Bubbles and Troubles

By Ruth Moench Bell

(Previous chapter)

Chapter 6

Several months passed and save for enthusiastic cards from Rhea and her husband, there was little of note from them. They were on the circuit and seemed to be “making good.” “It is the dream of my life,” Rhea wrote. She loved Barney more every day. And he seemed to grow fonder of her, if that were possible. He was devotion itself.

They had been side-tracked a time or two and been without funds. One night they had gone into a corn-field and helped themselves to the corn. Then gathered rubbish on the outskirts of town, scrubbed a tin can and cooked the corn and ate the stolen meal to save going supperless to bed. Her act was taking well, now.

Marjory, also, had married though only a trifle over eighteen. The Leslies had been divorced. She had been granted alimony and the big home in the fashionable district, also the tiny cottage they built when they were first married. Her alimony was enough to keep up appearances in the big house. But not sufficient for her to do any entertaining whatever, and food and clothes would have to be purchased with the most rigid economy.

Soon, however, word came that Leslie’s business was going down at such an alarming rate that no alimony would be possible. Then Ethel sent for Edith to come and see her.

“What shall I do,” she wailed. “Not another cent of alimony can I hope for. The two houses are mine, but I can’t keep up this big place on the small rent from the little one.

Edith longed to say: “How about Mitchell Leslie? How is he getting along? He has neither home nor income nor a sympathetic companion.” But very wisely she said nothing of him.

“Why not rent this big place and live in the little one? The rent from this would keep you in food and clothes.”

“But what about my pride?” was on the point of Ethel’s tongue to say. She checked herself and only remarked, “I suppose I’ll have to. Since I’ve had to give up entertaining, scarcely anyone comes to see me or invites me out any more. I’ll have to swallow my pride and go back there, I suppose.”

Edith refrained from comment. She remembered when pride was not the dominant passion in her sister’s life. Or rather she remembered when pride over that same tiny cottage had been a dominant passion in Ethel’s life, dominant over everything but love, her love for Mitch, as she called him in those days, before he became “Mitchell” or my husband, “Mr. Leslie.”

And somehow this particular afternoon in the beautiful home so luxuriously furnished as to seem almost oriental, Ethel still so richly and fashionably dressed for she had apparently sacrificed food for clothes, was all less real than a certain afternoon some nineteen years ago.

Ethel, a newly-wed had undergone an operation to have her tonsils removed, and had taken ether. The operation seemed so slight she had not deemed it necessary to wait till her husband should return from a business trip he was on so he could be with her. Edith had always regretted that he had not heard Ethel’s ether murmurings. The real feelings and character of a person is so often revealed at such times. And Ethel’s cries had all been for her husband.

Edith had tried to sooth her, but she had only begged for “Mitch.” “Where is Mitch?” she would cry, “Oh, won’t you send for Mitch?” And once she had cried so pathetically, “I once was Mitch’s wife,” as if that were the greatest honor a woman could know. “I once was Mitch’s wife! Who am I now?” It was these words that rang in Edith’s ears now. She remembered how the doctors and nurses had felt as they heard Ethel call so insistently for her “Mitch.” Every one who heard the cry had felt how beautiful was such a love.

And now she had released him without a thought, apparently, except for alimony. She was going back to the little cottage in which they had been so happy, and going with never a thought save for her wounded pride and the loss of superficial friends. Apparently, of course, for who can judge?

The following year brought little change save in the affairs of Rhea. They gave up vaudeville temporarily and her husband accepted a position with a motion picture company.

“But I want him out of it,” Rhea wrote to Marjory. “None of these people take marriage seriously. None of them understand or could respect our beautiful love. They would only scoff or think it fun to get him away from me.”

Soon came news of the arrival of a daughter to Rhea.

“She is a love child,” Rhea wrote. “We call her Betty. She is so tiny, so dainty and exquisite, all soul and love in a beautiful body. She seems to be a lovely angel that has floated into our arms to nestle there and love us and be loved. But I must go back to vaudeville, Marjory. I am jealous of these women who act with Barney. They are so careless of their caresses. And while Barney does not seem to notice them and thinks only of Betty and me I must get him away and keep him away.”

Marjory, safe in the shelter of her home with her baby boy, read the next letter written nearly a year later, with vague alarm.

“Betty is nearly a year old, now,” Rhea’s letter announced. “And we are going back to vaudeville. Our act has been accepted and we are booked right through to Chicago. We are looking forward to seeing you soon.”

“Mother,” Marjory exclaimed, “how can they? Who will take care of the baby? One year old and eating at hotels and cafes! Oh, how will she stand it and summer coming on?”

Neither Marjory nor her mother were surprised a few weeks later, when Rhea almost stumbled into the house. In the gocart outside, lay a thin wisp she called Betty.

“Aunt Edith, can you take her? I’ve only an hour or so to catch the train and get to B— for my act. I can’t take her to mother. I can’t bear that any one should have her that would think of her as a burden and not want to be bothered with her. She is all love and I want her loved. And mother still feels hard toward Barney and me. I hope Marjory never has to go through what we have endured. She has had summer complaint and I’ve had to wheel her into alleys back of theatres and leave her there, vomiting and covered with flies, while I ran in to do my act. Once I hailed a Greek woman I’d never seen before and asked her to stay with Babe while I ran on to do a bright, dancing act in gay costumes. Sometimes we have had dates canceled and been without funds. Several times we have spent the day in public parks with nothing for us to eat and only a bottle of milk for baby. Oh, it isn’t all roses, Auntie. But we love each other and we must make a living. I dare not take her on to Chicago! Will you take her?”

“Gladly,” Aunt Edith responded heartily. “On one condition: you must sit right down and have a good, square, warm meal while I take care of Betty. Ralph wasn’t here for dinner so I put his in the oven and I want you to eat every bit. The two of you look starved. Marjory can drive you across the valley in our car so you’ll get there in good time and the ride in the open air will be good for baby.”

“So you have a car, now?” Rhea asked as she helped herself gladly to Aunt Edith’s home-cooked meal.

“Yes, we decided that poverty was a thing of the mind. That we had just given up to it instead of using our brains to get out of life a few of the good things.”

“A few little luxuries needn’t demoralize any of us. Now don’t worry one bit about Betty!” Aunt Edith continued as she busied herself feeding the delicate child. “We’ll have her as plump and rosy as a baby should be. It is surprising how quickly they respond.”

In the car, Rhea chatted with relief and the joy of being with her own again.

“It’s a strange life. Mugs,” she cried. “We see them on the stage, all glitter and show in their magnificent costumes and bright, lively acts. But behind the scenes, what they go through! I know of one baby that was wheeled up and down before the theatre all one day with nothing but crackers to nibble on. One woman laid off to have her baby. It was born dead. She paid the bills out of her savings. Over $300 it cost her. Then as soon as she could be up at all she went back to the old life, so weak she could scarcely stand, she danced through to make her living. And the conversation is pitiful. ‘My God’ every other breath. And such slang and coarseness and misery and evil! Oh, of course, some, are refined and fortunate, but they are in the minority. It makes me shudder to think of the others.”

“You won’t always go on like this?” Marjory implored.

“No, a few months and our bills will be paid. Then we must make other plans. Oh, do help Aunt Edith to love my babe,” and Rhea was off.

(To be continued)