"But it does," remonstrated he."You are an artist, now, and an artist's name should always arouse pleasing and romantic anticipations.It's like the odor that heralds the dish.You must remember, my dear, that you have stepped out of the world of dull reality into the world of ideals, of dreams."The sound of two harsh voices, one male, the other female, came from within the cabin--oaths, reproaches.Her acquaintance laughed."That's one on me--eh? Still, what I say is true--or at least ought to be.By the way, this is the Burlingham Floating Palace of Thespians, floating temple to the histrionic art.I am Burlingham--Robert Burlingham." He smiled, extended his hand.
"Glad to meet you, Miss Lorna Sackville--don't forget!"She could not but reflect a smile so genuine, so good-humored.
"We'll go in and meet the others--your fellow stars--for this is an all-star aggregation."Over the broad entrance to the cabin was a chintz curtain strung upon a wire.Burlingham drew this aside.Susan was looking into a room about thirty feet long, about twelve feet wide, and a scant six feet high.Across it with an aisle between were narrow wooden benches with backs.At the opposite end was a stage, with the curtain up and a portable stove occupying the center.At the stove a woman in a chemise and underskirt, with slippers on her bare feet, was toiling over several pots and pans with fork and spoon.At the edge of the stage, with legs swinging, sat another woman, in a blue sailor suit neither fresh nor notably clean but somehow coquettish.Two men in flannel shirts were seated, one on each of the front benches, with their backs to her.
As Burlingham went down the aisle ahead of her, he called out:
"Ladies and gentlemen, I wish to present the latest valuable addition to our company--Miss Lorna Sackville, the renowned ballad singer."The two men turned lazily and stared at Susan, each with an arm hanging over the back of the bench.
Burlingham looked at the woman bent over the stove--a fat, middle-aged woman with thin, taffy-yellow hair done sleekly over a big rat in front and made into a huge coil behind with the aid of one or more false braids.She had a fat face, a broad expanse of unpleasant-looking, elderly bosom, big, shapeless white arms.
Her contour was almost gone.Her teeth were a curious mixture of natural, gold, and porcelain."Miss Anstruther--Miss Sackville,"called Burlingham."Miss Sackville, Miss Violet Anstruther."Miss Anstruther and Susan exchanged bows--Susan's timid and frightened, Miss Anstruther's accompanied by a hostile stare and a hardening of the fat, decaying face.
"Miss Connemora--Miss Sackville." Burlingham was looking at the younger woman--she who sat on the edge of the little stage.She, too, was a blond, but her hair had taken to the chemical somewhat less reluctantly than had Miss Anstruther's, with the result that Miss Connemora's looked golden.Her face--of the baby type must have been softly pretty at one time--not so very distant.Now lines were coming and the hard look that is inevitable with dyed hair.Also her once fine teeth were rapidly going off, as half a dozen gold fillings in front proclaimed.At Susan's appealing look and smile Miss Connemora nodded not unfriendly.
"Good God, Bob," said she to Burlingham with a laugh, "are you going to get the bunch of us pinched for child-stealing?"Burlingham started to laugh, suddenly checked himself, looked uneasily and keenly at Susan."Oh, it's all right," he said with a wave of the hand.But his tone belied his words.He puffed twice at his cigar, then introduced the men--Elbert Eshwell and Gregory Tempest--two of the kind clearly if inelegantly placed by the phrase, "greasy hamfats." Mr.Eshwell's blackdyed hair was smoothly brushed down from a central part, Mr.Tempest's iron-gray hair was greasily wild--a disarray of romantic ringlets.Eshwell was inclined to fat; Tempest was gaunt and had the hollow, burning eye that bespeaks the sentimental ass.
"Now, Miss Sackville," said Burlingham, "we'll go on the forward deck and canvass the situation.What for dinner, Vi?""Same old rot," retorted Miss Anstruther, wiping the sweat from her face and shoulders with a towel that served also as a dishcloth."Pork and beans--potatoes--peach pie.""Cheer up," said Burlingham."After tomorrow we'll do better.""That's been the cry ever since we started," snapped Violet.
"For God's sake, shut up, Vi," groaned Eshwell."You're always kicking."The cabin was not quite the full width of the broad house boat.
Along the outside, between each wall and the edge, there was room for one person to pass from forward deck to rear.From the cabin roof, over the rear deck, into the water extended a big rudder oar.When Susan, following Burlingham, reached the rear deck, she saw the man at this oar--a fat, amiable-looking rascal, in linsey woolsey and a blue checked shirt open over his chest and revealing a mat of curly gray hair.Burlingham hailed him as Pat--his only known name.But Susan had only a glance for him and no ear at all for the chaffing between him and the actor-manager.She was gazing at the Indiana shore, at a tiny village snuggled among trees and ripened fields close to the water's edge.She knew it was Brooksburg.She remembered the long covered bridge which they had crossed--Spenser and she, on the horse.To the north of the town, on a knoll, stood a large red brick house trimmed with white veranda and balconies--far and away the most pretentious house in the landscape.Before the door was a horse and buggy.She could make out that there were several people on the front veranda, one of them a man in black--the doctor, no doubt.Sobs choked up into her throat.She turned quickly away that Burlingham might not see.And under her breath she said, "Good-by, dear.Forgive me--forgive me."
