AND THIS IS NOT ELF LAND — WHAT GOLD WILL NOT BUY
When Carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her dressing-room had been changed.
"You are to use this room, Miss Madenda," said one of the stage lackeys.
No longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small coop shared with another. Instead, a comparatively large and commodious chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. She breathed deeply and with delight. Her sensations were more physical than mental. In fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. Heart and body were having their say.
Gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental appreciation of her state. She was no longer ordered, but requested, and that politely. The other members of the cast looked at her enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore all through the play. All those who had supposedly been her equals and superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: "How friendly we have always been." Only the star comedian whose part had been so deeply injured stalked by himself. Figuratively, he could not kiss the hand that smote him.
Doing her simple part, Carrie gradually realized the meaning of the applause which was for her, and it was sweet. She felt mildly guilty of something — perhaps unworthiness. When her associates addressed her in the wings she only smiled weakly. The pride and daring of place were not for her. It never once crossed her mind to be reserved or haughty- -to be other than she had been. After the performances she rode to her room with Lola, in a carriage provided.
Then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to her lips — bowl after bowl. It did not matter that her splendid salary had not begun. The world seemed satisfied with the promise. She began to get letters and cards. A Mr. Withers-whom she did not know from Adam — having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed himself politely in.
"You will excuse me for intruding," he said; "but have you been thinking of changing your apartments?"
"I hadn't thought of it," returned Carrie.
"Well, I am connected with the Wellington — the new hotel on Broadway. You have probably seen notices of it in the papers."
Carrie recognized the name as standing for one of the newest and most imposing hostelries. She had heard it spoken of as having a splendid restaurant.
"Just so," went on Mr. Withers, accepting her acknowledgment of familiarity. "We have some very elegant rooms at present which we would like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where you intend to reside for the summer. Our apartments are perfect in every detail — hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service for every floor, elevators, and all that. You know what our restaurant is."
Carrie looked at him quietly. She was wondering whether he took her to be a millionaire.
"What are your rates?" she inquired.
"Well, now, that is what I came to talk with you privately about. Our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day."
"Mercy!" interrupted Carrie. "I couldn't pay any such rate as that."
"I know how you feel about it," exclaimed Mr. Withers, halting. "But just let me explain. I said those are our regular rates. Like every other hotel we make special ones however. Possibly you have not thought about it, but your name is worth something to us." "Oh!" ejaculated Carrie, seeing at a glance.
"Of course. Every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. A well-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while Carrie flushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and — although you may not believe it — patrons."
"Oh, yes," returned Carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious proposition in her mind.
"Now," continued Mr. Withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "I want to arrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the Wellington. You need not trouble about terms. In fact, we need hardly discuss them. Anything will do for the summer — a mere figure — anything that you think you could afford to pay."
Carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance.
"You can come to-day or to-morrow — the earlier the better — and we will give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms — the very best we have."
"You're very kind," said Carrie, touched by the agent's extreme affability. "I should like to come very much. I would want to pay what is right, however. I shouldn't want to — — "
"You need not trouble about that at all," interrupted Mr. Withers. "We can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. If three dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. All you have to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of the week or month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates."
The speaker paused.
"Suppose you come and look at the rooms," he added.
"I'd be glad to," said Carrie, "but I have a rehearsal this morning."
"I did not mean at once," he returned. "Any time will do. Would this afternoon be inconvenient?"
"Not at all," said Carrie.
Suddenly she remembered Lola, who was out at the time.
"I have a room-mate," she added, "who will have to go wherever I do. I forgot about that."
"Oh, very well," said Mr. Withers, blandly. "It is for you to say whom you want with you. As I say, all that can be arranged to suit yourself."
He bowed and backed toward the door.
"At four, then, we may expect you?"
"Yes," said Carrie.
"I will be there to show you," and so Mr. Withers withdrew.
After rehearsal Carrie informed Lola. "Did they really?" exclaimed the latter, thinking of the Wellington as a group of managers. "Isn't that fine? Oh, jolly! It's so swell. That's where we dined that night we went with those two Cushing boys. Don't you know?"
"I remember," said Carrie.
"Oh, it's as fine as it can be."
"We'd better be going up there," observed Carrie later in the afternoon.
The rooms which Mr. Withers displayed to Carrie and Lola were three and bath — a suite on the parlor floor. They were done in chocolate and dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. Three windows looked down into busy Broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed there. There were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel beds, white ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. In the third room, or parlor, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities. Pictures were upon the walls, soft Turkish pillows upon the divan footstools of brown plush upon the floor. Such accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week.
"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Lola, walking about.
"It is comfortable," said Carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and looking down into crowded Broadway.
The bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large, blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. It was bright and commodious, with a beveled mirror set in the wall at one end and incandescent lights arranged in three places.
"Do you find these satisfactory?" observed Mr. Withers.
"Oh, very," answered Carrie.
"Well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are ready. The boy will bring you the keys at the door."
Carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbled lobby, and showy waiting-room. It was such a place as she had often dreamed of occupying.
"I guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?" she observed to Lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in Seventeenth Street.
"Oh, by all means," said the latter.
The next day her trunks left for the new abode.
Dressing, after the matinee on Wednesday, a knock came at her dressing- room door.
Carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of surprise.
"Tell her I'll be right out," she said softly. Then, looking at the card, added: "Mrs. Vance."