last person in the world she expected to see. “What do you want here? Ethel, this is my friend, Mr. Sid Strang, one of our rising young lawyers. His neckties always match his socks. Sid, this is my friend, Miss Ethel Evans, of New York. We’re going over to the strawberry social at the M. E. parsonage. I don’t suppose you’d care about going?”
Mr. Sid Strang gazed at the leading lady in the white lingerie dress with the pink slip, and the V-shaped neck, and the spangled scarf, and turned to Pearlie.
“Why, Pearlie Schultz!” he said reproachfully. “How can you ask? You know what a strawberry social means to me! I haven’t missed one in years!”
“I know it,” replied Pearlie, with a grin. “You feel the same way about Thursday evening prayer-meeting too, don’t you? You can walk over with us if you want to. We’re going now. Miss Evans and I have got a booth.”
Sid walked. Pearlie led them determinedly past the rows of gray suits and lavender and pink shirts on the benches in front of the hotel. And as the leading lady came into view the gray suits stopped talking baseball and sat up and took notice. Pearlie had known all those young men inside of the swagger suits in the days when their summer costume consisted of a pair of dad’s pants cut down to a doubtful fit, and a nondescript shirt damp from the swimming-hole. So she called out, cheerily:
“We’re going over to the strawberry festival. I expect to see all you boys there to contribute your mite to the church carpet.”
The leading lady turned to look at them, and smiled. They were such a dapper, pink-cheeked, clean-looking lot of boys, she thought. At that the benches rose to a man and announced that they might as well stroll over right now. Whenever a new girl comes to visit in our town our boys make a concerted rush at her, and develop a “case” immediately, and the girl goes home when her visit is over with her head swimming, and forever after bores the girls of her home town with tales of her conquests.
The ladies of the First M. E. Church still talk of the money they garnered at the strawberry festival. Pearlie’s out-of-town friend was garnerer-in-chief. You take a cross-eyed, pock-marked girl and put her in a white dress, with a pink slip, on a green lawn under a string of rose-colored Japanese lanterns, and she’ll develop an almost Oriental beauty. It is an ideal setting. The leading lady was not cross-eyed or pock-marked. She stood at the lantern-illumined booth, with Pearlie in the background, and dis- pensed an unbelievable amount of strawberries. Sid Strang and the hotel bench brigade assisted. They made engagements to take Pearlie and her friend down river next day, and to the ball game, and planned innumerable picnics, gazing meanwhile into the leading lady’s eyes. There grew in the cheeks of the leading lady a flush that was not brought about by the pink slip, or the Japanese lanterns, or the skillful application of rouge.
By nine o’clock the strawberry supply was exhausted, and the president of the Foreign Missionary Society was sending wildly down-town for more ice-cream.
“I call it an outrage,” puffed Pearlie happily, ladling ice-cream like mad. “Making a poor working girl like me slave all evening! How many was that last order? Four? My land! that’s the third dish of ice-cream Ed White’s had! You’ll have something to tell the villagers about when you get back to New York.”
The leading lady turned a flushed face toward Pearlie. “This is more fun than the Actors’ Fair. I had the photograph booth last year, and I took in nearly as much as Lil Russell; and goodness knows, all she needs to do at a fair is to wear her diamond-and-pearl stomacher and her set-piece smile, and the men just swarm around her like the pictures of a crowd in a McCutcheon cartoon.”
When the last Japanese lantern had guttered out, Pearlie Schultz and the leading lady prepared to go home. Before they left, the M. E. ladies came over to Pearlie’s booth and personally congratulated the leading lady, and thanked her for the interest she had taken in the cause, and the secretary of the Epworth League asked her to come to the tea that was to be held at her home the following Tuesday. The leading lady thanked her and said she’d come if she could.
Escorted by a bodyguard of gray suits and lavender-striped shirts Pearlie and her friend, Miss Evans, walked toward the hotel. The attentive bodyguard confessed itself puzzled.
“Aren’t you staying at Pearlie’s house?” asked Sid tenderly, when they reached the Burke House. The leading lady glanced up at the windows of the stifling little room that faced west.
“No,” answered she, and paused at the foot of the steps to the ladies’ entrance. The light from the electric globe over the doorway shone on her hair and sparkled in the folds of her spangled scarf.
“I’m not staying at Pearlie’s because my name isn’t Ethel Evans. It’s Aimee Fox, with a little French accent mark over the double E. I’m leading lady of the `Second Wife’ company and old enough to be–well, your aunty, anyway. We go out at one-thirty to-morrow morning.”