CHAPTER XXIII. PALMER'S UNFORTUNATE DEBUT.

It had made James Talbot feel very bitter to think that should his wife die the Frost fortune would go entirely to his step-son.

"He doesn't deserve a cent of it—with his impudence to me and his running away from home," he said to himself. "The money ought to come to me."

The more he thought over the matter the more bitter did he become. He tried to think of some way by which he could alter the conditions of Mr. Frost's will, but nothing came to his mind that was satisfactory.

Of course he did not dare show his wife his real feelings. She was still angry over the lost letter, and he was afraid of causing an open rupture.

He concluded to do everything he could to win her good graces, and then question her again about the will and the property. Perhaps he might be able, he thought, to get control of the[Pg 198] money lying in the bank, which amounted to about thirty thousand dollars.

"Once I get control of that," he told himself, "Robert can whistle for his share. I'll run away to Europe before I'll give it up."

The first thing he did was to buy Mrs. Talbot a new bonnet, since he had heard that a woman will be pleased over a new bonnet, if over nothing else. The lady, however, received the gift rather coldly.

"It is very nice," she said. "But I do not need it, James."

"Never mind, my love, I want my wife to look as good as or better than any lady in Granville."

"Thank you, but I never tried to set the fashion."

"I know that. But you should—with so much money behind you."

"The money is for Robert, not for me." And Mrs. Talbot sighed as she thought of her son, and wondered how he was faring.

"Always the boy," thought James Talbot savagely. "Will she never forget him?"

"There is going to be a play at the opera house to-night," he said sweetly. "I would like you to go. You can wear the new bonnet, if you will."

[Pg 199]

"Thank you. What is the play, James?"

"'All for Love,' a romance of high life in New York. The newspaper says it is a good play."

"The newspapers cannot always be depended upon. Do you know anything of the company?"

"It is the Dixon Combination Comedy Company of Chicago."

"I never heard of it."

"I am afraid, my love, that you do not keep very good track of theatrical affairs."

"I like to read about the good ones in the papers."

"This company has some very good advertising. One of the bills says they carry ten star actors and actresses. I am sure you will like the play."

"I will go if you wish me to," answered Mrs. Talbot, although she was doubtful if she would enjoy the performance. During the time Mr. Frost had been living, husband and wife had gone to both the theater and to the concert, but only to the very best. But Mr. Talbot had no taste for such things, and an ordinary performance pleased him about as well as one which was far superior.

There had been no show in Granville for over[Pg 200] two weeks. Consequently when the doors of the opera house were opened that night, the fair-sized hall became crowded in short order.

The Dixon Combination Comedy Company was entirely unknown, and for good reason—it had never existed until two weeks previous to the opening at Granville.

Jack Dixon, the manager, had been a "hanger-on" among theatrical people for several years, and having received several hundred dollars through the death of a rich aunt, had at once set to work to put a company of his own on the road.

The man meant well, but he knew very little about the business, as was proved by his hiring Livingston Palmer and several others who were no better actors.

Rehearsals had been backward and unsatisfactory from the start, and the combination would have done much better had it held back for another week for practice before appearing in public.

But everyone was anxious to make a hit, and nobody thought failure possible.

"We will carry the town by storm," said the leading man, a fellow by the name of Caster. He had been on the boards for several years, but[Pg 201] had never before risen to a position higher than that of being a member of a stock company attached to a dime museum.

"Yes, we will show them what real acting is," answered Livingston Palmer. "To-morrow the newspapers will be full of complimentary notices."

At quarter to eight the orchestra, consisting of a piano player, a violinist, a flutist, and a cornetist, struck up on the overture, and at eight o'clock sharp the curtain went up on the first act of "All for Love."

The scene represented Fifth avenue, in New York—at least, so the programme said,—although it is doubtful if anybody living on that fashionable thoroughfare would have recognized the locality. People were coming and going, and doing this as if their lives depended upon it, the same person appearing and disappearing every half minute or so.

In the crowd was a girl who was supposed to be a companion to a rich old lady. As she stood waiting for something, the villain of the play, a fashionably-dressed man, came up and tried to tempt her into stealing the rich lady's jewels. While this was going on the butler of the lady's mansion appeared and overheard the plot.

[Pg 202]

The acting was crude from the start, but at the opening of a play few people pay much attention, and it was not until Livingston Palmer appeared as the spying butler that the audience began to grow attentive.

"Ha, what is this I hear!" cried Palmer, as he peered forth from behind a dry goods box set up against a building marked Hotel. "She is plotting to rob my mistress. Base woman that she is, I will—will—will——"

Palmer should have said, "I will expose her to Mrs. Ulmer and have her arrested," but the words would not come, for he had caught sight of the hundreds of faces in the audience and become stage-frightened in consequence.

"I will—will—I will——" he stammered, trying again.

"Will you?" came a voice from the gallery. "All right, Willie!"

There was a laugh and then a hiss.

"I will expose her," whispered the prompter, who stood in the prompter's box with the book of the play in his hand.

"I will—will expose her!" burst out Livingston Palmer. "I will expose her, base—I mean—I will expose her to be arrested—to—by—I mean—Mrs. Ulmer shall arrest her!" and[Pg 203] then he fell back out of sight, and all but overcome.

At once the prompter ran up to him.

"You fool!" he whispered wildly. "That wasn't right. You've ruined the scene."

"Have I?" asked Palmer, in awe-stricken tones. "Oh, I—I—something slipped my mind. But—but I'll be all right in the next scene."

"I hope so. Better study your lines before you go on."

"I will," answered the would-be actor, and began to study as never before.

In the meantime the scene went on, the actors reciting their lines without a break, but with so little dramatic action that scarcely anyone in the audience was interested.

"Do you like it, my love?" asked James Talbot, who sat beside his wife in one of the orchestra rows.

"No, it is very stupid so far," answered Mrs. Talbot.

"The next act may be better, Sarah. The best plays rarely start well."

"That young man missed his part entirely," was Mrs. Talbot's comment.

The second act of the play represented the drawing room of Mrs. Ulmer's mansion. There[Pg 204] was at first a love scene which promised very well. But the lover in the play was as nervous as he might have been in real life, and when he started to kiss his lady-love good-by, he smacked her so warmly that his false mustache fell off into her lap.

"Oh!" she cried, and there was a roar of laughter from the audience.

The lover snatched the mustache up in a trice and hurried off as if he was leaving an enemy, instead of her whose heart he was supposed to have won.

The rich old lady came in, supported on the arm of her nephew, a captain of the regular army. The captain was wearing his sword, but he was not used to the weapon, and it got tangled up between his legs more than once, and came near to upsetting him.

"Take it off!" cried a voice from the gallery. Of course a laugh followed the bit of advice.

The captain was about to conclude an important interview with his rich aunt, when the butler walked in with a tray, on which were a bottle supposed to contain wine, and two glasses.

"Be careful there, Willie, or you'll drop the tray!" cried the voice from the gallery.

[Pg 205]

"Will—he?" said another voice, with an attempt at a pun.

"Ah, so this is honest John!" exclaimed the captain, turning to the butler. "John, what have you to say to the captain who used to go horseback riding on your foot?"

"I'm glad to see you, sir," said Livingston Palmer. "Very glad, sir." Then he took a deep breath, and started again, so that his next lines might not escape him. "Mrs. Ulmer, Ihavea secret to tell." He meant, "I have a secret to tell," but some of his words ran one into another.

"A secret, John. What can it be?"

"You'retoberobb'd, yes, madam, youretobe robb'd."

"Robbed!"

"Yes, madam, robb'd. Oneyou have fondly robbed intendsto loveyou."

A shout went up at this, a shout that speedily became a roar. Of course Palmer meant to say, "One you have fondly loved intends to rob you," but he was hopelessly bewildered, and hardly knew what he was doing. For once his self-confidence had entirely left him.

"Go! I will not believe it!" cried the rich lady. "Leave my sight!"

"Yes, madam, Iwillgo, but—but——" Living[Pg 206]ston Palmer stared around wildly. He wanted to add, "I can prove what I have to say," but the words became mixed as before. "Icansay—whatIcanprove—I mean, I provetosay what I can—I can say what Icansay——"

"Then go and say it!" yelled somebody from the gallery. "Say it, and give somebody else a chance to talk."

"Say, but this is a bum company," added somebody else.

"Worst I ever saw!" came from a third party. And then followed a storm of hisses. In the midst of this Palmer hurried from the stage. At once Dixon collared him.

"Palmer, what do you mean by this?" demanded the manager. "Have you lost your wits?"

"No, but—but—it's awful to have so many folks staring at you, and cat-calling, too."

"You spoiled both acts."

"I did my best," pleaded Livingston Palmer.

"Then you'll never make an actor if you live to be a hundred years," responded Jack Dixon, and with this cold cut he walked off, leaving Palmer the picture of misery and despair.

But the scene was not yet ended, and scarcely had Dixon turned away when there came another[Pg 207] roar and a hiss. The unfortunate captain had fallen down with his sword between his feet. In trying to pick himself up he had upset a small table, scattering the books thereon in every direction. His wig came off, and when he managed to gain his feet once more it was found that his coat was split up the back for a foot and over.

"They are a disgrace to the opera house!" came the cry.

"They are no good!"

"Let us give 'em something to remember us by!"

The last suggestion was greeted with a wild assent, and soon half a dozen different articles landed on the stage, including the core of an apple and a half-decayed orange. In the midst of the uproar a number of the audience started to leave and the drop curtain came down with a bang.