proofreading team. the easiest way [illustration: eugene walter] eugene walter (born, cleveland, ohio, november 27, 1874) when questioned once regarding "the easiest way," mr. eugene walter said, "incidentally, i do not think much of it. to my mind a good play must have a tremendous uplift in thought and purpose. 'the easiest way' has none of this. there is not a character in the play really worth while, with the exception of the old agent. the rest, at best, are not a particular adornment to society, and the strength of the play lies in its true portrayal of the sordid type of life which it expressed. as it is more or less purely photographic, i do not think it should be given the credit of an inspiration--it is rather devilishly clever, but a great work it certainly is not." such was not the verdict of the first night audience, at the stuyvesant theatre, new york, january 19, 1909. it was found to be one of the most direct pieces of work the american stage had thus far produced--disagreeably realistic, but purging--and that is the test of an effective play--by the very poignancy of the tragic forces closing in around the heroine. though it is not as literary a piece of dramatic expression as pinero's "iris," it is better in its effect; because its relentlessness is due, not so predominantly to the moral downgrade of the woman, as to the moral downgrade of a certain phase of life which engulfs those nearest the centre of it. the play roused a storm of comment; there were camps that took just the stand mr. walter takes in the opening quotation. but the play is included in this collection because its power, as a documentary report of a phase of american stage life, is undeniable; because, as a piece of workmanship, shorn of the usual devices called theatrical, it comes down to the raw bone of the theme, and firmly progresses to its great climax,--great in the sense of overpowering,--at the very fall of the final curtain. mr. walter's various experiences in the theatre as an advance man, his star reporting on the detroit _news_, his struggles to gain a footing in new york, contributed something to the bitter irony which runs as a dark pattern through the texture of "the easiest way." he is one of the many american dramatists who have come from the newspaper ranks, having served on the cleveland _plain dealer_ and _press_, the new york _sun_ and _globe_, the cincinnati _post_ and the seattle _star_. not many will disagree with the verdict that thus far he has not excelled this play, though "paid in full" (february 25, 1908) contains the same sting of modern life, which drives his characters to situations dramatic and dire, making them sell their souls and their peace of minds for the benefit of worldly ease and comfort. note this theme in "fine feathers" (january 7, 1913) and "nancy lee" (april 9, 1918). in this sense, his plays all possess a consistency which makes no compromises. arthur ruhl, in his "second nights", refers to walter as of the "no quarter" school. he brings a certain manly subtlety to bear on melodramatic subjects, as in "the wolf" (april 18, 1908) and "the knife" (april 12, 1917); he seems to do as he pleases with his treatment, as he did right at the start with his first successful play. for, of "the easiest way" it may be said that, for the first time in his managerial career, mr. david belasco agreed to accept it with the condition that not a word of the manuscript should be changed. it is interesting to note about walter that, though he may now repudiate it, "the easiest way" stands distinct in its class; perhaps the dramatist has ripened more in technique--one immediately feels the surety and vital grip of dramatic expertness in walter, much more so than in george broadhurst, bayard veiller, or other american dramatists of his class. but he has not surpassed "the easiest way" in the burning intention with which it was written. as a dramatist, walter adopts an interesting method; he tries out his plays on the road, experimenting with various names, and re-casting until ready for metropolitan production. his dramas have many _aliases_, and it is a long case to prove an alibi; any student who has attempted to settle dates will soon find that out. his military play, written out of his experiences as a united states cavalryman in the spanish american war, was called "boots and saddles," after it was given as "sergeant james." "fine feathers," "the knife," "the heritage," "nancy lee"--were all second or third choice as to name. in his advancement, mr. walter gives much credit to three american managers--kirke lashelle, and the selwyn brothers, archie and edgar. it was the selwyns who, during his various ventures in the "show business," persuaded him to move to shelter island, and write "the undertow." it was in their house that "paid in full" was finished. let mr. walter continue the narrative: the circumstances under which "the easiest way" was written are rather peculiar. when i was an advance-agent, ahead of second-class companies, the need of money caused me to write a one-act piece called "all the way from denver," which in time i was able to dispose of. later, after having written "paid in full," i realized that in the play, "all the way from denver," there was a situation or theme that might prove exceedingly valuable in a four-act play. after discussing the possibilities with mr. archie selwyn, we concluded to write it. in the meantime, the one-act piece had come into the possession of margaret mayo, and through her, mr. edgar selwyn decided that the title should be "the easiest way" instead of "all the way from denver." the play was then taken in its scenario form to mr. c.b. dillingham, and discussed with him at length. this was prior to the public presentation of "paid in full." i possessed no particular reputation as a dramatic writer--in fact, the messrs. selwyn--archie and edgar--were the only ones who took me seriously, and thought me a possibility. mr. dillingham was not particularly impressed with the piece, because he thought it was much too broad in theme, and he did not like the idea of slapping the managerial knuckles of the theatre. further, the obvious inference in "the easiest way," that _laura_ was kept out of work in order to be compelled to yield herself to _brockton_, was a point which did not appeal to him. however, we had a working agreement with him, and later, mr. archie selwyn, in discussing the story of the play with mr. david belasco, aroused his interest. the latter saw "paid in full" and "the wolf," and so he sent for me, with the result that "the easiest way" was first produced in hartford, conn., on december 31, 1908. since its new york production, it has been presented in nearly every country of the world. it has not always met with commercial success, but it has always been regarded as a play of representative importance. william winter was one of the bitterest enemies of "the easiest way." he placed it with "zaza" and brieux's "three daughters of m. dupont." as an opposite extreme view, we give the opinion of mr. walter eaton, written in 1909, concerning the play: "it places mr. walter as a leader among our dramatists." in some respects, we may have surpassed it since then, in imaginative ideality; but, as an example of relentless realism, it still holds its own as a distinct contribution. the text has been edited for private circulation, and it is this text which is followed here. a few modifications, of a technical nature, have been made in the stage directions; but even with these slight changes, the directions are staccato, utilitarian in conciseness, rather than literary in the shaw sense. david belasco's stuyvesant theatre 44th street _near_ broadway _new york city_ under the _sole_ management of david belasco david belasco presents frances starr --in-the easiest way an american play concerning a peculiar phase of new york life. in four acts and four scenes. by eugene walter. characters of the play john madison edward h. robins willard brockton joseph kilcour jim weston william sampson laura murdock frances starr elfie st. clair laura nelson hall annie emma dunn program continued on second page following program continued. * * * * * synopsis. act i.--mrs. william's ranch house or country home, perched on the side of the ute pass, near colorado springs, colorado. time--late in an august afternoon. act ii.--laura murdock's furnished room, second story, back. new york. time--six months later. act iii.--laura murdock's apartments in an expensive hotel. new york. time--two months later. in the morning. act iv.--the same at act iii. time--the same afternoon. * * * * * the play produced under the personal supervision of mr. belasco. * * * * * program continued on second page following. program continued. stage director william j. dean stage manager langdon west * * * * * stage decorations and accessories designed by wilfred buckland. * * * * * scenes by ernest cross. * * * * * scenery built by charles j. carson. electrical effects by louis harlman. gowns by mollie o'hara. hats by bendel. * * * * * the pianola used is from the aeolian co., new york. the easiest way an american play concerning a particular phase of new york life _in four acts and four scenes_ by eugene walter 1908 by eugene walter [the editor wishes to thank mr. eugene walter for his courtesy in granting permission to include "the easiest way" in the present collection. all its dramatic rights are fully secured, and proceedings will immediately be taken against anyone attempting to infringe them.] characters. laura murdock. elfie st. clair. annie. willard brockton. john madison. jim weston. description of characters. laura murdoch, twenty-five years of age, is a type not uncommon in the theatrical life of new york, and one which has grown in importance in the profession since the business of giving public entertainments has been so reduced to a commercial basis. at an early age she came from australia to san francisco. she possessed a considerable beauty and an aptitude for theatrical accomplishment which soon raised her to a position of more or less importance in a local stock company playing in that city. a woman of intense superficial emotions, her imagination was without any enduring depths, but for the passing time she could place herself in an attitude of great affection and devotion. sensually, the woman had marked characteristics, and, with the flattery that surrounded her, she soon became a favourite in the select circles which made such places as "the poodle dog" and "zinkand's" famous. in general dissipation, she was always careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her physical attractiveness, or for one moment to diminish her sense of keen worldly calculation. in time she married. it was, of course, a failure. her vacillating nature was such that she could not be absolutely true to the man to whom she had given her life, and, after several bitter experiences, she had the horror of seeing him kill himself in front of her. there was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of remorse, and then the peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this type of woman. she was deceived by other men in many various ways, and finally came to that stage of life that is known in theatrical circles as being "wised up." at nineteen, the attention of a prominent theatrical manager being called to her, she took an important part in a new york production, and immediately gained considerable reputation. the fact that, before reaching the age of womanhood, she had had more escapades than most women have in their entire lives was not generally known in new york, nor was there a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism to betray it. she was soft-voiced, very pretty, very girlish. her keen sense of worldly calculation led her to believe that in order to progress in her theatrical career she must have some influence outside of her art and dramatic accomplishment; so she attempted, with no little success, to infatuate a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly invincible theatrical manager, who, in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. this, however, not satisfying her, she played two ends against the middle, and, finding a young man of wealth and position who could give her, in his youth, the exuberance and joy utterly apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she adopted him, and for a while lived with him. exhausting his money, she cast him aside, always spending a certain part of the time with the theatrical manager. the young man became crazed, and, at a restaurant, tried to murder all of them. from that time up to the opening of the play, her career was a succession of brilliant coups in gaining the confidence and love, not to say the money, of men of all ages and all walks in life. her fascination was as undeniable as her insincerity of purpose. she had never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, although she imagined herself always persecuted, the victim of circumstances,--and was always ready to excuse any viciousness of character which led her into her peculiar difficulties. while acknowledged to be a mistress of her business--that of acting--from a purely technical point of view, her lack of sympathy, her abuse of her dramatic temperament in her private affairs, had been such as to make it impossible for her sincerely to impress audiences with real emotional power, and, therefore, despite the influences which she always had at hand, she remained a mediocre artist. at the time of the opening of our play, she has played a summer engagement with a stock company in denver, which has just ended. she has met john madison, a man of about twenty-seven years of age, whose position is that of a dramatic critic on one of the local papers. laura murdoch, with her usual wisdom, started to fascinate john madison, but has found that, for once in her life, she has met her match. john madison is good to look at, frank, virile, but a man of broad experience, and not to be hoodwinked. for the first time laura murdoch feels that the shoe is pinching the other foot, and, without any possible indication of reciprocal affection, she has been slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love with him. she has for the past two years been the special favourite and mistress of willard brockton. the understanding is one of pure friendship. he is a man who has a varied taste in the selection of his women; is honest in a general way, and perfectly frank about his amours. he has been most generous with laura murdock, and his close relations with several very prominent theatrical managers have made it possible for him to secure her desirable engagements, generally in new york. with all her past experiences, tragic and otherwise, laura murdoch has found nothing equal to this sudden, this swiftly increasing, love for the young western man. at first she attempted to deceive him. her baby face, her masterful assumption of innocence and childlike devotion, made no impression upon him. he has let her know in no uncertain way that he knew her record from the day she stepped on american soil in san francisco to the time when she had come to denver, but still he liked her. john madison is a peculiar type of the western man. up to the time of his meeting laura, he had always been employed either in the mines or on a newspaper west of the mississippi river. he is one of those itinerant reporters; to-day you might find him in seattle, to-morrow in butte, the next week in denver, and then possibly he would make the circuit from los angeles to 'frisco, and then all around again. he drinks his whiskey straight, plays his faro fairly, and is not particular about the women with whom he goes. he started life in the western country at an early age. his natural talents, both in literature and in general adaptability to all conditions of life, were early exhibited, but his _alma mater_ was the bar-room, and the faculty of that college its bartenders and gamblers and general habituã©s. he seldom has social engagements outside of certain disreputable establishments, where a genial personality or an over-burdened pocketbook gives _entrã©e_, and the rules of conventionality have never even been whispered. his love affairs, confined to this class of women, have seldom lasted more than a week or ten days. his editors know him as a brilliant genius, irresponsible, unreliable, but at times inestimably valuable. he cares little for personal appearance beyond a certain degree of neatness. he is quick on the trigger, and in a time of over-heated argument can go some distance with his fists; in fact, his whole career is best described as "happy-go-lucky." he realizes fully his ability to do almost anything fairly well, and some things especially well, but he has never tried to accomplish anything beyond the earning of a comfortable living. twenty-five or thirty dollars a week was all he needed. with that he could buy his liquor, treat his women, sometimes play a little faro, sit up all night and sleep all day, and in general lead the life of good-natured vagabondage which has always pleased him and which he had chosen as a career. the objection of safer and saner friends to this form of livelihood was always met by him with a slap on the back and a laugh. "don't you worry about me, partner; if i'm going to hell i'm going there with bells on," was always his rejoinder; and yet, when called upon to cover some great big news story, or report some vital event, he settled down to his work with a steely determination and a grim joy that resulted in work which classified him as a genius. any great mental effort of this character, any unusual achievement along these lines, would be immediately followed by a protracted debauch that would upset him physically and mentally for weeks at a time, but he always recovered and landed on his feet, and with the same laugh and smile again went at his work. if there have been opportunities to meet decent women of good social standing, he has always thrown them aside with the declaration that they bore him to death, and there never had entered into his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until he met laura. he fell for a moment under the spell of her fascination, and then, with cold logic, he analyzed her, and found out that, while outwardly she had every sign of girlhood,--ingenuousness, sweetness of character and possibility of affection,--spiritually and mentally she was nothing more than a moral wreck. he observed keenly her efforts to win him and her disappointment at her failure--not that she cared so much for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity not to be successful with this good-for-nothing, good-natured vagabond, when men of wealth and position she made kneel at her feet. he observed her slowly-changing point of view: how from a kittenish ingenuousness she became serious, womanly, really sincere. he knew that he had awakened in her her first decent affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him his first desire to do things and be big and worth while. so together these two began to drift toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent thought, and decent love, until at last they both find themselves, and acknowledge all the wickedness of what had been, and plan for all the virtue and goodness of what is to be. it is at this point that our first act begins. elfie st. clair is a type of a tenderloin grafter in new york, who, after all, has been more sinned against than sinning; who, having been imposed upon, deceived, ill-treated and bulldozed by the type of men who prey on women in new york, has turned the tables, and with her charm and her beauty has gone out to make the same slaughter of the other sex as she suffered with many of her sisters. she is a woman without a moral conscience, whose entire life is dictated by a small mental operation. coming to new york as a beautiful girl, she entered the chorus. she became famous for her beauty. on every hand were the stage-door vultures ready to give her anything that a woman's heart could desire, from clothes to horses, carriages, money and what-not; but, with a girl-like instinct, she fell in love with a man connected with the company, and, during all the time she might have profited and become a rich woman by the attentions of these outsiders, she remained true to her love, until finally her fame as the beauty of the city had waned. the years told on her to a certain extent, and there were others coming, as young as she had been and as good to look at; and, where the automobile of the millionaire had once been waiting for her, she found that, through her faithfulness to her lover, it was now there for some one else. yet she was content with her joys, until finally the man deliberately jilted her and left her alone. what had gone of her beauty had been replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature and of men, so she determined to give herself up entirely to a life of gain. she knows just how much champagne should be drunk without injuring one's health. she knows just what physical necessities should be indulged in to preserve to the greatest degree her remaining beauty. there is no trick of the hair-dresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any one of the legion of people who devote their time to aiding the outward fascinations of women, which she does not know. she knows exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation; and all this she has determined to devote to profit. she knows that as an actress she has no future; that the time of a woman's beauty is limited. conscious that she has already lost the youthful litheness of figure which had made her so fascinating in the past, she has laid aside every sentiment, physical and spiritual, and has determined to choose a man as her companion who has the biggest bank-roll and the most liberal nature. his age, his station in life, the fact whether she likes or dislikes him, do not enter into this scheme at all. she figures that she has been made a fool of by men, and that there is only one revenge,--the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for all. there are, of course, certain likes and dislikes that she enjoys, and in a way she indulges them. there are men whose company she cares for, but their association is practically sexless and has come down to a point of mere good fellowship. willard brockton, a new york broker, is an honest sensualist, and when one says an honest sensualist, the meaning is--a man who has none of the cad in his character, who takes advantage of no one, and who allows no one to take advantage of him. he honestly detests any man who takes advantage of a pure woman. he detests any man who deceives a woman. he believes that there is only one way to go through life, and that is to be frank with those with whom one deals. he is a master-hand in stock manipulation, and in the questionable practises of wall street he has realized that he has to play his cunning and craft against the cunning and craft of others. he is not at all in sympathy with this mode of living, but he thinks it is the only method by which he can succeed in life. he measures success by the accumulation of money, but he considers his business career as a thing apart from his private existence. he does not associate, to any great extent, with what is known as "society." he keeps in touch with it simply to maintain his business position. there is always an inter-relationship among the rich in business and private life, and he gives such entertainments as are necessary to the members of new york's exclusive set, simply to make certain his relative position with other successful wall street men. as far as women are concerned, the particular type of actress, such as laura murdoch and elfie st. clair, appeals to him. he likes their good fellowship. he loves to be with a gay party at night in a cafã©. he likes the rather looseness of living which does not quite reach the disreputable. behind all this, however, is a certain high sense of honour. he detests and despises the average stage-door johnny, and he loathes the type of man who seeks to take young girls out of theatrical companies for their ruin. his women friends are as wise as himself. when they enter into an agreement with him there is no deception. in the first place he wants to like them; in the second place he wants them to like him; and finally, he wants to fix the amount of their living expenses at a definite figure, and have them stand by it. he wants them to understand that he reserves the right, at any time, to withdraw his support, or transfer it to some other woman, and he gives them the same privilege. he is always ready to help anyone who is unfortunate, and he has always hoped that some of these girls whom he knew would finally come across the right man, marry and settle down; but he insists that such an arrangement can be possible only by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she has done and been, and by the thorough understanding of all these things by the man involved. he is gruff in his manner, determined in his purposes, honest in his point of view. he is a brute, almost a savage, but he is a thoroughly good brute and a pretty decent savage. at the time of the opening of this play, he and laura murdock have been friends for two years. he knows exactly what she is and what she has been, and their relations are those of pals. she has finished her season in denver, and he has come out there to accompany her home. he has always told her, whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue her relations with him, it is her privilege to quit, and he has reserved the same condition. jim weston, between forty-five and fifty years of age, is the type of the semi-broken-down showman. in the evolution of the theatrical business in america, the old circus and minstrel men have gradually been pushed aside, while younger men, with more advanced methods, have taken their place. the character is best realized by the way it is drawn in the play. annie. the only particular attention that should be called to the character of the negress, annie, who is the servant of laura, is the fact that she must not in any way represent the traditional smiling coloured girl or "mammy" of the south. she is the cunning, crafty, heartless, surly, sullen northern negress, who, to the number of thousands, are servants of women of easy morals, and who infest a district of new york in which white and black people of the lower classes mingle indiscriminately, and which is one of the most criminal sections of the city. the actress who plays this part must keep in mind its innate and brutal selfishness. synopsis. act i. mrs. williams' ranch house or country home, perched on the side of ute pass, near colorado springs, colorado. time. late in an august afternoon. act ii. laura murdock's furnished room, second story back, new york. time. six months later. act iii. laura murdock's apartments in an expensive hotel. time. two months later. in the morning. act iv. laura murdock's apartments. the same as act iii. time. the afternoon of the same day. the easiest way act i. scene. _the scene is that of the summer country ranch house of_ mrs. williams, _a friend of_ laura murdock's, _and a prominent society woman of denver, perched on the side of ute pass, near colorado springs. the house is one of unusual pretentiousness, and, to a person not conversant with conditions as they exist in this part of colorado, the idea might be that such magnificence could not obtain in such a locality. at the left of stage the house rises in the form of a turret, built of rough stone of a brown hue, two stories high, and projecting a quarter of the way out on the stage. the door leads to a small elliptical terrace built of stone, with heavy benches of greek design, strewn cushions, while over the top of one part of this terrace is suspended a canopy made from a navajo blanket. the terrace is supposed to extend almost to the right of stage, and here it stops. the stage must be cut here so that the entrance of_ john _can give the illusion that he is coming up a steep declivity or a long flight of stairs. there are chairs at right and left, and a small table at left. there are trailing vines around the balustrade of the terrace, and the whole setting must convey the idea of quiet wealth. up stage is supposed to be the part of the terrace overlooking the caã±on, a sheer drop of two thousand feet, while over in the distance, as if across the caã±on, one can see the rolling foot-hills and lofty peaks of the rockies, with pike's peak in the distance, snow-capped and colossal. it is late in the afternoon, and, as the scene progresses, the quick twilight of a caã±on, beautiful in its tints of purple and amber, becomes later pitch black, and the curtain goes down on an absolutely black stage. the cyclorama, or semi-cyclorama, must give the perspective of greater distances, and be so painted that the various tints of twilight may be shown_. at rise. laura murdock _is seen leaning a bit over the balustrade of the porch and shielding her eyes with her hand from the late afternoon sun, as she seemingly looks up the pass to the left, as if expecting the approach of someone. her gown is simple, girlish and attractive, and made of summery, filmy stuff. her hair is done up in the simplest fashion, with a part in the centre, and there is about her every indication of an effort to assume that girlishness of demeanour which has been her greatest asset through life_. willard brockton _enters; he is a man six feet or more in height, stocky in build, clean-shaven and immaculately dressed. he is smoking a cigar, and upon entering takes one step forward and looks over toward_ laura _in a semi-meditative manner_. will. blue? laura. no. will. what's up? laura. nothing. will. a little preoccupied. laura. perhaps. will. what's up that way? laura. which way? will. the way you are looking. laura. the road from manitou springs. they call it the trail out here. will. i know that. you know i've done a lot of business west of the missouri. laura. [_with a half-sigh_.] no, i didn't know it. will. oh, yes; south of here in the san juan country. spent a couple of years there once. laura. [_still without turning_.] that's interesting. will. it was then. i made some money there. it's always interesting when you make money. still-laura. [_still leaning in an absent-minded attitude_.] still what? will. can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road. someone coming? laura. yes. will. one of mrs. williams' friends, eh? [_will crosses, and sits on seat_. laura. yes. will. yours too? laura. yes. will. man? laura. yes, a _real_ man. will. [_catches the significance of this speech. he carelessly throws the cigar over the balustrade. he comes down and leans on chair with his back to_ laura. _she has not moved more than to place her left hand on a cushion and lean her head rather wearily against it, looking steadfastly up the pass_.] a real man. by that you mean-laura. just that--a real man. will. any difference from the many you have known? laura. yes, from all i have known. will. so that is why you didn't come into denver to meet me to-day, but left word for me to come out here? laura. yes. will. i thought that i was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half-way across the continent in order to keep you company on your way back to new york, and welcome you to our home; but maybe i had the wrong idea. laura. yes, i think you had the wrong idea. will. in love, eh? laura. yes, just that,--in love. will. a new sensation. laura. no; the first conviction. will. you have had that idea before. every woman's love is the real one when it comes. [_crosses up to_ laura.] do you make a distinction in this case, young lady? laura. yes. will. for instance, what? laura. this man is poor--absolutely broke. he hasn't even got a [_crosses to armchair, leans over and draws with parasol on ground_.] good job. you know, will, all the rest, including yourself, generally had some material inducement. will. what's his business? [_crosses to table and sits looking at magazine_. laura. he's a newspaper man. will. h'm-m. romance? laura. yes, if you want to call it that,--romance. will. do i know him? laura. how could you? you only came from new york to-day, and he has never been there. _he regards her with a rather amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression, in contrast to his big, bluff, physical personality, with his iron-gray hair and his bulldog expression_. laura _looks more girlish than ever. this is imperative in order to thoroughly understand the character_. will. how old is he? laura. twenty-seven. you're forty-five. will. no, forty-six. laura. shall i tell you about him? huh? [_crosses to_ will, _placing parasol on seat_. will. that depends. laura. on what? will. yourself. laura. in what way? will. if it will interfere in the least with the plans i have made for you and for me. laura. and have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you? will. yes, i have given up the lease of our apartment on west end avenue, and i've got a house on riverside drive. everything will be quiet and decent, and it'll be more comfortable for you. there's a stable near by, and your horses and car can be kept over there. you'll be your own mistress, and besides i've fixed you up for a new part. laura. a new part! what kind of a part? will. one of charlie burgess's shows, translated from some french fellow. it's been running over in paris, berlin, and vienna, and all those places, for a year or more, and appears to be an awful hit. it's going to cost a lot of money. i told charlie he could put me down for a half interest, and i'd give all the money providing you got an important rã´le. great part, i'm told. kind of a cross between a musical comedy and an opera. looks as if it might stay in new york all season. so that's the change of plan. how does it strike you? [laura _crosses to door, meditating; pauses in thought_. laura. i don't know. will. feel like quitting? [_turns to her._ laura. i can't tell. will. it's the newspaper man, eh? laura. that would be the only reason. will. you've been on the square with me this summer, haven't you? [_crosses to table_. laura. [_turns, looks at_ will.] what do you mean by "on the square?" will. don't evade. there's only one meaning when i say that, and you know it. i'm pretty liberal. but you understand where i draw the line. you've not jumped that, have you, laura? laura. no, this has been such a wonderful summer, such a wonderfully different summer. can you understand what i mean by that when i say "wonderfully different summer?" [_crossing to will_. will. well, he's twenty-seven and broke, and you're twenty-five and pretty; and he evidently, being a newspaper man, has that peculiar gift of gab that we call romantic expression. so i guess i'm not blind, and you both think you've fallen in love. that it? laura. yes, i think that's about it; only i don't agree to the "gift of gab" and the "romantic" end of it. [_crosses to table_.] he's a man and i'm a woman, and we both have had our experiences. i don't think, will, that there can be much of that element of what some folks call hallucination. [_sits on chair; takes candy-box on lap; selects candy_. will. then the riverside drive proposition and burgess's show is off, eh? laura. i didn't say that. will. and if you go back on the overland limited day after to-morrow, you'd just as soon i'd go to-morrow of wait until the day after you leave? [laura _places candy-box back on table_. laura. i didn't say that, either. will. what's the game? laura. i can't tell you now. will. waiting for him to come? [_crosses, sits on seat_. laura. exactly. will. think he is going to make a proposition, eh? laura. i know he is. will. marriage? laura. possibly. will. you've tried that once, and taken the wrong end. are you going to play the same game again? laura. yes, but with a different card. [_picks up magazine off table_. will. what's his name? laura. madison--john madison. [_slowly turning pages of magazine_. will. and his job? laura. reporter. will. what are you going to live on,--the extra editions? laura. no, we're young, there's plenty of time. i can work in the meantime, and so can he; and then with his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible. will. sounds well--a year off. laura. if i thought you were going to make fun of me, will, i shouldn't have talked to you. [_throws down magazine, crosses to door of house_. will. [_crossing down in front of table_.] i don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't an easy thing to be dumped with so little ceremony. maybe you have never given me any credit for possessing the slightest feeling, but even i can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market. laura. [_crosses to_ will.] it isn't easy for me to do this. you've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when i went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. you reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little,--maybe a lot,--but i should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts. will. [_is evidently very much moved. walks up stage to right end of seat, looks over the caã±on_. laura _looks after him_. will _has his back to the audience. long pause_.] i'm not hedging, laura. if that's the way you want it to be, i'll stand by just exactly what i said [_turns to_ laura.], but i'm fond of you, a damn sight fonder than i thought i was, now that i find you slipping away; but if this young fellow is on the square [laura _crosses to_ will, _taking his right hand_.] and he has youth and ability, and you've been on the square with him, why, all right. your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, have a good husband, and maybe some day good children [laura _sighs_.], why, i'm not going to stand in the way. only i don't want you to make any of those mistakes that you made before. laura. i know, but somehow i feel that this time the real thing has come, and with it the real man. i can't tell you, will, how much different it is, but everything i felt before seems so sort of earthly--and somehow this love that i have for this man is so different. it's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble for the first time in my life. the only other thing i ever had that i cared the least bit about, now that i look back, was your friendship. we have been good pals, haven't we? [_puts arms about_ will. will. yes, it's been a mighty good two years for me. i was always proud to take you around, because i think you one of the prettiest things in new york [laura _crosses and girlishly jumps into armchair._], and that helps some, and you're always jolly, and you never complained. you always spent a lot of money, but it was a pleasure to see you spend it; and then you never offended me. most women offend men by coming around looking untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow you always knew the value of your beauty, and you always dressed up. i always thought that maybe some day the fellow would come along, grab you, and make you happy in a nice way, but i thought that he'd have to have a lot of money. you know you've lived a rather extravagant life for five years, laura. it won't be an easy job to come down to cases and suffer for the little dainty necessities you've been used to. laura. i've thought all about that, and i think i understand. [_facing audience; leaning elbows on lap._ will. you know if you were working without anybody's help, laura, you might have a hard time getting a position. as an actress you're only fair. laura. you needn't remind me of that. that part of my life is my own. [_crosses up to seat._] i don't want you to start now and make it harder for me to do the right thing. it isn't fair; it isn't square; and it isn't right. you've got to let me go my own way. [_crosses to_ will; _puts right hand on his shoulder._] i'm sorry to leave you, in a way, but i want you to know that if i go with john it changes the spelling of the word comradeship into love, and mistress into wife. now please don't talk any more. [_crosses to post; takes scarf off chair._ will. just a word. is it settled? laura. [_impatiently._] i said i didn't know. i would know to-day--that's what i'm waiting for. oh, i don't see why he doesn't come. [will _turns up to seat looking over pass._ will. [_pointing up the pass._] is that the fellow coming up here? laura. [_quickly running toward the balustrade of seat, saying as she goes_:] where? [_kneels on seat_. will. [_pointing_.] up the road there. on that yellow horse. laura. [_looking_.] yes, that's john. [_she waves her handkerchief, and putting one hand to her mouth cries_:] hello! john. [_off stage with the effect as if he was on the road winding up toward the house_.] hello yourself! laura. [_same effect_.] hurry up, you're late. john. [_same effect, a little louder_.] better late than never. laura. [_same effect_.] hurry up. john. [_little louder_.] not with this horse. laura. [_to_ will, _with enthusiastic expression_.] now, will, does he look like a yellow reporter? will. [_with a sort of sad smile_.] he _is_ a good-looking chap. laura. [_looking down again at_ john.] oh, he's just simply more than that. [_turns quickly to_ will.] where's mrs. williams? will. [_motioning with thumb toward left side of ranch house_.] inside, i guess, up to her neck in bridge. laura. [_goes hurriedly over to door_.] mrs. williams! oh, mrs. williams! mrs. williams. [_heard off stage_.] what is it, my dear? laura. mr. madison is coming up the path. mrs. williams. [_off stage_.] that's good. laura. sha'n't you come and see him? mrs. williams. [_same_.] lord, no! i'm six dollars and twenty cents out now, and up against an awful streak of luck. laura. shall i give him some tea? mrs. williams. [_same_.] yes, do, dear; and tell him to cross his fingers when he thinks of me. _in the meantime_ will _has leaned over the balustrade, evidently surveying the young man, who is supposed to be coming up the, path, with a great deal of interest. underneath his stolid, businesslike demeanour of squareness, there is undoubtedly within his heart a very great affection for_ laura. _he realizes that during her whole career he has been the only one who has influenced her absolutely. since the time they lived together, he has always dominated, and he has always endeavoured to lead her along a path that meant the better things of a bohemian existence. his coming all the way from new york to denver to accompany_ laura _home was simply another example of his keen interest in the woman, and he suddenly finds that she has drifted away from him in a manner to which he could not in the least object, and that she had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement with him._ will _is a man who, while rough and rugged in many ways, possesses many of the finer instincts of refinement, latent though they may be, and his meeting with_ john _ought, therefore, to show much significance, because on his impressions of the young man depend the entire justification of his attitude in the play._ laura. [_turning toward_ will _and going to him, slipping her hand involuntarily through his arm, and looking eagerly with him over the balustrade in almost girlish enthusiasm._] do you like him? will. [_smiling_.] i don't know him. laura. well, do you think you'll like him? will. well, i hope i'll like him. laura. well, if you hope you'll like him you ought to think you like him. he'll turn the corner of that rock in just a minute and then you can see him. do you want to see him? will. [_almost amused at her girlish manner._] why, yes--do you? laura. do i? why, i haven't seen him since last night! there he is. [_waves her hand._] hello, john! [_gets candy-box, throws pieces of candy at_ john. john. [_his voice very close now_.] hello, girlie! how's everything? laura. fine! do hurry. john. just make this horse for a minute. hurry is not in his dictionary. laura. i'm coming down to meet you. john. all--right. laura. [_turns quickly to_ will.] you don't care. you'll wait, won't you? will. surely. laura _hurriedly exits._ will _goes down centre of the stage. after a short interval_ laura _comes in, more like a sixteen-year-old girl than anything else, pulling_ john _after her. he is a tall, finely built type of western manhood, a frank face, a quick, nervous energy, a mind that works like lightning, a prepossessing smile, and a personality that is wholly captivating. his clothes are a bit dusty from the ride, but are not in the least pretentious, and his leggins are of canvas and spurs of brass, such as are used in the army. his hat is off, and he is pulled on to the stage, more like a great big boy than a man. his hair is a bit tumbled, and he shows every indication of having had a rather long and hard ride_. laura. hello, john! john. hello, girlie! _then she suddenly recovers herself and realizes the position she is in. both men measure each other for a moment in silence, neither flinching the least bit. the smile has faded from_ john's _face, and the mouth droops into an expression of firm determination._ laura _for a moment loses her ingenuousness. she is the least bit frightened at finally placing the two men face to face, and in a voice that trembles slightly from apprehension_: laura. oh, i beg your pardon! mr. madison, this is mr. brockton, a friend of mine from new york. you've often heard me speak of him; he came out here to keep me company when i go home. john. [_comes forward, extends a hand, looking_ will _right in the eye._] i am very glad to know you, mr. brockton. will. thank you. john. i've heard a great deal about you and your kindness to miss murdock. anything that you have done for her in a spirit of friendliness i am sure all her friends must deeply appreciate, and i count myself in as one. will. [_in an easy manner that rather disarms the antagonistic attitude of_ john.] then we have a good deal in common, mr. madison, for i also count miss murdock a friend, and when two friends of a friend have the pleasure of meeting, i dare say that's a pretty good foundation for them to become friends too. john. possibly. whatever my opinion may have been of you, mr. brockton, before you arrived, now i have seen you--and i'm a man who forms his conclusions right off the bat--i don't mind telling you that you've agreeably surprised me. that's just a first impression, but they run kind o' strong with me. will. well, young man, i size up a fellow in pretty short order, and all things being equal, i think you'll do. laura. [_radiantly._] shall i get the tea? john. tea! laura. yes, tea. you know it must be tea--nothing stronger. [_crosses to door._ john. [_looking at_ will _rather comically._] how strong are you for that tea, mr. brockton? will. i'll pass; it's your deal, mr. madison. john. mine! no, deal me out this hand. laura. i don't think you're at all pleasant, but i'll tell you one thing--it's tea this deal or no game. [_crosses up stage to seat, picks up magazine, turns pages._ will. no game then [_crosses to door._], and i'm going to help mrs. williams; maybe she's lost nearly seven dollars by this time, and i'm an awful dub when it comes to bridge. [_exit._ laura. [_tossing magazine on to seat, crosses quickly to_ john, _throws her arms around his neck in the most loving manner._] john! _as the act progresses the shadows cross the pass, and golden light streams across the lower hills and tops the snow-clad peaks. it becomes darker and darker, the lights fade to beautiful opalescent hues, until, when the curtain falls on the act, with_ john _and_ will _on the scene, it is pitch dark, a faint glow coming out of the door. nothing else can be seen but the glow of the ash on the end of each man's cigar as he puffs it in silent meditation on their conversation._ john. well, dear? laura. are you going to be cross with me? john. why? laura. because he came? john. brockton? laura. yes. john. you didn't know, did you? laura. yes, i did. john. that he was coming? laura. he wired me when he reached kansas city. john. does he know? laura. about us? john. yes. laura. i've told him. john. when? laura. to-day. john. here? laura. yes. john. with what result? laura. i think it hurt him. john. naturally. laura. more than i had any idea it would. john. i'm sorry. [_sits in armchair_. laura. he cautioned me to be very careful and to be sure i knew my way. john. that was right. laura _gets a cushion in each hand off seat; crosses down to left of armchair, throws one cushion on ground, then the other on top of it, and kneels beside his chair. piano in house playing a chopin nocturne_. laura. john. john. yes. laura. we've been very happy all summer. john. very. laura. [_rises, sits on left arm of chair, her arm over back_.] and this thing has gradually been growing on us? john. that's true. laura. i didn't think that, when i came out here to denver to play in a little stock company, it was going to bring me all this happiness, but it has, hasn't it? john. yes. laura. [_changing her position, sits on his lap, arms around his neck_.] and now the season's over and there is nothing to keep me in colorado, and i've got to go back to new york to work. john. i know; i've been awake all night thinking about it. laura. well? john. well? laura. what are we going to do? john. why, you've got to go, i suppose. laura. is it good-bye? john. for a while, i suppose--it's good-bye. laura. what do you mean by a while? [laura _turns_ john's _face to her, looks at him searchingly_. john. until [_piano plays crescendo, then softens down_.] i get money enough together, and am making enough to support you, then come and take you out of the show business and make you mrs. madison. laura _tightens her arm around his neck, her cheek goes close to his own, and all the wealth of affection the woman is capable of at times is shown. she seems more like a dainty little kitten purring close to its master. her whole thought and idea seem to be centred on the man whom she professes to love._ laura. john, that is what i want above everything else. john. but, laura, we must come to some distinct understanding before we start to make our plans. we're not children. laura. no, we're not. john. now in the first place [laura _rises, crosses to centre._] we'll discuss you, and in the second place we'll discuss me. we'll keep nothing from each other [laura _picks up cushions, places them on seat._], and we'll start out on this campaign [laura _turns back to centre, facing audience._] of decency and honour, fully understanding its responsibilities, without a chance of a come-back on either side. laura. [_becoming very serious._] you mean that we should tell each other all about each other, so, no matter what's ever said about us by other people, we'll know it first? john. [_rising._] that's precisely what i'm trying to get at. laura. well, john, there are so many things i don't want to speak of even to you. it isn't easy for a woman to go back and dig up a lot of ugly memories and try to excuse them. [_crosses to front of table, picks up magazine, places it on table_. john. i've known everything from the first; how you came to san francisco as a kid and got into the show business, and how you went wrong, and then how you married, still a kid, and how your husband didn't treat you exactly right, and then how, in a fit of drunkenness, he came home and shot himself. [laura _buries her head in her hands, making exclamations of horror._ john _crosses to her as if sorry for hurting her; touches her on shoulder._] but that's all past now, and we can forget that. and i know how you were up against it after that, how tough it was for you to get along. then finally how you've lived, and--and that you and this man brockton have been--well--never mind. i've known it all for months, and i've watched you. now, laura, the habit of life is a hard thing to get away from. you've lived in this way for a long time. if i ask you to be my wife you'll have to give it up; you'll have to go back to new york and struggle on your own hook until i get enough to come for you. i don't know how long that will be, but it _will_ be. do you love me enough to stick out for the right thing? laura _crosses to him, puts her arms around him, kisses him once very affectionately, looks at him very earnestly_. laura. yes. i think this is my one great chance. i do love you and i want to do just what you said. john. i think you will. i'm going to make the same promise. your life, dear girl, has been an angel's compared with mine. i've drank whiskey, played bank, and raised hell ever since the time i could develop a thirst; and ever since i've been able to earn my own living i've abused every natural gift god gave me. the women i've associated with aren't good enough to touch the hem of your skirt, but they liked me, and [john _crosses to armchair, turns up stage, then faces her_.] well--i must have liked them. my life hasn't been exactly loose, it's been all in pieces. i've never done anything dishonest. i've always gone wrong just for the fun of it, until i met you. [_crosses to her, takes her in his arms_.] somehow then i began to feel that i was making an awful waste of myself. laura. john! john. some lovers place a woman on a pedestal and say, "she never has made a mistake." [_taking her by each arm he playfully shakes her_.] well, we don't need any pedestals. i just know you never will make a mistake. laura. [_kissing him_.] john, i'll never make you take those words back. [_arms around his neck_. john. that goes double. you're going to cut out the cabs and cafã©s, and i'm going to cut out the whiskey and all-night sessions [laura _releases him; he backs slightly away_.]; and you're going to be somebody and i'm going to be somebody, and if my hunch is worth the powder to blow it up, we're going to show folks things they never thought were in us. come on now, kiss me. _she kisses him; tears are in her eyes. he looks into her face with a quaint smile_. john. you're on, ain't you, dear? laura. yes, i'm on. john. then [_points toward door with his left arm over her shoulder_.] call him. laura. brockton? john. yes, and tell him you go back to new york without any travelling companion this season. laura. now? john. sure. laura. you want to hear me tell him? john. [_with a smile_.] we're partners, aren't we? i ought to be in on any important transaction like that, but it's just as you say. laura. i think it would be right you should. i'll call him now. john. all right. [_crossing to stairway_. laura _crosses to door; twilight is becoming very much more pronounced_. laura. [_at door_.] mr. brockton! oh, mr. brockton! will. [_off stage_.] yes. laura. can you spare a moment to come out here? will. just a moment. laura. you must come now. will. all right. [_she waits for him and after a reasonable interval he appears at door_.] laura, it's a shame to lure me away from that mad speculation in there. i thought i might make my fare back to new york if i played until next summer. what's up? laura. mr. madison wants to talk to you, or rather i do, and i want him to listen. will. [_his manner changing to one of cold, stolid calculation_.] very well. [_comes down off step of house_. laura. will. will. yes? laura. i'm going home day after to-morrow on the overland limited. will. i know. laura. it's awfully kind of you to come out here, but under the circumstances i'd rather you'd take an earlier or a later train. will. and may i ask what circumstances you refer to? laura. mr. madison and i are going to be married. [_pause_.] he [will _looks inquiringly at_ john.] knows of your former friendship for me, and he has the idea that it must end. will. then the riverside drive proposition, with burgess's show thrown in, is declared off, eh? laura. yes; everything is absolutely declared off. will. can't even be friends any more, eh? john _crosses, and, taking_ laura's _arm, passes her over to seat; his back is partly to audience_. john. you could hardly expect miss murdock to be friendly with you under the circumstances. you could hardly expect me to [laura _puts scarf across her shoulders_.] sanction any such friendship. will. i think i understand your position, young man, and i perfectly agree with you, that is--if your plans come out successfully. john. thank you. laura. then everything is settled [_crossing in front of_ john _and facing_ will, _back to audience_.] just the way it ought to be--frankly and aboveboard? will. why, i guess so. if i was perfectly confident that this new arrangement was going to result happily for you both, i think it would be great, only i'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become serious and then fail, i know how hard those things hit, having _been_ hit once myself. john. so you think we're making a wrong move and there isn't a chance of success! will. no, i don't make any such gloomy prophecy. if you make laura a good husband, and she makes you a good wife, and together you win out, i'll be mighty glad. as far as i am concerned i shall absolutely forget every thought of laura's friendship for me. laura. i thought you'd be just that way. [_crosses to_ will, _shakes hands_. will. [_rising_.] and now i must be off. [_takes her by both hands and shakes them_.] good-bye, girlie! madison, good luck. [_crosses to_ john. _shakes_ john's _hands; looks into his eyes_.] i think you've got the stuff in you to succeed if your foot don't slip. john. what do you mean by my foot slipping, mr. brockton? will. you want me to tell you? john. i sure do. will. [_turns to laura_.] laura, run into the house and see if mrs. williams has won another quarter. [laura _sinks fearfully into chair_.] madison and i are going to smoke a cigar and have a friendly chat, and when we get through i think we'll both be better off. laura. you are sure that everything will be all right? will. sure. laura _looks at_ john _for assurance, and exits; he nods reassuringly_. will. have a cigar? [servant _places lamp on table inside house_. john. no, i'll smoke my own. [_crosses down right; sits in armchair_. will. what is your business? [_crosses up to seat centre; sits_. john. what's yours? will. i'm a broker. john. i'm a reporter, so i've got something on you. will. what kind? john. general utility, dramatic critic on sunday nights. will. pay you well? john. [_turns, looking at_ will.] that's pretty fresh. what's the idea? will. i'm interested. i'm a plain man, mr. madison, and i do business in a plain way. now, if i ask you a few questions and discuss this matter with you in a frank way, don't get it in your head that i'm jealous or sore, but simply i don't want either of you people to make a move that's going to cost you a lot of pain and trouble. if you want me to talk sense to you, all right. if you don't we'll drop it now. what's the answer? john. i'll take a chance, but before you start i want to tell you that the class of people that you belong to i have no use for--they don't speak my language. you are what they call a manipulator of stocks; that means that you're living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your daily bread, yes, and your cake and your wine, too, from the production of others. you're a "gambler under cover." show me a man who's dealing bank, and he's free and aboveboard. you can figure the percentage against you, and then, if you buck the tiger and get stung, you do it with your eyes open. with your financiers the game is crooked twelve months of the year, and, from a business point of view, i think you are a crook. now i guess we understand each other. if you've got anything to say, why, spill it. will _rises, comes down toward_ john, _showing anger in his tones_. will. we are not talking business now, but women. how much money do you earn? [_crosses to chair left of table; gets it_. john. understand i don't think it is any of your damn business, but i'm going through with you on this proposition, just to see how the land lays. but take my tip, you be mighty careful how you speak about the girl if you're not looking for trouble. will. all right, but how much did you say you made? [_crosses over to centre of stage, carrying chair; sits_. john. thirty dollars a week. will. do you know how much laura could make if she just took a job on her own merits? john. as i don't intend to share in her salary, i never took the trouble to inquire. will. she'd get about forty dollars. john. that laps me ten. will. how are you going to support her? her cabs cost more than your salary, and she pays her week's salary for an every-day walking-hat. she's always had a maid; her simplest gown flirts with a hundred-dollar note; her manicurist and her hair-dresser will eat up as much as you pay for your board. she never walks when it's stormy, and every afternoon there's her ride in the park. she dines at the best places in new york, and one meal costs her more than you make in a day. do you imagine for a moment that she's going to sacrifice these luxuries for any great length of time? john. i intend to give them to her. will. on thirty dollars a week? john. i propose to go out and make a lot of money. will. how? john. i haven't decided yet, but you can bet your sweet life that if i ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be. will. never have made it, have you? john. i have never tried. will. then how do you know you can? john. well, i'm honest and energetic. if you can get great wealth the way you go along, i don't see why i can't earn a little. will. there's where you make a mistake. money-getting doesn't always come with brilliancy. i know a lot of fellows in new york who can paint a great picture, write a good play, and, when it comes to oratory, they've got me lashed to a pole; but they're always in debt. they never get anything for what they do. in other words, young man, they are like a sky-rocket without a stick,--plenty of brilliancy, but no direction, and they blow up and fizzle all over the ground. john. that's new york. i'm in colorado, and i guess you know there is a difference. will. i hope you'll make your money, because i tell you frankly that's the only way you can hold this girl. she's full of heroics now, self-sacrifice, and all the things that go to make up the third act of a play, but the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the window, and send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it from me it will go blah! [_rises, crosses to front of table with chair, places it with back to him, braces his back on it, facing_ john.] you're in colorado writing her letters once a day with no checks in them. that may be all right for some girl who hasn't tasted the joy of easy living, full of the good things of life, but one who for ten years has been doing very well in the way these women do is not going to let up for any great length of time. so take my advice if you want to hold her. get that money quick, and don't be so damned particular how you get it either. john's _patience is evidently severely tried. he approaches_ will, _who remains impassive_. john. of course you know you've got the best of me. will. how? john. we're guests. will. no one's listening. john. 'tisn't that. if it was anywhere but here, if there was any way to avoid all the nasty scandal, i'd come a shootin' for you, and you know it. will. gun-fighter, eh? john. perhaps. let me tell you this. i don't know how you make your money, but i know what you do with it. you buy yourself a small circle of sycophants; you pay them well for feeding your vanity; and then you pose,--pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation. and those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood. manhood? [_crossing slowly to armchair, sits._] why, you don't know what the word means. it's the attitude of a pup and a cur. will. [_angrily_.] wait a minute [_crosses to_ john.], young man, or i'll-john _rises quickly. both men stand confronting each other for a moment with fists clenched. they are on the very verge of a personal encounter. both seem to realize that they have gone too far_. john. you'll what? will. lose my temper and make a damn fool of myself. that's something i've not done for--let me see--why, it must be nearly twenty years--oh, yes, fully that. [_he smiles_; john _relaxes and takes one step back_. john. possibly it's been about that length of time since you were human, eh? will. possibly--but you see, mr. madison, after all, you're at fault. john. yes? will. yes, the very first thing you did was to lose your temper. now people who always lose their temper will never make a lot of money, and you admit that that is a great necessity--i mean now--to you. john. i can't stand for the brutal way you talk. [_crosses up to seat, picks up newspaper, slams it down angrily on seat, and sits with elbow on balustrade_. will. but you have got to stand it. the truth is never gentle. [_crosses up and sits left of_ john.] most conditions in life are unpleasant, and, if you want to meet them squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. that's the only way you can fight them and win. john [_turns to_ will.] still, i believe laura means what she says, in spite of all you say and the disagreeable logic of it. i think she loves me. if she should ever want to go back to the old way of getting along, i think she'd tell me so. so you see, brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop the subject. [_crosses down and sits in armchair_. will. and if she should ever go back and come to me, i am going to insist that she let you know all about it. it'll be hard enough to lose her, caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be double-crossed. john. [_sarcastically_.] that's very kind. thanks! will. don't get sore. it's common sense and it goes, does it not? john. [_turns to_ will.] just what goes? will. if she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to me i'll make her let you know just when and why. john _is leaning on arm, facing_ will; _his hand shoots out in a gesture of warning to_ will. john. look out! will. i said common sense. john. all right. will. agreed? [_a pause_. john. you're on. _by this time the stage is black and all that can be seen is the glow of the two cigars. piano in the next room is heard_. john _crosses slowly and deliberately to door, looks in, throws cigar away over the terrace, exits into house, closes doors, and, as_ will _is seated on terrace, puffing cigar, the red coal of which is alone visible, a slow curtain_. curtain. act ii. scene. _six months have elapsed. the furnished room of_ laura murdock, _second story back of an ordinary, cheap theatrical lodging-house in the theatre district of new york. the house is evidently of a type of the old-fashioned brown-stone front, with high ceilings, dingy walls, and long, rather insecure windows. the woodwork is depressingly dark. the ceiling is cracked, the paper is old and spotted and in places loose. there is a door leading to the hallway. there is a large old-fashioned wardrobe in which are hung a few old clothes, most of them a good deal worn and shabby, showing that the owner_--laura murdock--_has had a rather hard time of it since leaving colorado in the first act. the doors of this wardrobe must be equipped with springs so they will open outward, and also furnished with wires so they can be controlled from the back. this is absolutely necessary, owing to "business" which is done during the progress of the act. the drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe is open at rise. this is filled with a lot of rumpled, tissue-paper and other rubbish. an old pair of shoes is seen at the upper end of the wardrobe on the floor. there is an armchair over which is thrown an ordinary kimono, and on top of the wardrobe are a number of magazines and old books, and an unused parasol wrapped up in tissue paper._ _the dresser, which is upstage, against the wall, is in keeping with the general meanness, and its adornment consists of old postcards stuck in between the mirror and its frame, with some well-worn veils and ribbons hung on the side. on the dresser is a pincushion, a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in colour and nearly empty; a common crockery match-holder, containing matches, which must be practicable; a handkerchief-box, powder-box and puff, rouge-box and rouge paw, hand mirror, small alcohol curling-iron heater, which must also be practicable, as it is used in the "business" of the act; scissors, curling-tongs, hair comb and brush, and a small cheap picture of_ john madison; _a small work-box containing a thimble and thread,--and stuck in the pincushion are a couple of needles, threaded. directly to the left of the bureau, with the door to the outside closet intervening, is a broken-down washstand, on which is a basin half full of water, a bottle of tooth-powder, tooth brushes and holder, soap and soap-dish, and other cheap toilet articles, and a small drinking-glass. hung on the corner of the washstand is a soiled towel. hung on the rack across the top of the washstand one can see a pair of stockings. on the floor in front of the washstand is a pitcher half full of water; also a large waste-water jar of the cheapest type._ _below the washstand, and with the head against the wall, is a three-quarter old wooden bed, also showing the general decay of the entire room. tacked on the head of this bed is a large photo of_ john madison, _with a small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top, covering the tack. under the photo are arranged half a dozen cheap, artificial violets, in pitiful recognition of the girl's love for her absent sweetheart._ _under the mattress at the head of the bed is a heavy cardboard box, about thirty inches long, seven inches wide and four inches deep, containing about one hundred and twenty-five letters and eighty telegrams, tied in about eight bundles with dainty ribbon. one bundle must contain all practical letters of several closely written pages each, each letter having been opened. they must be written upon business paper and envelopes, such as are used in newspaper offices and by business men._ _under the pillow at the head of the bed is carelessly thrown a woman's night-dress. on the bed is an old book, open, with face downward, and beside it is an apple which some one has been nibbling. across the foot of the bed is a soiled quilt, untidily folded. the pillows are hollow in the centre, as if having been used lately. at the foot of the bed is a small table, with soiled and ink-stained cover, upon which are a cheap pitcher, containing some withered carnations, and a desk-pad, with paper, pen, ink, and envelopes scattered around._ _against the wall below the bed is an old mantel-piece and fireplace with iron grate, such as are used in houses of this type. on the mantel-piece are photos of actors and actresses, an old mantel clock in the centre, in front of which is a box of cheap peppermint candy in large pieces, and a plate with two apples upon it; some cheap pieces of bric-ã -brac and a little vase containing joss-sticks, such as one might burn to improve the atmosphere of these dingy, damp houses. below the mantel-piece is a thirty-six inch theatre trunk, with theatre labels on it, in the tray of which are articles of clothing, a small box of thread, and a bundle of eight pawn tickets. behind the trunk is a large cardboard box. hanging from the ceiling directly over the table is a single arm gas-jet, from which is hung a turkey wish-bone. on the jet is a little wire arrangement to hold small articles for heating. beside the table is a chair. under the bed are a pair of bedroom slippers and a box. between the bed and the mantel is a small tabourette on which are a book and a candle-stick with the candle half burned. on the floor in front of the door is a slipper,--also another in front of the dresser,--as if they had been thrown carelessly down. on the wardrobe door, on the down-stage side, is tacked another photo of_ john madison. _in an alcove off left is a table on which is a small oil stove, two cups, saucers and plates, a box of matches, tin coffee-box, and a small japanese teapot. on a projection outside the window is a pint milk bottle, half filled with milk, and an empty benzine bottle, which is labelled. both are covered with snow._ _the backing shows a street snow-covered. in arranging the properties it must be remembered that in the wardrobe is a box of uneeda biscuits, with one end torn open. there is a door down right, opening inward, leading into the hallway. the window is at back, running from floor nearly to the ceiling. this window does not rise, but opens in the manner of the french or door window._ _on the outside of the window covering the same is an iron guard such as is used in new york on the lower back windows. the rods running up and down are about four inches apart. there is a projection outside the window such as would be formed by a storm door in the basement; running the full length of the window and about thirty inches wide, raised about a foot from the floor in front and about nine inches in the back, there is opening inward a door at left back, leading into a small alcove, as has been mentioned before. the door is half glass, the glass part being the upper half, and is ajar when the curtain rises. a projection at fireplace such as would be made for a chimney is in the wall which runs from left centre diagonally to left first entrance._ at rise _the stage is empty. after a pause_ laura _enters, passes the dresser, places umbrella at the right, end of it against wall, crosses to back of armchair, removes gloves, lays them over back of chair, takes off coat and hat, hangs hat on end of wardrobe, and puts coat inside; notices old slipper in front of dresser and one on the extreme right, and with impatience picks them up and puts them in the wardrobe drawer. then crosses to dresser, gets needle and thread off pincushion, and mends small rip in glove, after which she puts gloves in top drawer of dresser, crosses to extreme end of dresser, and gets handkerchief out of box, takes up bottle containing purple perfume, holds it up so she can see there is only a small quantity left, sprinkles a drop on handkerchief carefully, so as not to use too much, looks at bottle again to see how much is left, places it on dresser; goes to up-stage side of bed, kneels on head of the bed and looks lovingly at photo of_ john madison, _and finally pulls up the mattress, takes out box of letters, and opens it. she then sits down in oriental fashion, with her feet under her, selects a bundle of letters, unties the ribbon, and takes out a letter such as has been hereinbefore described, glances it over, puts it down in her lap, and again takes a long look at the picture of_ john madison. annie _is heard coming upstairs_. laura _looks quickly towards the door, puts the letters back in box, and hurriedly places box under mattress, and replaces pillow_. annie _knocks on door_. laura _rises and crosses to door._ laura. come in. annie, _a chocolate-colored negress, enters. she is slovenly in appearance, but must not in any way denote the "mammy." she is the type one encounters in cheap theatrical lodging-houses. she has a letter in her hand,--also a clean towel folded,--and approaches_ laura. laura. hello, annie. annie. heah's yo' mail, miss laura. laura. [_taking letter._] thank you! [_she looks at the address and does not open it._ annie. one like dat comes every mornin', don't it? used to all be postmahked denver. must 'a' moved. [_trying to look over_ laura's _shoulder_; laura _turns and sees her_; annie _looks away._] where is dat place called goldfield, miss laura? laura. in nevada. annie. in _nevada_? laura. yes, nevada. annie. [_draws her jacket closer around her as if chilly._] must be mighty smaht to write yuh every day. de pos'man brings it 'leven o'clock mos' always, sometimes twelve, and again sometimes tehn; but it comes every day, don't it? laura. i know. annie. [_crosses to right of armchair, brushes it off and makes an effort to read letter, leaning across chair._] guess must be from yo' husban', ain't it? laura. no, i haven't any. annie. [_crossing to centre triumphantly._] dat's what ah tole mis' farley when she was down talkin' about you dis morning. she said if he all was yo' husband he might do somethin' to help you out. ah told her ah didn't think you had any husban'. den she says you ought to have one, you're so pretty. laura. oh, annie! annie. [_sees door open; goes and bangs it shut._] der ain't a decent door in dis old house. mis' farley said yo' might have mos' any man you [_hangs clean towel on washstand._] wanted just for de askin', but ah said yuh [_takes newspaper and books off bed, and places them on table._] was too particular about the man yo' 'd want. den she did a heap o' talking. laura. about what? [_places letter open on table, looks at hem of skirt, discovers a rip, rises, crosses up to dresser, gets needle, crosses down to trunk; opens and takes thimble out; closes lid of tray, sits on it, and sews skirt during scene._ annie. [_at bed, fussing around, folds nightgown and places it under pillow._] well, you know, mis' farley she's been havin' so much trouble wid her roomers. yestuhday dat young lady on de second flo' front, she lef'. she's goin' wiv some troupe on the road. she owed her room for three weeks and jus' had to leave her trunk. [_crosses and fusses over table._] my! how mis' farley did scold her. mis' farley let on she could have paid dat money if she wanted to, but somehow ah guess she couldn't-[_reads letter on table._ laura. [_sees her, angrily exclaims._] annie! annie. [_in confusion, brushing off table._]--for if she could she wouldn't have left her trunk, would she, miss laura? [_crosses to armchair, and picks up kimono off back._ laura. no, i suppose not. what did mrs. farley say about me? annie. oh! nothin' much. [_crosses left and stands._ laura. well, what? annie. she kinder say somethin' 'bout yo' being three weeks behind in yo' room rent, and she said she t'ought it was 'bout time yuh handed her somethin', seein' as how yuh must o' had some stylish friends when yuh come here. laura. who, for instance? annie. ah don't know. mis' farley said some of 'em might slip yo' enough jest to help yuh out. [_pause._] ain't yo' got nobody to take care of you at all, miss laura? [_hangs kimono over back of armchair._ laura. no! no one. annie. dat's too bad. laura. why? annie. [_crossing again._] mis' farley says yuh wouldn't have no trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to. laura. [_with sorrowful shudder._] please [_doors of wardrobe open very slowly._] don't, annie. annie. dere's a gemman [_playing with corner of tablecloth._] dat calls on one of de ladies from the hippodrome, in de big front room downstairs. he's mighty nice, and he's been askin' 'bout you. laura. [_exasperated._] oh, shut up! annie. [_sees doors of wardrobe have swung open; she crosses, slams them shut, turns to_ laura.] mis' farley says--[_doors have swung open again; they hit her in the back. she turns and bangs them to with all her strength_.] damn dat door! [_crosses to washstand, grabs basin which is half full of water, empties same into waste-jar, puts basin on washstand, and wipes it out with soiled towel_.] mis' farley says if she don't get someone in the house dat has reg'lar money soon, she'll have to shut up and go to the po'house. laura. i'm sorry; i'll try again to-day. [_rises, crosses up to mantel, gets desk-pad, &c., crosses to right of table, sits_. annie. [_crosses to back of bed, wiping basin with towel_.] ain't yo' got any job at all? laura. no. annie. when yuh come here yuh had lots of money and yo' was mighty good to me. you know mr. weston? laura. jim weston? annie. yassum, mr. weston what goes ahead o' shows and lives on the top floor back; he says nobody's got jobs now. dey're so many actors and actoresses out o' work. mis' farley says she don't know how she's goin' to live. she said you'd been mighty nice up until three weeks ago, but yuh ain't got much left, have you, miss laura? laura. [_rising and going to the bureau_.] no. it's all gone. annie. mah sakes! all dem rings and things? you ain't done sold them? [_sinks on bed_. laura. they're pawned. what did mrs. farley say she was going to do? annie. guess maybe ah'd better not tell. [_crosses to door hurriedly, carrying soiled towel_. laura. please do. [_crosses to chair, left side_. annie. yuh been so good to me, miss laura. never was nobody in dis house what give me so much, and ah ain't been gettin' much lately. and when mis' farley said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she would ask yuh for your room, ah jest set right down on de back kitchen stairs and cried. besides, mis' farley don't like me very well since you've ben havin' yo' breakfasts and dinners brought up here. laura. why not? [_takes kimono of chair-back, crosses up to dresser, puts kimono in drawer, takes out purse_. annie. she has a rule in dis house dat nobody can use huh chiny or fo'ks or spoons who ain't boa'ding heah, and de odder day when yuh asked me to bring up a knife and fo'k she ketched me coming upstairs, and she says, "where yuh goin' wid all dose things, annie?" ah said, "ah'm just goin' up to miss laura's room with dat knife and fo'k." ah said, "ah'm goin' up for nothin' at all, mis' farley, she jest wants to look at them, ah guess." she said, "she wants to eat huh dinner wid 'em, ah guess." ah got real mad, and ah told her if she'd give me mah pay ah'd brush right out o' here; dat's what ah'd do, ah'd brush right out o' here. [_violently shaking out towel_. laura. i'm sorry, annie, if i've caused you any trouble. never mind, i'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day anyway. [_she fumbles in purse, takes out a quarter, and turns to_ annie.] here! annie. no, ma'am, ah don' want dat. [_making a show of reluctance_. laura. please take it. annie. no, ma'am, ah don' want it. you need dat. dat's breakfast money for yuh, miss laura. laura. please take it, annie. i might just as well get rid of this as anything else. annie. [_takes it rather reluctantly_.] yuh always was so good, miss laura. sho' yuh don' want dis? laura. sure. annie. sho' yo' goin' to get planty mo'? laura. sure. mrs. farley's voice. [_downstairs_.] annie! annie! annie. [_going to door, opens it_.] dat's mis' farley. [_to_ mrs. farley.] yassum, mis' farley. same voice. is miss murdock up there? annie. yassum, mis' farley, yassum! mrs. farley. anything doin'? annie. huh? mrs. farley. anything doin'? annie. [_at door_.] ah--ah--hain't asked, missy farley. mrs. farley. then do it. laura. [_coming to the rescue at the door. to_ annie.] i'll answer her. [_out of door to_ mrs. farley.] what is it, mrs. farley? mrs. farley. [_her voice softened_.] did ye have any luck this morning, dearie? laura. no; but i promise you faithfully to help you out this afternoon or to-morrow. mrs. farley. sure? are you certain? laura. absolutely. mrs. farley. well, i must say these people expect me to keep--[_door closed_. laura _quietly closes the door, and_ mrs. farley's _rather strident voice is heard indistinctly_. laura _sighs and walks toward table; sits_. annie _looks after her, and then slowly opens the door_. annie. yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' i can do fo' yuh, miss laura? laura. nothing. annie _exits_. laura _sits down and looks at letter, opening it. it consists of several pages closely written. she reads some of them hurriedly, skims through the rest, and then turns to the last page without reading; glances at it; lays it on table; rises_. laura. hope, just nothing but hope. _she crosses to bed, falls face down upon it, burying her face in her hands. her despondency is palpable. as she lies there a hurdy-gurdy in the street starts to play a popular air. this arouses her and she rises, crosses to wardrobe, takes out box of crackers, opens window, gets bottle of milk off sill outside, places them on table, gets glass off washstand, at the same time humming the tune of the hurdy-gurdy, when a knock comes; she crosses quickly to dresser; powders her nose. the knock is timidly repeated_. laura. [_without turning, and in a rather tired tone of voice_.] come in. jim weston, _a rather shabby theatrical advance-agent of the old school, enters timidly, halting at the door and holding the knob in his hand. he is a man of about forty years old, dressed in an ordinary manner, of medium height, and in fact has the appearance of a once prosperous clerk who has been in hard luck. his relations with_ laura _are those of pure friendship. they both live in the same lodging-place, and, both having been out of employment, they have naturally become acquainted_. jim. can i come in? laura. [_without turning_.] hello, jim weston. [_he closes door and enters_.] any luck? jim. lots of it. laura. that's good. tell me. jim. it's bad luck. guess you don't want to hear. laura. i'm sorry. where have you been? jim. i kind o' felt around up at burgess's office. i thought i might get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. somehow those fellows always do business to-morrow. [_hurdy-gurdy dies out_. laura. yes, and there's always to-day to look after. jim. i'm ready to give up. i've tramped broadway for nine weeks until every piece of flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet coming. got a letter from the missis this morning. the kids got to have some clothes, there's measles in the town, and mumps in the next village. i've just got to raise some money or get some work, or the first thing you'll know i'll be hanging around central park on a dark night with a club. laura. i know just how you feel. sit down, jim. [jim _crosses and sits in chair right of table_.] it's pretty tough for me [_offers_ jim _glass of milk; he refuses; takes crackers_.], but it must be a whole lot worse for you with a wife and kids. jim. oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along--turn his hand to anything; but a woman-laura. worse, you think? jim. i was just thinking about you and what burgess said? laura. what was that? [_crosses to bed; sits on up-stage side, sipping milk_. jim. you know burgess and i used to be in the circus business together. he took care of the grafters when i was boss canvas man. i never could see any good in shaking down the rubes for all the money they had and then taking part of it. he used to run the privilege car, you know. laura. privilege car? jim. had charge of all the pickpockets,--dips we called 'em--sure-thing gamblers, and the like. made him rich. i kept sort o' on the level and i'm broke. guess it don't pay to be honest-laura. [_turns to him and in a significant voice_:] you don't really think that? jim. no, maybe not. ever since i married the missis and the first kid come, we figured the only good money was the kind folks worked for and earned; but when you can't get hold of that, it's tough. laura. i know. jim. burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he's turned. he's happy and prosperous, but i guess he ain't any better now than he was then. laura. maybe not. i've been trying to get an engagement from him. there are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that i could do, but he has never absolutely said "no," but yet somehow he's never said "yes." jim. he spoke about you. laura. in what way? [_rising, stands behind_ jim's _chair._ jim. i gave him my address and he seen it was yours, too. asked if i lived in the same place. laura. was that all? jim. wanted to know how you was getting on. i let him know you needed work, but i didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. he said something about you being a damned fool. laura. [_suddenly and interested._] how? [_she crosses._ jim. well, johnny ensworth--you know he used to do the fights on the _evening journal_; now he's press-agent for burgess; nice fellow and way on the inside--he told me where you were in wrong. laura. what have i done? [_sits in armchair._ jim. burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical comedies--he just trails. of course he's got a lot of influence, and he's always johnny-on-the-spot to turn any dirty trick that they want. there are four or five rich men in town who are there with the bank-roll, providing he engages women who ain't so very particular about the location of their residence, and who don't hear a curfew ring at 11:30 every night. laura. and he thinks i am too particular? jim. that's what was slipped me. seems that one of the richest men that is in on mr. burgess's address-book is a fellow named brockton from downtown some place. he's got more money than the shoe and leather national bank. he likes to play show business. laura. [_rises quickly._] oh! [_crosses to wardrobe, gets hat; crosses to dresser, gets scissors with intention of curling feathers._ jim. i thought you knew him. i thought it was just as well to tell you where he and burgess stand. they're pals. laura. [_coming over to_ jim _and with emphasis crosses to down-stage side of bed; puts hat and scissors on bed._] i don't want you to talk about him or any of them. i just want you to know that i'm trying to do everything in my power to go through this season without any more trouble. i've pawned everything i've got; i've cut every friend i knew. but where am i going to end? that's what i want to know--where am i going to end? [_to bed and sits_.] every place i look for a position something interferes. it's almost as if i were blacklisted. i know i could get jobs all right if i wanted to pay the price, but i won't. i just want to tell you, i won't. no! [_rises, crosses to mantel, rests elbow._ jim. that's the way to talk. [_rises._] i don't know you very well, but i've watched you close. i'm just a common, ordinary showman who never had much money, and i'm going out o' date. i've spent most of my time with nigger-minstrel shows and circuses, but i've been on the square. that's why i'm broke. [_rather sadly._] once i thought the missis would have to go back and do her acrobatic act, but she couldn't do that, she's grown so damn fat. [_crosses to_ laura.] just you don't mind. it'll all come out right. laura. it's an awful tough game, isn't it? jim. [_during this speech_ laura _gets cup, pours milk back into bottle, closes biscuit-box, puts milk on shed outside, and biscuits into wardrobe, cup in alcove._] it's hell forty ways from the jack. it's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, it must be something awful. i ain't blaming the women. they say "self-preservation is the first law of nature," and i guess that's right; but sometimes when the show is over and i see them fellows with their hair plastered back, smoking cigarettes in a [laura _crosses to chair right of table and leans over back._] holder long enough to reach from here to harlem, and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket and turn my head, i feel as if i'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting around this old town. laura. jim! jim. yes, i do--you bet. laura. that wouldn't pay, would it? jim. no, they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in sing sing, and i'm too poor to go to matteawan. but all them fellows under nineteen and over fifty-nine ain't much use to themselves or anyone else. laura. [_rather meditatively._] perhaps all of them are not so bad. jim. [_sits on bed._] yes, they are,--angels and all. last season i had one of them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a girl. we lost money and he lost his girl; then we got stuck in texas. i telegraphed: "must have a thousand, or can't move." he just answered: "don't move." we didn't. laura. but that was business. jim. bad business. it took a year for some of them folks to get back to broadway. some of the girls never did, and i guess never will. laura. maybe they're better off, jim. [_sits right of table._ jim. couldn't be worse. they're still in texas. [_to himself._] wish i knew how to do something else, being a plumber or a walking delegate; they always have jobs. laura. well, i wish i could do something else too, but i can't, and we've got to make the best of it. jim. i guess so. i'll see you this evening. i hope you'll have good news by that time. [_starts to exit, about to open door; then retreats a step, with hand on door-knob, crosses and in a voice meant to be kindly_] if you'd like to go to the theatre to-night, and take some other woman in the house, maybe i can get a couple of tickets for some of the shows. i know a lot of fellows who are working. laura. no, thanks. i haven't anything to wear to the theatre, and i don't-jim. [_with a smile crosses to_ laura, _puts arm around her._] now you just cheer up! something's sure to turn up. it always has for me, and i'm a lot older than you, both in years and in this business. there's always a break in hard luck sometime--that's sure. laura. [_smiling through her tears._] i hope so. but things are looking pretty hopeless now, aren't they? jim. i'll go down and give mrs. f. a line o' talk and try to square you for a couple of days more anyway. but i guess she's laying pretty close to the cushion herself, poor woman. laura. annie says a lot of people owe her. jim. well, you can't pay what you haven't got. and even if money was growing on trees, it's winter now. [jim _goes towards door._] i'm off. maybe to-day is lucky day. so long! laura. good-bye. jim. keep your nerve. [_exit_ laura. i will. [_she sits for a moment in deep thought, picks up the letter received, as if to read it, and then throws it down in anger. she buries her head in hands_.] i can't stand it--i just simply can't stand it. mrs. farley's voice. [_off stage_.] miss murdock--miss murdock. laura. [_brushing away tears, rises, goes to door, and opens it_.] what is it? same voice. there's a lady down here to see you. elfie's voice. [_off stage_.] hello, dearie, can i come up? laura. is that you, elfie? elfie. yes; shall i come up? laura. why, certainly. _she waits at the door for a moment, and_ elfie st. clair _appears. she is gorgeously gowned in the rather extreme style affected by the usual new york woman who is cared for by a gentleman of wealth and who has not gone through the formality of matrimonial alliance. her conduct is always exaggerated and her attitude vigorous. her gown is of the latest design, and in every detail of dress she shows evidence of most extravagant expenditure. she carries a hand-bag of gold, upon which are attached such trifles as a gold cigarette-case, a gold powder-box, pencils, and the like_. elfie _throws her arms around_ laura, _and both exchange kisses_. elfie. laura, you old dear [_crossing to table_.], i've just found out where you've been hiding, and came around to see you. laura. [_who is much brightened by_ elfie's _appearance_.] elfie, you're looking bully. how are you, dear? elfie. fine. laura. come in and sit down. i haven't much to offer, but-elfie. oh, never mind. it's such a grand day outside, and i've come around in my car to take you out. [_sits right of table_.] you know i've got a new one, and it can go some. laura. [_sits on arm of chair_.] i am sorry, but i can't go out this afternoon, elfie. elfie. what's the matter? laura. you see i'm staying home a good deal nowadays. i haven't been feeling very well and i don't go out much. elfie. i should think not. i haven't seen you in rector's or martin's since you come back from denver. got a glimpse of you one day trailing up broadway, but couldn't get to you--you dived into some office or other. [_for the first time she surveys the room, rises, looks around critically, crossing to mantel_.] gee! whatever made you come into a dump like this? it's the limit. laura. [_crossing and standing back of the table_.] oh, i know it isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and after all--a home's a home. elfie. looks more like a prison. [_takes candy from mantel; spits it out on floor_.] makes me think of the old days of child's sinkers and a hall bedroom. laura. it's comfortable. [_leaning hands on table_. elfie. not! [_sits on bed, trying bed with comedy effect_. say, is this here for an effect, or do you sleep on it? laura. i sleep on it. elfie. no wonder you look tired. say, listen, dearie. what else is the matter with you anyway? laura. nothing. elfie. yes, there is. what happened between you and brockton? [_notices faded flowers in vase on table; takes them out, tosses them into fireplace, replaces them with gardenias which she wears_.] he's not broke, because i saw him the other day. laura. where? elfie. in the park. asked me out to luncheon, but i couldn't go. you know, dearie, i've got to be so careful. jerry's so awful jealous--the old fool. laura. do you see much of jerry nowadays, elfie? elfie. not any more than i can help and be nice. he gets on my nerves. of course, i've heard about your quitting brockton. laura. then why do you ask? [_crosses around chair right of table; stands_. elfie. just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the trouble was. now tell me all about it. can i smoke here? [_takes cigarette-case up, opens it, selecting cigarette_. laura. surely. [_gets matches off bureau, puts them on table_. elfie. have one? [_offers case_. laura. no, thank you. [_sits in chair right of table, facing_ elfie. elfie. h'm-m, h'm-m, hah! [_lights cigarette_.] now go ahead. tell me all the scandal. i'm just crazy to know. laura. there's nothing to tell. i haven't been able to find work, that is all, and i'm short of money. you can't live in hotels, you know, with cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working. elfie. yes, you can. i haven't worked in a year. laura. but you don't understand, dear. i--i--well, you know i--well, you know--i can't say what i want. elfie. oh, yes, you can. you can say anything to me--everybody else does. we've been pals. i know you got along a little faster in the business than i did. the chorus was my limit, and you went into the legitimate thing. but we got our living just the same way. i didn't suppose there was any secret between you and me about that. laura. i know there wasn't then, elfie, but i tell you i'm different now. i don't want to do that sort of thing, and i've been very unlucky. this has been a terribly hard season for me. i simply haven't been able to get an engagement. elfie. well, you can't get on this way. won't [_pauses, knocking ashes off cigarette to cover hesitation_.] brockton help you out? laura. what's the use of talking to you [_rises and crosses to fireplace_.], elfie; you don't understand. elfie. [_puffing deliberately on cigarette and crossing her legs in almost a masculine attitude_.] no? why don't i understand? laura. because you can't; you've never felt as i have. elfie. how do you know? laura. [_turning impatiently_.] oh, what's the use of explaining? elfie. you know, laura, i'm not much on giving advice, but you make me sick. i thought you'd grown wise. a young girl just butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought to be on to the game and make the best of it. laura. [_going over to her angrily_.] if you came up here, elfie, to talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. i was west this summer. i met someone, a real man, who did me a whole lot of good,--a man who opened my eyes to a different way of going along--a man who--oh, well, what's the use? you don't know--you don't know. [_sits on bed_. elfie. [_throws cigarette into fireplace_.] i don't know, don't i? i don't know, i suppose, that when i came to this town from up state,--a little burg named oswego,--and joined a chorus, that i didn't fall in love with just such a man. i suppose i don't know that then i was the best-looking girl in new york, and everybody talked about me? i suppose i don't know that there were men, all ages and with all kinds of money, ready to give me anything for the mere privilege of taking me out to supper? and i didn't do it, did i? for three years i stuck by this good man who was to lead me in a good way toward a good life. and all the time i was getting older, never quite so pretty one day as i had been the day before. i never knew then what it was to be tinkered with by hair-dressers and manicures or a hundred and one of those other people who make you look good. i didn't have to have them then. [_rises, crosses to right of table, facing_ laura.] well, you know, laura, what happened. laura. wasn't it partly your fault, elfie? elfie. [_speaking across table angrily._] was it my fault that time made me older and i took on a lot of flesh? was it my fault that the work and the life took out the colour, and left the make-up? was it my fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as i'd come, and were chased after, just as i was? was it my fault the cabs weren't waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty i was? and was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no one else wanted me, he got tired and threw me flat--cold flat [_brings hand down on table._]--and i'd been on the dead level with him! [_with almost a sob, crosses up to bureau, powders nose, comes down back of table._] it almost broke my heart. then i made up my mind to get even and get all i could out of the game. jerry came along. he was a has-been and i was on the road to be. he wanted to be good to me, and i let him. that's all. laura. still, i don't see how you can live that way. [_lies on bed._ elfie. well, you did, and you didn't kick. laura. yes, but things are different with me now. you'd be the same way if you were in my place. elfie. no. i've had all the romance i want, and i'll stake you to all your love affairs. [_crosses back of bed, touches picture over bed._] i am out to gather in as much coin as i can in my own way, so when the old rainy day comes along i'll have a little change to buy myself an umbrella. laura. [_rising and angrily crossing to armchair._] what did you come here for? why can't you leave me alone when i'm trying to get along? elfie. because i want to help you. laura. [_during speech crosses to up-stage side of bed, angrily tosses quilt to floor and sits on bed in tears._] you can't help me. i'm all right--i tell you i am. what do you care anyway? elfie. [_sits on bed, crosses down stage to lower left side of bed, sits facing_ laura.] but i do care. i know how you feel with an old cat for a landlady and living up here on a side street with a lot of cheap burlesque people. why, the room's cold [laura _rises, crosses to window._], and there's no hot water, and you're beginning to look shabby. you haven't got a job--chances are you won't have one. what does [_indicating picture on bed with thumb._] this fellow out there do for you? send you long letters of condolences? that's what i used to get. when i wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a silk petticoat, he told me how much he loved me; so i had the other ones re-soled and turned the old petticoat. and look at you, you're beginning to show it. [_she surveys her carefully._] i do believe there are lines coming in your face [laura _crosses to dresser quickly, picks up hand mirror, and looks at herself._], and you hide in the house because you've nothing new to wear. laura. [_puts down mirror, crossing down to back of bed._] but i've got what you haven't got. i may have to hide my clothes, but i don't have to hide my face. and you with that man--he's old enough to be your father--a toddling dote hanging on your apron-strings. i don't see how you dare show your face to a decent woman. elfie. [_rises._] you don't!--but you did once and i never caught you hanging your head. you say he's old. i know he's old, but he's good to me. he's making what's left of my life pleasant. you think i like him. i don't,--sometimes i hate him,--but he understands; and you can bet your life his check is in my mail every saturday night or there's a new lock on the door sunday morning. [_crossing to fireplace._ laura. how can you say such things to me? elfie. [_crosses to left end of table._] because i want you to be square with yourself. you've lost all that precious virtue women gab about. when you've got the name, i say get the game. laura. you can go now, elfie, and don't come back. elfie. [_gathering up muff, &c._] all right, if that's the way you want it to be, i'm sorry. [_a knock on the door._ laura. [_controlling herself after a moment's hesitation._] come in. annie _enters with a note, crosses, and hands it to_ laura. annie. mis' farley sent dis, miss laura. [laura _takes the note and reads it. she is palpably annoyed_. laura. there's no answer. annie. she tol' me not to leave until ah got an answah. laura. you must ask her to wait. annie. she wants an answah. laura. tell her i'll be right down--that it will be all right. annie. but, miss laura, she tol' me to get an answah. [_exit reluctantly_. laura. [_half to herself and half to_ elfie.] she's taking advantage of your being here. [_standing near door_. elfie. how? laura. she wants money--three weeks' room-rent. i presume she thought you'd give it to me. elfie. huh! [_moves to left_. laura. [_crossing to table_.] elfie, i've been a little cross; i didn't mean it. elfie. well? laura. could--could you lend me thirty-five dollars until i get to work? elfie. me? laura. yes. elfie. lend _you_ thirty-five dollars? laura. yes; you've got plenty of money to spare. elfie. well, you certainly have got a nerve. laura. you might give it to me. i haven't a dollar in the world, and you pretend to be such a friend to me! elfie. [_turning and angrily speaking across table_.] so that's the kind of woman you are, eh? a moment ago you were going to kick me out of the place because i wasn't decent enough to associate with you. you know how i live. you know how i get my money--the same way you got most of yours. and now that you've got this spasm of goodness i'm not fit to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. you'll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while you try to play the grand lady. i've got your number now, laura. where in hell is your virtue anyway? you can go to the devil--rich, poor, or any other way. i'm off! elfie _rushes toward door; for a moment_ laura _stands speechless, then bursts into hysterics_. laura. elfie! elfie! don't go now! don't leave me now! [elfie _hesitates with hand on door-knob_.] i can't stand it. i can't be alone. don't go, please; don't go. laura _falls into_ elfie's _arms, sobbing. in a moment_ elfie's _whole demeanour changes and she melts into the tenderest womanly sympathy, trying her best to express herself in her crude way_. elfie. there, old girl, don't cry, don't cry. you just sit down here and let me put my arms around you. [elfie _leads_ laura _over to armchair, places muff, &c., in chair, and sits_ laura _down in chair_. elfie _sits on right arm of chair with her left arm behind_ laura; _hugs_ laura _to her_. laura _in tears and sobbing during scene_.] i'm awful sorry--on the level, i am. i shouldn't have said it. i know that. but i've got feelings too, even if folks don't give me credit for it. laura. i know, elfie. i've gone through about all i can stand. elfie. well, i should say you have--and more than i would. anyway a good cry never hurts any woman. i have one myself, sometimes--under cover. laura. [_more seriously, recovering herself_.] perhaps what you said was true. elfie. we won't talk about it. [_wiping_ laura's _eyes and kissing her_. laura. [_with persistence_.] but perhaps it was true, and, elfie-elfie. yes. laura. i think i've stood this just as long as i can. every day is a living horror. elfie. [_looking around room_.] it's the limit. laura. i've got to have money to pay the rent. i've pawned everything i have, except the clothes on my back. elfie. i'll give you all the money you need, dearie. great heavens, don't worry about that. don't you care if i got sore and--and lost my head. laura. no; i can't let you do that. [_rises; crosses to table_.] you may have been mad,--awfully mad,--but what you said was the truth. i can't take your money. [_sits right of table_. elfie. oh, forget that. [_rises, crosses to centre_. laura. maybe--maybe if he knew all about it--the suffering--he wouldn't blame me. elfie. who--the good man who wanted to lead you to the good life without even a bread-basket for an advance-agent? huh! laura. still he doesn't know how desperately poor i am. elfie. he knows you're out of work, don't he? laura. [_turning to_ elfie.] not exactly. i've let him think that i'm getting along all right. elfie. then you're a chump. hasn't he sent you anything? laura. he hasn't anything to send. elfie. well, what does he think you're going to live on?--asphalt croquettes with conversation sauce? laura. i don't know--i don't know. [_sobbing_. elfie. [_crosses to_ laura, _puts arms around her_.] don't be foolish, dearie. you know there is somebody waiting for you--somebody who'll be good to you and get you out of this mess. laura. you mean will brockton? [_looking up_. elfie. yes. laura. do you know where he is? elfie. yes. laura. well? elfie. you won't get sore again if i tell you, will you? laura. no--why? [_rises_. elfie. he's downstairs--waiting in the car. i promised to tell him what you said. laura. then it was all planned, and--and-elfie. now, dearie, i knew you were up against it, and i wanted to bring you two together. he's got half of the burgess shows, and if you'll only see him everything will be fixed. laura. when does he want to see me? elfie. now. laura. here? elfie. yes. shall i tell him to come up? laura. [_after a long pause, crossing around to bed, down-stage side_.] yes. elfie. [_suddenly becomes animated_.] now you're a sensible dear. i'll bet he's half frozen down there. [_goes to door_.] i'll send him up. look at you, laura, you're a sight. [_crosses to_ laura, _takes her by hand, leads her up to washstand, takes towel and wipes_ laura's _eyes_.] it'll never do to have him see you looking like this; come over here and let me fix your eyes. now, laura, i want you to promise me you won't do any more crying. [_leads_ laura _over to dresser, takes powder-puff and powders_ laura's _face_.] come over here and let me powder your nose. now when he comes up you tell him he has got to blow us all off to a dinner to-night at martin's, seven-thirty. let me look at you. now you're all right. [_after daubing_ laura's _face with the rouge paw_, elfie _takes_ laura's _face in her hands and kisses her_.] make it strong now, seven-thirty, don't forget. i'll be there. [_crosses to armchair, gathers up muff, &c_.] so long. [_exit_. _after_ elfie's _exit_ laura _crosses slowly to wardrobe, pulls off picture of_ john; _crosses to dresser, takes picture of_ john _from there; carries both pictures over to bed; kneels on bed, pulls down picture at head of bed; places all three pictures under pillow_. will _is heard coming upstairs, and knocks_. laura. come in. will _enters. his dress is that of a man of business, the time being about february. he is well groomed and brings with him the impression of easy luxury_. will. [_as he enters_.] hello, laura. _there is an obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them. she rises, goes to him and extends her hand_. laura. i'm--i'm glad to see you, will. will. thank you. laura. won't you sit down? will. [_regaining his ease of manner_.] thank you again. [_puts hat and cane at end of wardrobe; removes overcoat and places it on back of armchair; sits in armchair_. laura. [_sits right of table_.] it's rather cold out, isn't it? will. just a bit sharp. laura. you came with elfie in the car? will. she picked me up at martin's; we lunched there. laura. by appointment? will. i'd asked her. laura. well? will. well, laura. laura. she told you? will. not a great deal. what do you want to tell me? laura. [_very simply, and avoiding his glance_.] will, i'm ready to come back. will. [_with an effort concealing his sense of triumph and satisfaction. rises, crosses to_ laura.] i'm mighty glad of that, laura. i've missed you like the very devil. laura. do we--do we have to talk it over much? [_crosses to left of table in front of bed_. will. not at all unless you want to. i understand--in fact, i always have. laura. [_wearily_.] yes, i guess you always did. i didn't. [_crosses and sits right of table_. will. it will be just the same as it was before, you know. laura. yes. will. i didn't think it was possible for me to miss anyone the way i have you. i've been lonely. laura. that's nice in you to say that. will. you'll have to move out of here right away. [_crossing to back of table, surveying room_.] this place is enough to give one the colly-wabbles. if you'll be ready to-morrow i'll send my man over to help you take care of the luggage. laura. to-morrow will be all right, thank you. will. and you'll need some money in the meantime. i'll leave this here. [_he takes a roll of bills and places it on the bureau_. laura. you seem to have come prepared. did elfie and you plan this all out? will. not planned--just hoped. i think you'd better go to some nice hotel now. later we can arrange. [_sits on up-stage side of bed_. laura. will, we'll always be frank. i said i was ready to go. it's up to you--when and where. will. the hotel scheme is the best, but, laura-laura. yes? will. you're quite sure this is in earnest. you don't want to change? you've time enough now. laura. i've quite made up my mind. it's final. will. if you want to work, burgess has a nice part for you. i'll telephone and arrange if you say so. laura. thanks. say i'll see him in the morning. will. and, laura, you know when we were in denver, and-laura. [_rises hurriedly; crosses right_.] please, please, don't speak of it. will. i'm sorry, but i've got to. i told [_rises, and crosses to left_.] madison [laura _turns her head_.]--pardon me, but i must do this--that if this time ever came i'd have you write him the truth. before we go any further i'd like you to do that now. laura. say good-bye? [_turns to_ will. will. just that. laura. i wouldn't know how to begin. it will hurt him awfully deeply. will. it'll be worse if you don't. he'll like you for telling him. it would be honest, and that is what he expects. laura. must i--now? will. i think you should. laura. [_goes to table and sits down_.] how shall i begin, will? will. [_standing back of table_.] you mean you don't know what to say? laura. yes. will. then i'll dictate. laura. i'll do just as you say. you're the one to tell me now. will. address it the way you want to. [_she complies_.] i'm going to be pretty brutal. in the long run i think that is best, don't you? laura. it's up to you. will. ready? laura. begin. will. [_dictating_.] "all i have to say can be expressed in one word, 'good-bye.' i shall not tell you where i've gone, but remind you of what brockton told you the last time he saw you. he is here now [_pause_.], dictating this letter. what i am doing is voluntary--my own suggestion. don't grieve. be happy and successful. i do not love you"-[_she puts pen down; looks at him_. laura. will--please. will. it has got to go just that way--"i do not love you." sign it "laura." [_she does it_.] fold it, put it in an envelope--seal it--address it. now shall i mail it? laura. no. if you don't mind i'd sooner. it's a sort of a last--last message. will. [_crosses to armchair; gets coat, puts it on_.] all right. you're a little upset now, and i'm going. we are all to dine at martin's to-night at seven-thirty. there'll be a party. of course you'll come. [_gets hat and cane_. laura. i don't think i can. you see-will. i know. i guess there's enough there [_indicating money_.] for your immediate needs. later you can straighten things up. shall i send the car? laura. yes, please. will. good. it will be the first happy evening i've had in a long, long time. you'll be ready? [_approaches and bends over her as if to caress her_. laura. [_shrinking away_.] please don't. remember we don't dine until seven-thirty. will. all right. [_exit_. _for a moment_ laura _sits silent, and then angrily rises, crosses up to dresser, gets alcohol lamp, crosses to table with lamp, lights same, and starts back to dresser. knock at door_. laura. come in. [annie _enters, and stops_.] that you, annie? annie. yassum. laura. mrs. farley wants her rent. there is some money. [_tosses money on to table_.] take it to her. annie _goes to the table, examines the roll of bills and is palpably surprised_. annie. dey ain't nothin' heah, miss laura, but five great big one hunderd dollah bills. laura. take two. and look in that upper drawer. you'll find some pawn tickets there. [annie _complies_. annie. yassum. [_aside_.] dat's real money--dem's yellow-backs sure. laura. take the two top ones and go get my lace gown and one of the hats. the ticket is for a hundred and ten dollars. keep ten for yourself, and hurry. annie. [_aside_.] ten for myself--i never see so much money. [_to_ laura, _her astonishment nearly overcoming her_.] yassum, miss laura, yassum. [_she goes toward door, and then turns to_ laura.] ah'm so mighty glad yo' out all yo' trouble, miss laura. i says to mis' farley now-laura. [_snapping her off_.] don't--don't. go do as i tell you and mind your business. [annie _turns sullenly and walks toward the door. at that moment_ laura _sees the letter, which she has thrown on the table_.] wait a minute. i want you to mail a letter. [_by this time her hair is half down, hanging loosely over her shoulders. her waist is open at the throat, collar off, and she has the appearance of a woman's untidiness when she is at that particular stage of her toilet. hands letter to_ annie, _but snatches it away as_ annie _turns to go. she glances at the letter long and wistfully, and her nerve fails her_.] never mind. annie _exits. slowly_ laura _puts the letter over the flame of the alcohol lamp and it ignites. as it burns she holds it in her fingers, and when half consumed throws it into waste-jar, sits on side of bed watching letter burn, then lies down across bed on her elbows, her chin in her hands, facing audience. as the last flicker is seen the curtain slowly descends_. curtain. act iii. scene. _two months have elapsed. the scene is at_ brockton's _apartment in a hotel such as is not over particular concerning the relations of its tenants. there are a number of these hotels throughout the theatre district of new york, and, as a rule, one will find them usually of the same type. the room in which this scene is placed is that of the general living-room in one of the handsomest apartments in the building. the prevailing colour is green, and there is nothing particularly gaudy about the general furnishings. they are in good taste, but without the variety of arrangement and ornamentation which would naturally obtain in a room occupied by people a bit more particular concerning their surroundings. down stage is a table about three feet square which can be used not only as a general centre-table, but also for service while the occupants are eating. there is a breakfast service on this table, and also a tray and stand behind it. there is a chair at either side of the table, and at right coming up stage, the room turns at a sharp angle of thirty-five degrees, and this space is largely taken up by a large doorway. this is equipped with sliding-doors and hung with green portiã¨res, which are handsome and in harmony with the general scheme of the furnishings of the room. this entrance is to the sleeping-room of the apartments_. _at the back of the stage is a large window or alcove. the window is on the ordinary plan, and the view through it shows the back of another building of new york, presumably a hotel of about the same character. green portiã¨res are also hung on the windows. down left is the entrance to the corridor of the hotel, and this must be so arranged that it works with a latch-key and opens upon a small hallway, which separates the apartment from the main hallway. this is necessary as the action calls for the slamming of a door, and later the opening of the direct and intimate door of the apartment with a latch-key. left of centre is a sofa, and there is a general arrangement of chairs without over-crowding the apartment. just below, where the right portiã¨re is hung, is a long, full-length mirror, such as women dress by. against wall is a lady's fancy dresser._ _to the immediate left of the sliding-doors, which go into the sleeping-apartment, is a lady's small writing-desk, with a drawer on the right-hand side, in which is a pearl-handled 32-calibre revolver. the front of the desk is open at rise. on top of the desk is a desk lamp and a large box of candy; inside the desk is writing material, &c. in pigeon-hole left there is a small photo and frame, which_ annie _places on the table when she removes the breakfast set. in front of centre window in alcove is a small table on which is a parlour lamp, and some newspapers, including the "new york sun." on the floor running between the desk and table is a large fur rug. in front of the table is a small gilt chair; in front of desk there is also a small gilt chair; there is a pianola piano, on top of which is a bundle of music-rolls. in place, ready to play, is a roll of a negro tune called "bon-bon buddie, my chocolate drop." on top of the piano, in addition to the music-rolls, are a fancy lamp, a large basket of chrysanthemums, and two photos in frames, at the upper corner. standing on the floor is a large piano lamp. on the sofa are cushions, and thrown over its back is a lady's opera-coat. on the sofa are also a fan and some small dinner favours._ _on the dresser are a lady's silver toilet set, including powder boxes, rouge boxes, manicuring implements, and a small plush black cat that might have been a favour at some time. two little dolls hang on the side of the glass of the dresser, which also might have been favours. these are used later in the action, and are necessary._ at rise. _when the curtain rises on this scene it is noticeable that the occupants of the room must have returned rather late at night, after having dined, not wisely, but too well. in the alcove is a man's dress-coat and vest thrown on the cushions in a most careless manner; a silk hat badly rumpled is near it. over the top of sofa is an opera-cloak, and hung on the mirror is a huge hat, of the evening type, such as women would pay handsomely for. a pair of gloves is thrown on top of the pier-glass. the curtains in the bay-window are half drawn, and the light shades are half drawn down the windows, so that when the curtain goes up the place is in a rather dim light. on the table are the remains of a breakfast, which is served in a box-like tray such as is used in hotels._ laura _is discovered sitting at right of table, her hair a bit untidy. she has on a very expensive negligã©e gown._ will, _in a business suit, is at the other side of the table, and both have evidently just about concluded their breakfast and are reading the newspapers while they sip their coffee._ laura _is intent in the scanning of her "morning telegraph," while_ will _is deep in the market reports of the "journal of commerce," and in each instance these things must be made apparent._ will _throws down the paper rather impatiently._ will. have you seen the _sun_, laura? laura. no. will. where is it? laura. i don't know. will. [_in a loud voice._] annie, annie! [_a pause._] annie! [_in an undertone, half directed to_ laura.] where the devil is that nigger? laura. why, i suppose she's at breakfast. will. well, she ought to be here. laura. did it ever occur to you that she has got to eat just the same as you have? will. she's your servant, isn't she? laura. my maid. will. well, what have you got her for,--to eat or to wait on you? annie! laura. don't be so cross. what do you want? will. i want the _sun_. [brockton _pours out one half glass of water from bottle._ laura. i will get it for you. _rather wearily she gets up and goes to the table, where there are other morning papers; she takes the "sun," hands it to him, goes back to her seat, re-opens the "morning telegraph." there is a pause._ annie _enters from the sleeping-room._ annie. do yuh want me, suh? will. yes, i did want you, but don't now. when i'm at home i have a man to look after me, and i get what i want. laura. for heaven's sake, will, have a little patience. if you like your man so well, you had better live at home, but don't come around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody. will. don't think for a moment that there's much to come around here for. annie, this room's stuffy. annie. yassuh. will. draw those portiã¨res. let those curtains up. [annie _lets up curtain._] let's have a little light. take away these clothes and hide them. don't you know that a man doesn't want to see the next morning anything to remind him of the night before. make the place look a little respectable. _in the meantime_ annie _scurries around, picking up the coat and vest, opera-cloak, &c., as rapidly as possible, and throwing them over her arm without any idea of order. it is very apparent that she is rather fearful of the anger of_ will _while he is in this mood._ will. [_looking at her._] be careful. you're not taking the wash off the line. annie. yassuh. [_exit in confusion._ laura. [_laying down paper and looking at_ will.] well, i must say you're rather amiable this morning. will. i feel like hell. laura. market unsatisfactory? will. no; head too big. [_he lights a cigar; as he takes a puff he makes an awful face._] tastes like punk. [_puts cigar into cup._ laura. you drank a lot. will. we'll have to cut out those parties. i can't do those things any more. i'm not as young as i was, and in the morning it makes me sick. how do you feel? laura. a little tired, that's all. [_rises, and crosses to bureau._ will. you didn't touch anything? laura. no. will. i guess you're on the safe side. it was a great old party, though, wasn't it? laura. did you think so? will. oh, for that sort of a blow-out. not too rough, but just a little easy. i like them at night and i hate them in the morning. [_he picks up the paper and commences to glance it over in a casual manner, not interrupting his conversation._] were you bored? laura. yes; always at things like that. will. well, you don't have to go. laura. you asked me. will. still, you could say no. [laura _picks up paper, puts it on table and crosses back to bureau._ laura. but you asked me. will. what did you go for if you didn't want to? laura. _you_ wanted me to. will. i don't quite get you. laura. well, will, you have all my time when i'm not in the theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. you pay for it. i'm working for you. will. is that all i've got,--just your time? laura. [_wearily._] that and the rest. [laura _crosses up to desk, gets "part," crosses to sofa, turning pages of "part."_] i guess you know. [_crosses to sofa and sits._ will. [_looking at her curiously._] down in the mouth, eh? i'm sorry. laura. no, only if you want me to be frank, i'm a little tired. you may not believe it, but i work awfully hard over at the theatre. burgess will tell you that. i know i'm not so very good as an actress, but i try to be. [laura _lies down on sofa._] i'd like to succeed, myself. they're very patient with me. of course they've got to be,--that's another thing you're paying for, but i don't seem to get along except this way. will. oh, don't get sentimental. if you're going to bring up that sort of talk, laura, do it sometime when i haven't got a hang-over, and then don't forget talk never does count for much. laura _crosses up to mirror, picks up hat from box, puts it on, looks in mirror. she turns around and looks at him steadfastly for a minute. during this entire scene, from the time the curtain rises, she must in a way indicate a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling, vague but nevertheless palpable, that something is going to happen. she must hold this before her audience so that she can show to them, without showing to him, the disgust she feels._ laura _has tasted of the privations of self-sacrifice during her struggle, and she has weakly surrendered and is unable to go back, but that brief period of self-abnegation has shown to her most clearly the rottenness of the other sort of living. there are enough sentimentality and emotion in her character to make it impossible for her to accept this manner of existence as_ elfie _does. hers is not a nature of careless candour, but of dreamy ideals and better living, warped, handicapped, disillusioned, and destroyed by a weakness that finds its principal force in vanity._ will _resumes his newspaper in a more attentive way. the girl looks at him and expresses in pantomime, by the slightest gesture or shrug of the shoulders, her growing distaste for him and his way of living. in the meantime_ will _is reading the paper rather carefully. he stops suddenly and then looks at his watch._ laura. what time is it? will. after ten. laura. oh. will _at this moment particularly reads some part of the paper, turns to her with a keen glance of suspicion and inquiry, and then for a very short moment evidently settles in his mind a cross-examination. he has read in this paper a despatch from chicago, which speaks of_ john madison _having arrived there as a representative of a big western mining syndicate which is going to open large operations in the nevada gold-fields, and representing_ mr. madison _as being on his way to new york with sufficient capital to enlist more, and showing him to be now a man of means. the attitude of_ laura _and the coincidence of the despatch bring back to_ will _the scene in denver, and later in new york, and with that subtle intuition of the man of the world he connects the two._ will. i don't suppose, laura, that you'd be interested now in knowing anything about that young fellow out in colorado? what was his name--madison? laura. do you know anything? will. no, nothing particularly. i've been rather curious to know how he came out. he was a pretty fresh young man and did an awful lot of talking. i wonder how he's doing and how he's getting along. i don't suppose by any chance you have ever heard from him? laura. no, no; i've never heard. [_crosses to bureau._ will. i presume he never replied to that letter you wrote? laura. no. will. it would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow should [_looks at paper._] happen to come across a lot of money--not that i think he ever could, but it would be funny, wouldn't it? laura. yes, yes; it would be unexpected. i hope he does. it might make him happy. will. think he might take a trip east and see you act. you know you've got quite a part now. laura. [_impatiently._] i wish you wouldn't discuss this. why do you mention it now? [_crossing to right of table._] is it because you were drinking last night and lost your sense of delicacy? you once had some consideration for me. what i've done i've done. i'm giving you all that i can. please, please, don't hurt me any more than you can help. that's all i ask. [_crossing up to mirror. crosses back to right of table; sits._ will. well, i'm sorry. i didn't mean that, laura. i guess i am feeling a little bad to-day. really, i don't want to hurt your feelings, my dear. _he gets up, goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders, and his cheek close to the back of her head. she bends forward and shudders a little bit. it is very easy to see that the life she is leading is becoming intolerable to her._ will. you know, dearie, i do a lot for you because you've always been on the level with me. i'm sorry i hurt you, but there was too much wine last night and i'm all upset. forgive me. laura, _in order to avoid his caresses, has leaned forward; her hands are clasped between her knees, and she is looking straight outward with a cold, impassive expression._ will _regards her silently for a moment. really in the man's heart there is an affection, and really he wants to try to comfort her; but he seems to realize that she has slipped away from the old environment and conditions, and that he simply bought her back; that he hasn't any of her affection, even with his money; that she evinces toward him none of the old camaraderie; and it hurts him, as those things always hurt a selfish man, inclining him to be brutal and inconsiderate._ will _crosses to centre, and stands reading paper; bell rings; a pause and second bell._ will _seizes upon this excuse to go up-stage and over towards the door._ will. [_after second bell._] damn that bell. _he continues on his way; he opens the door, leaves it open, and passes on to the outer door, which he opens._ laura _remains immovable and impassive, with the same cold, hard expression on her face. he comes in, slamming the outer door with effect, which one must have at this point of the play, because it is essential to a situation coming later. enters the room, closes the door, and holds in his hand a telegram. looks from newspaper to telegram._ will. a wire. laura. for me? will. yes. laura. from whom, i wonder. perhaps elfie with a luncheon engagement. will. [_handing telegram to her._] i don't know. here. _pause; he faces her, looking at her. she opens it quickly. she reads it and, as she does, gasps quickly with an exclamation of fear and surprise. this is what the despatch says (it is dated at buffalo and addressed to_ laura): _"i will be in new york before noon. i'm coming to marry you and i'm coming with a bank-roll. i wanted to keep it secret and have a big surprise for you, but i can't hold it any longer, because i feel just like a kid with a new top. don't go out, and be ready for the big matrimonial thing. all my love. john."_ will. no bad news, i hope? laura. [_walking up stage rather hurriedly._] no, no--not bad news. will. i thought you were startled. laura. no, not at all. will. [_looking at paper about where he had left off._] from elfie? [_crosses to, and sits in armchair._ laura. no, just a friend. will. oh! _he makes himself rather comfortable in the chair, and_ laura _regards him for a moment from up stage as if trying to figure out how to get rid of him_. laura. won't you be rather late getting down town, will? will. doesn't make any difference. i don't feel much like the office now. thought i might order the car and take a spin through the park. the cold air will do me a lot of good. like to go? laura. no, not to-day. i thought your business was important; you said so last night. [_crosses to sofa, and stands_. will. no hurry. do you--er--want to get rid of me? laura. why should i? will. expecting someone? laura. no--not exactly. [_crosses up to window_. will. if you don't mind, i'll stay here. [_lets curtain fly up_. laura. just as you please. [_a pause. crosses to piano; plays_.] will? will. yes. laura. how long does it take to come from buffalo? will. depends on the train you take. laura. about how long? will. between eight and ten hours, i think. some one coming? laura. do you know anything about the trains? will. not much. why don't you find out for yourself? have annie get the time-table? laura. i will. annie! annie! [_rises from piano_. annie _appears at doorway_. annie. yassum! laura. go ask one of the hall-boys to bring me a new york central time-table. annie. yassum! _crosses the stage and exits through door_. laura _sits on left arm of sofa_. will. then you _do_ expect someone, eh? laura. only one of the girls who used to be in the same company with me. but i'm not sure that she's coming here. will. then the wire was from her? laura. yes. will. did she say what train she was coming on? laura. no. will. well, there are a lot of trains. about what time did you expect her in? laura. she didn't say. will. do i know her? laura. i think not. i met her while i worked in 'frisco. will. oh! [_resumes his paper_. annie _reã«nters with a time-table and hands it to_ laura. laura. thanks; take those breakfast things away, annie. [_sits on sofa_. annie _complies; takes them across stage, opens the door leading to the corridor, exits_. laura _in the meantime is studying the time-table_. laura. i can't make this out. will. give it here; maybe i can help you. laura _crosses to right of table, sits opposite_ will, _and hands him the time-table. he takes it and handles it as if he were familiar with it_. will. where is she coming from? laura. the west; the telegram was from buffalo. i suppose she was on her way when she sent it. will. there's a train comes in here at 9:30--that's the twentieth century,--that doesn't carry passengers from buffalo; then there's one at 11:41; one at 1:49; another at 3:45; another at 5:40; and another at 5:48--that's the lake shore limited, a fast train; and all pass through buffalo. did you think of meeting her? laura. no. she'll come here when she arrives. will. knows where you live? laura. she has the address. will. ever been to new york before? laura. i think not. will. [_passing her the time-table_.] well, that's the best i can do for you. laura. thank you. [_crosses and puts time-table in desk_. will. [_takes up the paper again_. laura _looks at clock_.] by george, this is funny. laura. what? will. speak of the devil, you know. laura. who? will. your old friend madison. laura. [_utters a slight exclamation and makes an effort to control herself_.] what--what about him? will. he's been in chicago. laura. how do you know? will. here's a despatch about him. laura. [_coming quickly over to him, looks over his shoulder_.] what--where--what's it about? will. well, i'm damned if he hasn't done what he said he'd do--see! [_holds the paper so that she can see_. laura _takes paper_.] he's been in chicago, and is on his way to new york. he's struck it rich in nevada and is coming with a lot of money. queer, isn't it? [laura _puts paper on table_.] did you know anything about it? [_lights cigarette_. laura. no, no; nothing at all. [_crosses to bureau_. will. lucky for him, eh? laura. yes, yes; it's very nice. will. too bad he couldn't get this a little sooner, eh, laura? laura. oh, i don't know--i don't think it's too bad. what makes you ask? will. oh, nothing. i suppose he ought to be here to-day. are you going to see him if he looks you up? laura. no, no; i don't want to see him. you know that, don't you, that i don't want to see him? what makes you ask these questions? [_crosses to sofa and sits_. will. just thought you might meet him, that's all. don't get sore about it. laura. i'm not. _she holds the telegram crumpled in one hand_. will _lays down the paper, and regards_ laura _curiously. she sees the expression on his face and averts her head in order not to meet his eye_. laura. what are you looking at me that way for? will. i wasn't conscious that i was looking at you in any particular way--why? laura. oh, nothing. i guess i'm nervous, too. [_lies on sofa_. will. i dare say you are. [_a pause_. laura. yes, i am. [will _crosses to_ laura. will. you know i don't want to delve into a lot of past history at this time, but i've got to talk to you for a moment. laura. why don't you do it some other time? i don't want to be talked to now. [_rises and crosses a little to left_. will. but i've got to do it just the same. laura. [_trying to affect an attitude of resigned patience and resignation_.] well, what is it? [_resuming seat on sofa_. will. you've always been on the square with me, laura. that's why i've liked you a lot better than the other women. laura. are you going into all that again now, this morning? i thought we understood each other. will. so did i, but somehow i think that maybe we _don't_ quite understand each other. laura. in what way? [_turns to_ will. will. [_looking her straight in the eye_.] that letter i dictated to you the day that you came back to me, and left it for you to mail--did you mail it? laura. yes. will. you're quite sure? laura. yes, i'm quite sure. i wouldn't say so if i wasn't. will. and you didn't know madison was coming east until you read about it in that newspaper? laura. no--no, i didn't know. will. have you heard from him? laura. no--no--i haven't heard from him. don't talk to me about this thing. why can't you leave me alone? i'm miserable enough as it is. [_crossing to extreme right_. will. [_crossing to table_.] but i've got to talk to you. laura, you're lying to me. laura. what! [_she makes a valiant effort to become angry_. will. you're lying to me, and you've been lying to me, and i've trusted you. show me that telegram! laura. no. will. [_going over towards her_.] show me that telegram! [laura _crosses up to doors leading into bedroom_. laura. [_tears telegram in half_.] you've no right to ask me. will. are you going to make me take it away [laura _crosses to window_.] from you? i've [_crosses to sofa_.] never laid my hands on you yet. laura. it's my business. [_crossing to left of sofa, around it on down-stage side_. will. yes, and it's mine. _during scene. backing away from_ will, _who is following her_, laura _backs against bureau_. will _grabs her and attempts to take telegram from her. she has put it in the front of her waist. she slowly draws it out_. will. that telegram's from madison. give it here! laura. no. will. i'm going to find out where i stand. give me that telegram, or i'll take it away from you. laura. no. will. come on! laura. i'll give it to you. [_takes telegram out of waist, and hands it to him_. _he takes it slowly, looking her squarely in the eye_. will _crosses to centre, and does not glance away while he slowly smoothes it out so that it can be read; when he finally takes it in both hands to read it she staggers back a step or two weakly_. will. [_reads the telegram aloud_.] "i will be in new york before noon. i'm coming to marry you, and i'm coming with a bank-roll. i wanted to keep it a secret and have a big surprise for you, but i can't hold it any longer, because i feel just like a kid with a new top. don't go out, and be ready for the big matrimonial thing. all my love. john." then you knew? laura. yes. will. but you didn't know he was coming until this arrived? laura. no. will. and you didn't mail the letter [_tossing telegram on table_], did you? laura. no. will. what did you do with it? laura. i--i burned it. will. why? [laura _is completely overcome and unable to answer_. will. why? laura. i--i couldn't help it--i simply couldn't help it. will. so you've been corresponding all this time. laura. yes. will. and he doesn't know [_with a gesture around the room, indicating the condition in which they live._] about us? laura. no. will. [_taking a step towards her._] by god, i never beat a woman in my life, but i feel as though i could wring your neck. laura. why don't you? you've done everything else. why don't you? will. don't you know that i gave madison my word that if you came back to me i'd let him know? don't you know that i like that young fellow, and i wanted to protect him, and did everything i could to help him? and do you know what you've done to me? you've made me out a liar--you've made me lie to a man--a man--you understand. what are you going to do now? tell me--what are you going to do now? don't stand there as if you've lost your voice--how are you going to square me? laura. i'm not thinking about squaring you. what am i going to do for him? will. not what _you_ are going to do for him--what am _i_ going to do for him. why, i couldn't have that young fellow think that i tricked him into this thing for you or all the rest of the women of your kind on earth. god! i might have known that you, and the others like you, couldn't be square. [_the girl looks at him dumbly. he glances at his watch, walks up stage, looks out of the window, comes down again, goes to the table, and looks at her across it._] you've made a nice mess of it, haven't you? laura. [_weakly._] there isn't any mess. please go away. he'll be here soon. please let _me_ see him--please do that. will. no, i'll wait. this time i'm going to tell him myself, and i don't care how tough it is. laura. [_immediately regaining all her vitality._] no, you mustn't do that. [_crossing back of table to centre._] oh, will, i'm not offering any excuse. i'm not saying anything, but i'm telling you the truth. i couldn't give him up--i couldn't do it. i love him. will. huh. [_grins; crosses to front of sofa._ laura. don't you think so? i know you can't see what i see, but i do. and why can't you go away? why can't you leave me this? it's all i ever had. he doesn't know. no one will ever tell him. i'll take him away. it's the best for him--it's the best for me. please go. will. why--do you think that i'm going to let you trip him the way you tripped me? [_crosses and sits in armchair._] no. i'm going to stay right here until that young man arrives, and i'm going to tell him that it wasn't my fault. you were to blame. laura. then you are going to let him know. you're not going to give me a single, solitary chance? will. i'll give you every chance that you deserve when he knows. then he can do as he pleases, but there must be no more deception, that's flat. [laura _crosses and kneels beside_ will's _chair._ laura. then you must let me tell him--[will _turns away impatiently._]--yes, you must. if i didn't tell him before, i'll do it now. you must go. if you ever had any regard for me--if you ever had any affection--if you ever had any friendship, please let me do this now. i want you to go--you can come back. then you'll see--you'll know--only i want to try to make him understand that--that maybe if i am weak i'm not vicious. i want to let him know that i didn't want to do it, but i couldn't help it. just give me the chance to be as good as i can be. [will _gives her a look._] oh, i promise you, i will tell him, and then--then i don't care what happens--only he must learn everything from me--please--please--let me do this--it's the last favour i shall ever--ever ask of you. won't you? [laura _breaks down and weeps._ will. [_rising, looks at her a moment as if mentally debating the best thing to do. crosses in front of table; stands facing her with back to audience._] all right, i won't be unkind. i'll be back early this afternoon, and just remember, this is the time you'll have to go right through to the end. understand? laura. yes, i'll do it,--all of it. won't you please go--now? [_crosses; sits in armchair._ will. all right. [_he exits into the bedroom and immediately enters again with overcoat on his arm and hat in hand; he goes centre, and turns._] i am sorry for you, laura, but remember you've got to tell the truth. laura. [_who is sitting in a chair looking straight in front of her with a set expression._] please go. [will _exits._ laura _sits in a chair in a state of almost stupefaction, holding this attitude as long as possible._ annie _enters, and in a characteristic manner begins her task of tidying up the room;_ laura, _without changing her attitude, and staring straight in front of her, her elbows between her knees and her chin on her hands._ laura. annie! annie. yassum. laura. do you remember in the boarding-house--when we finally packed up--what you did with everything? annie. yassum. laura. you remember that i used to keep a pistol? annie. yo' all mean dat one yo' say dat gemman out west gave yuh once? laura. yes. annie. yassum, ah 'membuh it. laura. where is it now? annie. [_crosses to writing-desk._] last ah saw of it was in dis heah draw' in de writin'-desk. [_this speech takes her across to desk; she opens the drawer, fumbles among a lot of old papers, letters, &c., and finally produces a small thirty-two calibre, and gingerly crosses to_ laura.] is dis it? laura. [_slowly turns around and looks at it._] yes. put it back. i thought perhaps it was lost. [annie _complies, when the bell rings._ laura _starts suddenly, involuntarily gathering her negligã©e gown closer to her figure, and at once she is under a great stress of emotion, and sways upon her feet to such an extent that she is obliged to put one hand out on to the table to maintain her balance. when she speaks, it is with a certain difficulty of articulation._] see--who--that is--and let me know. annie. [_turning._] yassum. [_crosses, opens the first door, and afterwards opens the second door._ elfie's voice. [_off stage._] hello, annie,--folks home? annie. yassum, she's in. laura _immediately evinces her tremendous relief, and_ elfie, _without waiting for a reply, has shoved_ annie _aside and enters,_ annie _following and closing the door._ elfie _is beautifully gowned in a morning dress with an overabundance of fur trimmings and all the furbelows that would accompany the extravagant raiment generally affected by a woman of that type._ elfie _approaching effusively._ elfie. hello, dearie. laura. hello, elfie. laura _crosses and sits on sofa._ elfie _puts muff, &c., on table._ elfie. it's a bully day out. [_crossing to bureau, looking in mirror._] i've been shopping all morning long; just blew myself until i'm broke, that's all. my goodness, don't you ever get dressed? listen. [_crosses left of table to centre._] talk about cinches. i copped out a gown, all ready made, and fits me like the paper on the wall, for $37.80. looks like it might have cost $200. anyway i had them charge $200 on the bill, and i kept the change. there are two or three more down town there, and i want you to go down and look them over. models, you know, being sold out. i don't blame you for not getting up earlier. [_she sits at the table, not noticing_ laura.] that was some party last night. i know you didn't drink a great deal, but gee! what an awful tide will had on. how do you feel? [_looks at her critically._] what's the matter, are you sick? you look all in. what you want to do is this--put on your duds and go out for an hour. it's a perfectly grand day out. my gaud! how the sun does shine! clear and cold. [_a pause._] well, much obliged for the conversation. don't i get a "good-morning," or a "how-dy-do," or a something of that sort? laura. i'm tired, elfie, and blue--terribly blue. elfie. [_rises; crosses to_ laura.] well now, you just brace up and cut out all that emotional stuff. i came down to take you for a drive. you'd like it; just through the park. will you go? laura. [_going up stage._] not this morning, dear; i'm expecting somebody. elfie. a man? laura. [_finding it almost impossible to suppress a smile._] no, a gentleman. elfie. same thing. do i know him? laura. you've heard of him. [_at desk, looking at clock._ elfie. well, don't be so mysterious. who is he? laura. what is your time, elfie? elfie. [_looks at her watch._] five minutes past eleven. laura. oh, i'm slow. i didn't know it was so late. just excuse me, won't you, while i get some clothes on. he may be here any moment. annie! [_she goes up stage towards portiã¨res._ elfie. who? laura. i'll tell you when i get dressed. make yourself at home, won't you, dear? elfie. i'd sooner hear. what is the scandal anyway? laura. [_as she goes out._] i'll tell you in a moment. just as soon as annie gets through with me. [_exit._ elfie. [_gets candy-box off desk, crosses, sits on arm of sofa, selecting candy. in a louder voice._] do you know, laura, i think i'll go back on the stage. laura. [_off stage._] yes? elfie. yes, i'm afraid i'll have to. i think i need a sort of a boost to my popularity. laura. how a boost, elfie? elfie. i think jerry is getting cold feet. he's seeing a little too much of me [_places candy-box on sofa._] nowadays. laura. what makes you think that? elfie. i think he is getting a relapse of that front-row habit. there's no use in talking, laura, it's a great thing for a girl's credit when a man like jerry can take two or three friends to the theatre, and when you make your entrance delicately point to you with his forefinger and say, "the third one from the front on the left belongs to muh." the old fool's hanging around some of these musical comedies lately, and i'm getting a little nervous every time rent day comes. laura. oh, i guess you'll get along all right, elfie. elfie. [_with serene self-satisfaction._] oh, that's a cinch [_rises; crosses to table, looking in dresser mirror at herself, and giving her hat and hair little touches._], but i like to leave well enough alone, and if i had to make a change right now it would require a whole lot of thought and attention, to say nothing of the inconvenience, and i'm so nicely settled in my flat. [_she sees the pianola._] say, dearie, when did you get the piano-player? i got one of them phonographs [_crosses to pianola, tries the levers, &c._], but this has got that beat a city block. how does it work? what did it cost? laura. i don't know. elfie. well, jerry's got to stake me to one of these. [_looks over the rolls on top. mumbles to herself._] "tannhauser, william tell, chopin." [_then louder._] listen, dear. ain't you got anything else except all this high-brow stuff? laura. what do you want? elfie. oh, something with a regular tune to it [_looks at empty box on pianola._]. oh, here's one; just watch me tear this off. [_the roll is the tune of "bon-bon buddie, my chocolate drop." she starts to play and moves the lever marked "swell" wide open, increases the tempo, and is pumping with all the delight and enthusiasm of a child._] ain't it grand? laura. gracious, elfie, don't play so loud. what's the matter? elfie. i shoved over that thing marked "swell." [_stops and turns. rises; crosses to centre and stands._] i sure will have to speak to jerry about this. i'm stuck on that swell thing. hurry up. [laura _appears._] gee! you look pale. [_and then in a tone of sympathy:_] i'll just bet you and will have had a fight, and he always gets the best of you, doesn't he, dearie? [laura _crosses to dresser, and busies herself._] listen. don't you think you can ever get him trained? i almost threw jerry down the stairs the other night and he came right back with a lot of american beauties and a check. i told him if he didn't look out i'd throw him down-stairs every night. he's getting too damned independent and it's got me nervous. oh, dear, i s'pose i will have to go back on the stage. [_sits in armchair._ laura. in the chorus? elfie. well, i should say not. i'm going to give up my musical career. charlie burgess is putting on a new play, and he says he has a part in it for me if i want to go back. it isn't much, but very important,--sort of a pantomime part. a lot of people talk about me, and just at the right time i walk across the stage and make an awful hit. i told jerry that if i went [laura _crosses to sofa, picks up candy-box, puts it upon desk, gets telegram from table, crosses to centre._] on he'd have to come across with one of those irish crochet lace gowns. he fell for it. do you know, dearie, i think he'd sell out his business just to have me back on the stage for a couple of weeks, just to give box-parties every night for my _en_-trance and _ex_-its. laura. [_seriously._] elfie! [laura _takes_ elfie _by the hand, and leads her over to sofa._ laura _sits,_ elfie _standing._ elfie. yes, dear. laura. come over here and sit down. elfie. what's up? laura. do you know what i'm going to ask of you? elfie. if it's a touch, you'll have to wait until next week. [_sits opposite_ laura. laura. no: just a little advice. elfie. [_with a smile._] well, that's cheap, and lord knows you need it. what's happened? laura _takes the crumpled and torn telegram that_ will _has left on the table and hands it to_ elfie. _the latter puts the two pieces together, reads it very carefully, looks up at_ laura _about middle of telegram, and lays it down._ elfie. well? laura. will suspected. there was something in the paper about mr. madison--the telegram came--then we had a row. elfie. serious? laura. yes. do you remember what i told you about that letter--the one will made me write--i mean to john--telling him what i had done? elfie. yes, you burned it. laura. i tried to lie to will--he wouldn't have it that way. he seemed to know. he was furious. elfie. did he hit you? laura. no; he made me admit that john didn't know, and then he said he'd stay here and tell himself that i'd made him lie, and then he said something about liking the other man and wanting to save him. elfie. save--shucks! he's jealous. laura. i told him if he'd only go i'd--tell john myself when he came, and now you see i'm waiting--and i've got to tell--and--and i don't know how to begin--and--and i thought you could help me--you seem so sort of resourceful, and it means--it means so much to me. if john turned on me now i couldn't go back to will, and, elfie,--i don't think i'd care to--stay here any more. elfie. what! [_in an awestruck tone, taking_ laura _in her arms impulsively._] dearie, get that nonsense out of your head and be sensible. i'd just like to see any two men who could make me think about--well--what you seem to have in your mind. laura. but i don't know; don't you see, elfie, i don't know. if i don't tell him, will will come back and he'll tell him, and i know john and maybe--elfie, do you know, i think john would kill him. elfie. well, don't you think anything about that. now let's get [_rises, crosses to armchair, draws it over a little, sits on left arm._] down to cases, and we haven't much time. business is business, and love is love. you're long on love and i'm long on business, and between the two of us we ought to straighten this thing out. now, evidently john is coming on here to marry you. laura. yes. elfie. and you love him? laura. yes. elfie. and as far as you know the moment that he comes in here it's quick to the justice and a big matrimonial thing. laura. yes, but you see how impossible it is-elfie. i don't see anything impossible. from all you've said to me about this fellow there is only one thing to do. laura. one thing? elfie. yes--get married quick. you say he has the money and you have the love, and you're sick of brockton, and you want to switch and do it in the decent, respectable, conventional way, and he's going to take you away. haven't you got sense enough to know that, once you're married to mr. madison, will brockton wouldn't dare go to him, and if he did madison wouldn't believe him? a man will believe a whole lot about his girl, but nothing about his wife. laura. [_turns and looks at her. there is a long pause._] elfie [_rises; crosses to right of table._]--i--i don't think i could do like that to john. i don't think--i could deceive him. elfie. you make me sick. the thing to do is to lie to all men. [_rises; pushes chair to table._]--they all lie to you. protect yourself. you seem to think that your happiness depends on this. now do it. listen. [_touches_ laura _to make her sit down;_ laura _sits right of table;_ elfie _sits on right arm of chair left of table, with elbows on table._] don't you realize that you and me, and all the girls that are shoved into this life, are practically the common prey of any man who happens to come along? don't you know that they've got about as much consideration for us as they have for any pet animal around the house, and the only way that we've got it on the animal is that we've got brains? this is a game, laura, _not a sentiment_. do you suppose this madison [laura _turns to_ elfie.]--now don't get sore--hasn't turned these tricks himself before he met you, and i'll gamble he's done it since! a man's natural trade is a heartbreaking business. don't tell me about women breaking men's hearts. the only thing they can ever break is their bank roll. and besides, this is not will's business; he has no right to interfere. you've been with him--yes, and he's been nice to you; but i don't think that he's given you any the best of it. now if you want to leave and go your own way and marry any tom, dick, or harry that you want, it's nobody's affair but yours. laura. but you don't understand--it's john. i can't lie to him. elfie. well, that's too bad about you. i used to have that truthful habit myself, and the best i ever got was the worst of it. all this talk about love and loyalty and constancy is fine and dandy in a book, but when a girl has to look out for herself, take it from me, whenever you've got that trump card up your sleeve just play it and rake in the pot. [_takes_ laura's _hand affectionately._] you know, dearie, you're just about the only one in the world i love. laura. elfie! elfie. since i broke away from the folks up state and they've heard things, there ain't any more letters coming to me with an oswego postmark. ma's gone, and the rest don't care. you're all i've got in the world, laura, and what i'm asking you to do is because i want to see you happy. i was afraid this thing was coming off, and the thing to do now is to grab your happiness, no matter how you get it nor where it comes from. there ain't a whole lot of joy in this world for you and me and the others we know, and what little you get you've got to take when you're young, because, when those gray hairs begin to come, and the make-up isn't going to hide the wrinkles, unless you're well fixed, it's going to be hell. you know what a fellow doesn't know doesn't hurt him, and he'll love you just the same and you'll love him. as for brockton, let him get another girl; there're plenty 'round. why, if this chance came to me i'd tie a can to jerry so quick that you could hear it rattle all the way down broadway. [_rises, crosses back of table to_ laura, _leans over back of chair, and puts arms around her neck very tenderly._] dearie, promise me that you won't be a damn fool. [_the bell rings; both start._ laura. [_rises._] maybe that's john. [elfie _brushes a tear quickly from her eye._ elfie. oh! and you'll promise me, laura? laura. i'll try. [annie _enters up stage from the adjoining room and crosses to the door._] if that's mr. madison, annie, tell him to come in. laura _stands near the table, almost rigid. instinctively_ elfie _goes to the mirror and re-arranges her gown and hair as_ annie _exits._ elfie _turns to_ laura. elfie. if i think he's the fellow when i see him, watch me and i'll tip you the wink. [_kisses_ laura; _up stage puts on coat._ _she goes up stage to centre;_ laura _remains in her position. the doors are heard to open, and in a moment_ john _enters. he is dressed very neatly in a business suit, and his face is tanned and weather-beaten. after he enters, he stands still for a moment. the emotion that both he and_ laura _go through is such that each is trying to control it,_ laura _from the agony of her position, and_ john _from the mere hurt of his affection. he sees_ elfie _and forces a smile._ john. [_quietly._] hello, laura! i'm on time. laura _smiles, quickly crosses the stage, and holds out her hand._ laura. oh, john, i'm so glad--so glad to see you. [_they hold this position for a moment, looking into each other's eyes._ elfie _moves so as to take_ john _in from head to toe and is obviously very much pleased with his appearance. she coughs slightly._ laura _takes a step back with a smile._] oh, pardon me, john--one of my dearest friends, miss sinclair; she's heard a lot about you. elfie, _with a slight gush, in her most captivating manner, goes over and holds out her gloved hand laden with bracelets, and with her sweetest smile crosses to centre._ elfie. how do you do? madison. i'm glad to meet you, i'm sure. elfie. [_still holding_ john's _hand._] yes, i'm sure you are--particularly just at this time. [_to_ laura.] you know that old stuff about two's company and three [laura _smiles._] is a crowd. here's where i vamoose. [_crosses to door._ laura. [_as_ elfie _goes toward door._] don't hurry, dear. elfie. [_with a grin._] no, i suppose not; just fall down stairs and get out of the way, that's all. [_crosses to_ john.] anyway, mr. madison, i'm awfully glad to have met you, and i want to congratulate you. they tell me you're rich. john. oh, no; not rich. elfie. well, i don't believe you--anyway i'm going. ta-ta, dearie. good-bye, mr. madison. john. good-bye. [john _crosses up to back of sofa; removes coat, puts it on sofa._ elfie. [_goes to the door, opens it and turns._ john's _back is partly toward her and she gives a long wink at_ laura, _snapping fingers to attract_ laura's _attention._] i must say, laura, that when it comes to picking live ones, you certainly can go some. [_after this remark both turn toward her and both smile._ [_exit._ _after_ elfie _exits,_ john _turns to_ laura _with a pleasant smile, and jerks his head towards the door where_ elfie _has gone out._ john. i bet she's a character. laura. she's a dear. john. i can see that all right. [_crossing to centre._ laura. she's been a very great friend to me. john. that's good, but don't i get a "how-dy-do," or a handshake, or a little kiss? you know i've come a long way. laura _goes to him and places herself in his arms; he kisses her affectionately. during all this scene between them the tenderness of the man is very apparent. as she releases herself from his embrace he takes her face in his hands and holds it up towards his._ john. i'm not much on the love-making business, laura, but i never thought i'd be as happy as i am now. [john _and_ laura _cross to centre._ laura _kneels in armchair with back to audience,_ john _stands left of her._] i've been counting mile-posts ever since i left chicago, and it seemed like as if i had to go 'round the world before i got here. laura. you never told me about your good fortune. if you hadn't telegraphed i wouldn't even have known you were coming. john. i didn't want you to. i'd made up my mind to sort of drop in here and give you a great big surprise,--a happy one, i knew,--but the papers made such a fuss in chicago that i thought you might have read about it--did you? laura. no. john. gee! fixed up kind o' scrumptious, ain't you? [_crosses in front of sofa, around behind it, surveying rooms._] maybe you've been almost as prosperous as i have. laura. you can get a lot of gilt and cushions in new york at half price, and besides, i've got a pretty good part now. john. of course i know that, but i didn't think it would make you quite so comfortable. great, ain't it? laura. yes. john. [_standing beside her chair, with a smile._] well, are you ready? laura. for what, dear? [_looking up at him._ john. you know what i said in the telegram? laura. yes. [_leans her head affectionately on his shoulder._ john. well, i meant it. laura. i know. john. i've got to get back [john _looks around; crosses behind table to chair right of table, and sits facing her across it._], laura, just as soon as ever i can. there's a lot of work to be done out in nevada and i stole away to come to new york. i want to take you back. can you go? laura. yes--when? john. this afternoon. we'll take the eighteen-hour train to chicago, late this afternoon, and connect at chicago with the overland, and i'll soon have you in a home. [_pause._] and here's another secret. laura. what, dear? john. i've got that home all bought and furnished, and while you couldn't call it a fifth avenue residence, still it has got something on any other one in town. laura. but, john, you've been so mysterious. in all your letters you haven't told me a single, solitary thing about your good luck. john. i've planned to take you out and show you all that. laura. you should have told me,--i've been so anxious. john. i waited until it was a dead-sure thing. you know it's been pretty tough sledding out there in the mining country, and it did look as if i never would make a strike; but your spirit was with me and luck was with me, and i knew if i could only hold out that something would come my way. i had two pals, both of them miners,--they had the knowledge and i had the luck,--and one day, clearing away a little snow to build a fire, i poked my toe into the dirt, and there was somethin' there, dearie, that looked suspicious. i called jim,--that's one of the men,--and in less time than it takes to tell you there were three maniacs scratching away at old mother earth for all there was in it. we staked our claims in two weeks, and i came to reno to raise enough money for me to come east. now things are all fixed and it's just a matter of time. [_taking_ laura's _hand._ laura. so you're very, very rich, dear? john. oh, not rich [_releasing her hand, he leans back in his chair._], just heeled. i'm not going down to the wall street bargain counter and buy the union pacific, or anything like that; but we won't have to take the trip on tourists' tickets, and there's enough money to make us comfortable all the rest of our lives. laura. how hard you must have worked and suffered. john. nobody else ever accused me of that, but i sure will have to plead guilty to you. [_rises; stands at upper side of table._] why, dear, since the day you came into my life, hell-raising took a sneak out the back door and god poked his toe in the front, and ever since then i think he's been coming a little closer to me. [_crossing over._] i used to be a fellow without much faith, and kidded everybody who had it, and i used to say to those who prayed and believed, "you may be right, but show me a message." you came along and you brought that little document in your sweet face and your dear love. laura, you turned the trick for me, and i think i'm almost a regular man now. laura _turns away in pain; the realization of all she is to_ john _weighs heavily upon her. she almost loses her nerve, and is on the verge of not going through with her determination to get her happiness at any price._ laura. john, please, don't. i'm not worth it. [_rises, crosses to right._ john. [_with a light air._] not worth it? why, you're worth [_crossing behind table, stands behind_ laura.] that and a whole lot more. and see how you've got on! brockton told me you never could get along in your profession, but i knew you could. [_crosses back of_ laura, _takes her by the shoulders, shakes her playfully._] i knew what you had in you, and here you are. you see, if my foot hadn't slipped on the right ground and kicked up pay-dirt, you'd been all right. you succeeded and i succeeded, but i'm going to take you away; and after a while, when things sort of smooth out, and it's all clear where the money's [_crosses to sofa and sits._] coming from, we're going to move back here, and go to europe, and just have a great time, like a couple of good pals. laura. [_slowly crosses to_ john.] but if i hadn't succeeded and if things--things weren't just as they seem--would it make any difference to you, john? john. not the least in the world. [_he takes her in his arms and kisses her, drawing her on to sofa beside him._] now don't you get blue. i should not have surprised you this way. it's taken you off your feet. [_he looks at his watch, rises, crosses behind sofa, gets overcoat._] but we've not any time to lose. how soon can you get ready? laura. [_kneeling on sofa, leaning over back._] you mean to go? john. nothing else. laura. take all my things? john. all your duds. laura. why, dear, i can get ready most any time. john. [_looking off into bedroom._] that your maid? laura. yes,--annie. john. well, you and she can pack everything you want to take; the rest can follow later. [_puts coat on._] i planned it all out. there's a couple of the boys working down town,--newspaper men on park row. telephoned them when i got in and they're waiting for me. i'll just get down there as soon as i can. i won't be gone long. laura. how long? john. i don't know just how long, but we'll make that train. i'll get the license. we'll be married and we'll be off on our honeymoon this afternoon. can you do it? laura _goes up to him, puts her hands in his, and they confront each other._ laura. yes, dear, i could do anything for you. _he takes her in his arms and kisses her again. looks at her tenderly._ john. that's good. hurry now. i won't be long. good-bye. laura. hurry back, john. john. yes. i won't be long. [_exit._ laura. [_stands for a moment looking after him; then she suddenly recovers herself and walks rapidly over to the dresser, picks up large jewel-case, takes doll that is hanging on dresser, puts them on her left arm, takes black cat in her right hand and uses it in emphasizing her words in talking to_ annie. _places them all on table._] annie, annie, come here! annie. yassum. [_she appears at the door._ laura. annie, i'm going away, and i've got to hurry. annie. goin' away? laura. yes. i want you to bring both my trunks out here,--i'll help you,--and start to pack. we can't take everything. [annie _throws fur rug from across doorway into bedroom._], but bring all the clothes out and we'll hurry as fast as we can. come on. _exit_ laura _with_ annie. _in a very short interval she re-appears, and both are carrying a large trunk between them. they put it down, pushing sofa back._ annie. look out for your toes, miss laura. laura. i can take two. annie. golly, such excitement. [_crosses to table; pushes it over further, also armchair._] wheah yuh goin', miss laura? laura. never mind where i'm going. i haven't any time to waste now talking. i'll tell you later. this is one time, annie, that you've got to move. hurry up. laura _pushes her in front of her. exeunt the same way and re-appear with a smaller trunk._ annie. look out fo' your dress, miss laura. _these trunks are of the same type as those in act ii. when the trunks are put down_ laura _opens one and commences to throw things out._ annie _stands watching her._ laura _kneels in front of trunk, working and humming "bon-bon buddie."_ annie. ah nevah see you so happy, miss laura. laura. i never was so happy. for heaven's sake, go get something. don't stand there looking at me. i want you to hurry. annie. i'll bring out all de fluffy ones first. laura. yes, everything. [annie _enters with armful of dresses and hat-box of tissue-paper; dumps tissue-paper on floor, puts dresses in trunk._ annie. [_goes out again. outside._] you goin' to take dat opera-cloak? [_enters with more dresses, puts them on sofa, takes opera-cloak, spreads it on top of dresses on trunk._] my, but dat's a beauty. i jest love dat crushed rosey one. [_exit._ laura. annie, you put the best dresses on the foot of the bed and i'll get them myself. you heard what i said? annie. [_off stage._] yassum. annie _hangs dresses across bed in alcove._ laura _continues busily arranging the contents of the trunk, placing some garments here and some there, as if she were sorting them out._ will _quietly enters and stands at the door, looking at her. he holds this position as long as possible, and when he speaks it is in a very quiet tone._ will. going away? laura. [_starts, rises, and confronts him._] yes. will. in somewhat of a hurry, i should say. laura. yes. will. what's the plan? laura. i'm just going, that's all. will. madison been here? laura. he's just left. will. of course you are going with him? laura. yes. will. west? laura. to nevada. will. going--er--to get married? laura. yes, this afternoon. will. so he didn't care then? laura. what do you mean when you say "he didn't care"? will. of course you told him about the letter, and how it was burned up, and all that sort of thing, didn't you? laura. why, yes. will. and he said it didn't make any difference? laura. he--he didn't say anything. we're just going to be married, that's all. will. did you mention my name and say that we'd been rather companionable for the last two months? laura. i told him you'd been a very good friend to me. _during this scene_ laura _answers_ will _with difficulty, and to a man of the world it is quite apparent that she is not telling the truth._ will _looks over toward her in an almost threatening way._ will. how soon do you expect him back? [_crossing to centre._ laura. quite soon. i don't know just exactly how long he'll be. will. and you mean to tell me that you kept your promise and told him the truth? [_crossing to trunk._ laura. i--i--[_then with defiance._] what business have you got to ask me that? what business have you got to interfere anyway? [_crossing up to bed in alcove, gets dresses off foot, and puts them on sofa._ will. [_quietly._] then you've lied again. you lied to him, and you just tried to lie to me now. i must say, laura, that you're not particularly clever at it, although i don't doubt but that you've had considerable practice. _gives her a searching look and slowly walks over to the chair at the table and sits down, still holding his hat in his hand and without removing his overcoat._ laura _sees_ brockton _sitting, stops and turns on him, laying dresses down._ laura. what are you going to do? will. sit down here and rest a few moments; maybe longer. laura. you can't do that. will. i don't see why not. this is my own place. laura. but don't you see that he'll come back here soon and find you here? will. that's just exactly what i want him to do. laura. [_with suppressed emotion, almost on the verge of hysteria._] i want to tell you this. if you do this thing you'll ruin my life. you've done enough to it already. now i want you to go. you've got to go. i don't think you've got any right to come here now, in this way, and take this happiness from me. i've given you everything i've got, and now i want to live right and decent, and he wants me to, and we love each other. now, will brockton, it's come to this. you've got to leave this place, do you hear? you've got to leave this place. please get out. [_crossing to trunk._ will. [_rises and comes to her._] do you think i'm going to let a woman make a liar out of me? i'm going to stay right here. i like that boy, and i'm not going to let you put him to the bad. laura. i want you to go. [_slams trunk lid down, crosses to dresser, opens drawer to get stuff out._ will. and i tell you i won't go. i'm going to show you up. i'm going to tell him the truth. it isn't you i care for--he's got to know. laura. [_slams drawer shut, loses her temper, and is almost tiger-like in her anger._] you don't care for me? will. no. laura. it isn't me you're thinking of? will. no. laura. who's the liar now? will. liar? laura. yes, liar. you are. you don't care for this man, and you know it. will. you're foolish. laura. yes, i am foolish and i've been foolish all my life, but i'm getting a little sense now. [_kneels in armchair, facing_ will; _her voice is shaky with anger and tears._] all my life, since the day you first took me away, you've planned and planned and planned to keep me, and to trick me and bring me down with you. when you came to me i was happy. i didn't have much, just a little salary and some hard work. will. but like all the rest you found that wouldn't keep you, didn't you? laura. you say i'm bad, but who's made me so? who took me out night after night? who showed me what these luxuries were? who put me in the habit of buying something i couldn't afford? you did. will. well, you liked it, didn't you? laura. who got me in debt, and then, when i wouldn't do what you wanted me to, who had me discharged from the company, so i had no means of living? who followed me from one place to another? who, always entreating, tried to trap me into this life, and i didn't know any better? will. you didn't know any better? laura. i knew it was wrong--yes; but you told me everybody in this business did that sort of thing, and i was just as good as anyone else. finally you got me and you kept me. then, when i went away to denver, and for the first time found a gleam of happiness, for the first time in my life-will. you're crazy. laura. yes, i am crazy. [_rises angrily, crosses and sweeps table-cover off table; crosses to dresser, knocks bottles, &c., off upper end; turns, faces him, almost screaming._] you've made me crazy. you followed me to denver, and then when i got back you bribed me again. you pulled me down, and you did the same old thing until this happened. now i want you to get out, you understand? i want you to get out. will. laura, you can't do this. [_starts to sit on trunk._ laura. [_screaming, crossing to_ will; _she attempts to push him._] no, you won't; you won't stay here. you're not going to do this thing again. i tell you i'm going to be happy. i tell you i'm going to be married. [_he doesn't resist her very strongly. her anger and her rage are entirely new to him. he is surprised and cannot understand._] you won't see him; i tell you, you won't tell him. you've got no business to. i hate you. i've hated you for months. i hate the sight of your face. i've wanted to go, and now i'm going. you've got to go, do you hear? you've got to get out--get out. [_pushes him again._ will. [_throwing her off;_ laura _staggers to armchair, rises, crosses left._] what the hell is the use of fussing with a woman. [_exit._ laura. [_hysterically._] i want to be happy, i'm going to be married, i'm going to be happy. [_sinks down in exhausted state in front of trunk._ curtain, slow. act iv. scene. _the same scene as act iii. it is about two o'clock in the afternoon._ at rise. _when the curtain rises, there are two big trunks and one small one up stage. these are marked in the usual theatrical fashion. there are grips packed, umbrellas, and the usual paraphernalia that accompanies a woman when she is making a permanent departure from her place of living. all the bric-ã -brac, &c., has been removed from dresser. on down-stage end of dresser is a small alligator bag containing night-dress, toilet articles, and bunch of keys. the dresser drawers are some of them half open, and old pieces of tissue-paper and ribbons are hanging out. the writing-desk has had all materials removed and is open, showing scraps of torn-up letters, and in one pigeon-hole is a new york central time-table; between desk and bay-window is a lady's hat-trunk containing huge picture hat. it is closed. behind table is a suit-case with which_ annie _is working when curtain rises. under desk are two old millinery boxes, around which are scattered old tissue-paper, a pair of old slippers, a woman's shabby hat, old ribbon, &c. in front of window at end of pianola is thrown a lot of old empty boxes, such as are used for stocking and shirtwaist boxes. the picture-frame and basket of flowers have been removed from pianola. the stool is on top of pianola, upside down. there is an empty white rock bottle, with glass turned over it, standing between the legs of the stool. the big trunk is in front of sofa, and packed, and it has a swing tray under which is packed a fancy evening gown; the lid is down. on top of lid are an umbrella, lady's travelling-coat, hat and gloves. on left end of sofa are a large gladstone bag, packed and fastened, a smaller trunk (thirty-four inch), tray with lid. in tray are articles of wearing apparel. in end of tray is revolver wrapped in tissue-paper. trunk is closed, and supposed to be locked. tossed across left arm of armchair are couple of violet cords. down stage centre is a large piece of wide tan ribbon. the room has the general appearance of having been stripped of all personal belongings. there are old magazines and tissue-paper all over the place. a bearskin rug is thrown up against table in low window, the furniture is all on stage as used in act iii. at rise_ laura _is sitting on trunk with clock in hand._ annie _is on floor behind table, fastening suit-case._ laura _is pale and perturbed._ annie. ain't yuh goin' to let me come to yuh at all, miss laura? laura. i don't know yet, annie. i don't even know what the place is like that we're going to. mr. madison hasn't said much. there hasn't been time. annie. why, ah've done ma best for yuh, miss laura, yes, ah have. ah jest been with yuh ev'ry moment of ma time, an' [_places suit-case on table; crosses to centre._] ah worked for yuh an' ah loved yuh, an' ah doan' wan' to be left 'ere all alone in dis town 'ere new york. [laura _turns to door;_ annie _stoops, grabs up ribbon, hides it behind her back._] ah ain't the kind of cullud lady knows many people. can't yuh take me along wid yuh, miss laura?--yuh all been so good to me. laura. why, i told you to [_crosses to door, looks out, returns disappointed._] stay here and get your things together [annie _hides ribbon in front of her waist._], and then mr. brockton will probably want you to do something. later, i think he'll have you pack up, just as soon as he finds i'm gone. i've got the address that you gave me. i'll let you know if you can come on. annie. [_suddenly._] ain't yuh goin' to give me anything at all jes' to remembuh yuh by? ah've been so honest-laura. honest? annie. honest, ah have. laura. you've been about as honest as most coloured [_crosses to table; gets suit-case; crosses to sofa end puts suit-case on it._] girls are who work for women in the position that i am in. you haven't stolen enough to make me discharge you, but i've seen what you've taken. [_sits on end of sofa facing left._ annie. now, miss laura. laura. don't try to fool me. what you've got you're welcome to, but for heaven's sake don't prate around here about loyalty and honesty. i'm sick of it. annie. ain't yuh goin' to give me no recommendation? laura. [_impatiently looking around the room._] what good would my recommendation do? you can always go and get another position with people who've lived the way i've lived, and my recommendation to the other kind wouldn't amount to much. annie. [_sits on trunk._] ah can just see whah ah'm goin',--back to dat boa'din'-house in 38th street fo' me. [_crying._ laura. now shut your noise. i don't want to hear any more. i've given you twenty-five dollars for a present. i think that's enough. [annie _assumes a most aggrieved appearance._ annie. ah know, but twenty-five dollars ain't a home, and i'm [_rises, crosses to rubbish heap, picks up old slippers and hat, puts hat on head as she goes out, looks into pier-glass._] losin' my home. dat's jest my luck--every time i save enough money to buy my weddin' clothes to get married i lose my job. [_exit._ laura. i wonder where john is. we'll never be able to make that train. [_she crosses to window, then to desk, takes out time-table, crosses to armchair and spreads time-table on back, studies it, crosses impatiently to trunk, and sits nervously kicking her feet. after a few seconds' pause the bell rings. she jumps up excitedly._] that must be he,--annie--go quick. [annie _crosses and opens the door in the usual manner._ jim's voice. [_outside._] is miss murdock in? annie. yassuh, she's in. laura _is up stage and turns to receive visitor._ jim _enters. he is nicely dressed in black and has an appearance of prosperity about him, but in other respects he retains the old drollness of enunciation and manner. he crosses to_ laura _in a cordial way and holds out his hand._ annie _crosses, after closing the door, and exits through the portiã¨res into the sleeping-apartment._ jim. how-dy-do, miss laura? laura. jim western, i'm mighty glad to see you. jim. looks like as if you were going to move? laura. yes, i am going to move, and a long ways, too. how well you're looking,--as fit as a fiddle. jim. yes; i am feelin' fine. where yer goin'? troupin'? laura. no, indeed. jim. [_surveying the baggage._] thought not. what's comin' off now? [_takes off coat, puts coat and hat on trunk._ laura. [_very simply._] i'm going to be married this afternoon. jim. married? laura. and then i'm going west. jim. [_leaving the trunk, walking toward her and holding out his hands._] now i'm just glad to hear that. ye know when i heard how--how things was breakin' for ye--well, i ain't knockin' or anythin' like that, but me and the missis have talked ye over a lot. i never did think this feller was goin' to do the right thing by yer. brockton never looked to me like a fellow would marry anybody, but now that he's goin' through just to make you a nice, respectable wife, i guess everything must have happened for the best. [laura _averts her eyes. both sit on trunk,_ jim _left of_ laura.] y' see i wanted to thank you for what you did a couple of weeks ago. burgess wrote me a letter and told me i could go ahead of one of his big shows if i wanted to come back, and offering me considerable money. he mentioned your name, miss laura, and i talked it over with the missis, and--well, i can tell ye now when i couldn't if ye weren't to be hooked up--we decided that i wouldn't take that job, comin' as it did from you [_slowly._] and the way i knew it was framed up. laura. why not? jim. [_embarrassed._] well, ye see, there are three kids and they're all growing up, all of them in school, and the missis, she's just about forgot show business and she's playing a star part in the kitchen, juggling dishes and doing flip-flaps with pancakes; and we figgered that as we'd always gone along kinder clean-like, it wouldn't be good for the kids to take a job comin' from brockton because you--you--well--you-laura. i know. [_rises; sits on left arm of chair._] you thought it wasn't decent. is that it? jim. oh, not exactly, only--well, you see i'm gettin' along pretty [_rises; crosses to_ laura.] good now. i got a little one-night-stand theatre out in ohio--manager of it, too. the town is called gallipolis. [_with a smile._ laura. gallipolis? jim. oh, that ain't a disease. it is the name of a town. maybe you don't know much about gallipolis, or where it is. laura. no. jim. well, it looks just like it sounds. we got a little house, and the old lady is happy, and i feel so good that i can even stand her cookin'. of course we ain't makin' much money, but i guess i'm gettin' a little old-fashioned around theatres anyway. the fellows from newspapers and colleges have got it on me. last time i asked a man for a job he asked me what i knew about the greek drama, and when i told him i didn't know the greeks had a theatre in new york he slipped me a laugh and told me to come in again on some rainy tuesday. then gallipolis showed on the map, and i beat it for the west. [jim _notices by this time the pain he has caused_ laura, _and is embarrassed._] sorry if i hurt ye--didn't mean to; and now that yer goin' to be mrs. brockton, well, i take back all i said, and, while i don't think i want to change my position, i wouldn't turn it down for--for that other reason, that's all. laura. [_with a tone of defiance in her voice._] but, mr. weston, i'm not going to be mrs. brockton. jim. no? [_crosses left a little._ laura. no. jim. oh--oh-laura. i'm going to marry another man, and a good man. jim. the hell you are! [laura _rises and puts hand on_ jim's _shoulder._ laura. and it's going to be altogether different. i know what you meant when you said about the missis and the kids, and that's what i want--just a little home, just a little peace, just a little comfort, and--and the man has come who's going to give it to me. you don't want me to say any more, do you? [_crosses to door, opens it, and looks out; closes it and crosses to_ jim. jim. [_emphatically, and with a tone of hearty approval._] no, i don't, and now i'm just going to put my mit out and shake yours and be real glad. i want to tell ye it's the only way to go along. i ain't never been a rival to rockefeller, nor i ain't never made morgan jealous, but since the day my old woman took her make-up off for the last time, and walked out of that stage-door to give me a little help and bring my kids into the world, i knew that was the way to go along; and if you're goin' to take that road, by jiminy, i'm glad of it, for you sure do deserve it. i wish yer luck. laura. thank you. jim. i'm mighty glad you side-stepped brockton. you're young [laura _sits on trunk._], and you're pretty, and you're sweet, and if you've got the right kind of a feller there ain't no reason on earth why you shouldn't jest forgit the whole business and see nothin' but laughs and a good time comin' to you, and the sun sort o' shinin' every twenty-four hours in the day. you know the missis feels just as if she knew you, after i told her about them hard times we had at farley's boarding-house, so i feel that it's paid me to come to new york [_picks up pin; puts it in lapel of coat._] even if i didn't book anything but "east lynne" and "uncle tom's cabin." [_goes over to her._] now i'm goin'. don't forget gallipolis's [laura _helps him on with his coat._] the name, and sometimes the mail does get there. i'd be awful glad if you wrote the missis a little note tellin' us how you're gettin' along, and if you ever have to ride on the kanawha and michigan, just look out of the window when the train passes our town, because that is about the best you'll get. laura. why? jim. they only stop there on signal. and make up your mind that the weston family is with you forty ways from the jack day and night. good-bye, and god bless you. laura. good-bye, jim. i'm so glad to know you're happy, for it is good to be happy. [_kisses him._ jim. you bet. [_moves toward the door. she follows him after they have shaken hands._] never mind, i can get out all right. [_opens the door, and at the door:_] good-bye again. laura. [_very softly._] good-bye. [_exit_ jim _and closes the door. she stands motionless until she hears the outer door slam._] i wonder why he doesn't come. [_she goes up and looks out of the window and turns down stage, crosses right, counting trunks; as she counts suitcase on table, bell rings; she crosses hurriedly to trunk centre._] hurry, annie, and see who that is. annie _enters, crosses, opens door, exits, and opens the outer door._ annie's voice. she's waitin' for yer, mr. madison. laura _hurries down to the centre of stage._ john _enters, hat in hand and his overcoat on arm, followed by_ annie. _he stops just as he enters and looks at_ laura _long and searchingly._ laura _instinctively feels that something has happened. she shudders and remains firm._ annie _crosses and exits. closes doors._ laura. [_with a little effort._ john _places hat and coat on trunk._] aren't you a little late, dear? john. i--i was detained down town a few minutes. i think that we can carry out our plan all right. laura. [_after a pause._] has anything happened? john. i've made all the arrangements. the men will be here in a few minutes for your trunks. [_crosses to coat; feels in pocket._] i've got the railroad tickets and everything else, but-laura. but what, john? _he goes over to her. she intuitively understands that she is about to go through an ordeal. she seems to feel that_ john _has become acquainted with something which might interfere with their plan. he looks at her long and searchingly. evidently he too is much wrought up, but when he speaks to her it is with a calm dignity and force which show the character of the man._ john. laura. laura. yes? john. you know when i went down town i said i was going to call on two or three of my friends in park row. laura. i know. john. i told them who i was going to marry. laura. well? john. they said something about you and brockton, and i found that they'd said too much, but not quite enough. laura. what did they say? john. just that--too much and not quite enough. there's a minister waiting for us over on madison avenue. you see, then you'll be my wife. that's pretty serious business, and all i want now from you is the truth. laura. well? john. just tell me that what they said was just an echo of the past--that it came from what had been going on before that wonderful day out in colorado. tell me that you've been on the level. i don't want their word, laura--i just want yours. laura _summons all her courage, looks up into his loving eyes, shrinks a moment before his anxious face, and speaks as simply as she can._ laura. yes, john, i have been on the level. john. [_very tenderly._] i knew that, dear, i knew it. [_he takes her in his arms and kisses her. she clings to him in pitiful helplessness. his manner is changed to one of almost boyish happiness._] well, now everything's all ready, let's get on the job. we haven't a great deal of time. get your duds on. laura. when do we go? john. right away. the great idea is to get away. laura. all right. [_gets hat off trunk, crosses to bureau, puts it on._ john. laura, you've got trunks enough, haven't you? one might think we're moving a whole colony. [_turns to her with a smile._] and, by the way, to me you are a whole colony--anyway you're the only one i ever wanted to settle with. laura. that's good. [_takes bag off bureau, crosses to trunk, gets purse, coat, umbrella, as if ready to leave. she hurriedly gathers her things together, adjusting her hat and the like, and almost to herself in a low tone:_] i'm so excited. [_continues preparations._] come on. _in the meantime_ john _crosses by to get his hat and coat, and while the preparations are about to be completed and_ laura _has said "come on," she is transfixed by the noise of the slamming of the outer door. she stops as if she had been tremendously shocked, and a moment later the rattling of a latch-key in the inner door also stops_ john _from going any further. his coat is half on._ laura _looks toward the door, paralyzed with fright, and_ john _looks at her with an expression of great apprehension. slowly the door opens, and_ brockton _enters with coat and hat on. as he turns to close the door after him,_ laura, _pitifully and terribly afraid, retreats two or three steps, and lays coat, bag, purse and umbrella down in armchair, standing dazed._ brockton _enters leisurely, paying no attention to anyone, while_ john _becomes as rigid as a statue, and follows with his eyes every move_ brockton _makes. the latter walks leisurely across the stage, and afterwards into the rooms through the portiã¨res. there is a wait of a second. no one moves._ brockton _finally reã«nters with coat and hat off, and throws back the portiã¨res in such a manner as to reveal the bed and his intimate familiarity with the outer room. he goes down stage in the same leisurely manner and sits in a chair opposite_ john, _crossing his legs._ will. hello, madison, when did you get in? _slowly_ john _seems to recover himself. his right hand starts up toward the lapel of his coat and slowly he pulls his colt revolver from the holster under his armpit. there is a deadly determination and deliberation in every movement that he makes._ will _jumps to his feet and looks at him. the revolver is uplifted in the air, as a western man handles a gun, so that when it is snapped down with a jerk the deadly shot can be fired._ laura _is terror-stricken, but before the shot is fired she takes a step forward and extends one hand in a gesture of entreaty._ laura. [_in a husky voice that is almost a whisper._] don't shoot. _the gun remains uplifted for a moment._ john _is evidently wavering in his determination to kill. slowly his whole frame relaxes. he lowers the pistol in his hand in a manner which clearly indicates that he is not going to shoot. he quietly puts it back in the holster, and_ will _is obviously relieved, although he stood his ground like a man._ john. [_slowly._] thank you. you said that just in time. [_a pause._ will. [_recovering and in a light tone._] well, you see, madison, that what i said when i was-john. [_threateningly._] look out, brockton, i don't want to talk to you. [_the men confront._ will. all right. john. [_to_ laura.] now get that man out of here. laura. john, i-john. get him out. get him out before i lose my temper or they'll take him out without his help. laura. [_to_ will.] go--go. please go. will. [_deliberately._] if that's the way you want it, i'm willing. _exit_ will _into the sleeping-apartment._ laura _and_ john _stand facing each other. he enters again with hat and coat on, and passes over toward the door._ laura _and_ john _do not move. when he gets just a little to the left of the centre of the stage_ laura _steps forward and stops him with her speech._ laura. now before you go, and to you both, i want to tell you how i've learned to despise him. john, i know you don't believe me, but it's true--it's true. i don't love anyone in the world but just you. i know you don't think that it can be explained--maybe there isn't any explanation. i couldn't help it. i was so poor, and i had to live, and he wouldn't let me work, and he's only let me live one way, and i was hungry. do you know what that means? i was hungry and didn't have clothes to keep me warm, and i tried, oh, john, i tried so hard to do the other thing,--the right thing,--but i couldn't. john. i--i know i couldn't help much, and perhaps i could have forgiven you if you hadn't lied to me. that's what hurt. [_turning to_ will _and approaching until he can look him in the eyes._] i expected you to lie, you're that kind of a man. you left me with a shake of the hand, and you gave me your word, and you didn't keep it. why should you keep it? why should anything make any difference with you? why, you pup, you've no right to live in the same world with decent folks. now you make yourself scarce, or take it from me, i'll just kill you, that's all. will. i'll leave, madison, but i'm not going to let you think that i didn't do the right thing with you. she came to me voluntarily. she said she wanted to come back. i told you that, when i was in colorado, and you didn't believe me, and i told you that when she did this sort of thing i'd let you know. i dictated a letter to her to send to you, and i left it sealed and stamped in her hands to mail. she didn't do it. if there's been a lie, she told it. i didn't. john _turns to her. she hangs her head and averts her eyes in a mute acknowledgment of guilt. the revelation hits_ john _so hard that he sinks on the trunk centre, his head fallen to his breast. he is utterly limp and whipped. there is a moment's silence._ will. [_crosses to_ john.] you see! why, my boy, whatever you think of me or the life i lead, i wouldn't have had this come to you for anything in the world. [john _makes an impatient gesture._] no, i wouldn't. my women don't mean a whole lot to me because i don't take them seriously. i wish i had the faith and the youth to feel the way you do. you're all in and broken up, but i wish i could be broken up just once. i did what i thought was best for you because i didn't think she could ever go through the way you wanted her to. i'm sorry it's all turned out bad. [_pause._] good-bye. _he looks at_ john _for a moment as if he was going to speak._ john _remains motionless. the blow has hit him harder than he thought._ will _exits. the first door closes. in a moment the second door is slammed._ john _and_ laura _look at each other for a moment. he gives her no chance to speak. the hurt in his heart and his accusation are shown by his broken manner. a great grief has come into his life and he doesn't quite understand it. he seems to be feeling around for something to say, some way to get out. his head turns toward the door. with a pitiful gesture of the hand he looks at her in all his sorrow._ john. well? [_rises._ laura. john, i--[_takes off hat and places it on table._ john. i'd be careful what i said. don't try to make excuses. i understand. laura. it's not excuses. i want to tell you what's in my heart, but i can't; it won't speak, and you don't believe my voice. john. you'd better leave it unsaid. laura. but i must tell. i can't let you go like this. [_she goes over to him and makes a weak attempt to put her arms around him. he takes her arms and puts them back to her side._] i love you. i--how can i tell you--but i do, i do, and you won't believe me. _he remains silent for a moment and then takes her by the hand, leads her over to the chair and places her in it._ john. i think you do as far as you are able; but, laura, i guess you don't know what a decent sentiment is. [_he gathers himself together. his tone is very gentle and very firm, but it carries a tremendous conviction, even with his grief ringing through his speech._] laura, you're not immoral, you're just unmoral, kind o' all out of shape, and i'm afraid there isn't a particle of hope for you. when we met neither of us had any reason to be proud, but i thought that you thought that it was the chance of salvation which sometimes comes to a man and a woman fixed as we were then. what had been had been. it was all in the great to-be for us, and now, how you've kept your word! what little that promise meant, when i thought you handed me a new lease of life! laura. [_in a voice that is changed and metallic. she is literally being nailed to the cross._] you're killing me--killing me. john. don't make such a mistake. in a month you'll recover. there will be days when you will think of me, just for a moment, and then it will be all over. with you it is the easy way, and it always will be. you'll go on and on until you're finally left a wreck, just the type of the common woman. and you'll sink until you're down to the very bed-rock of depravity. i pity you. laura. [_still in the same metallic tone of voice._] you'll never leave me to do that. i'll kill myself. john. perhaps that's the only thing left for you to do, but you'll not do it. it's easier to live. [_crosses, gets hat and coat, turns and looks at her,_ laura _rising at the same time._ laura. john, i said i'd kill myself, and i mean it. if it's the only thing to do, i'll do it, and i'll do it before your very eyes. [_she crosses quickly, gets keys out of satchel, opens trunk, takes gun out of trunk, stands facing_ john--_waiting a moment._] you understand that when your hand touches that door i'm going to shoot myself. i will, so help me god! john. [_stops and looks at her._] kill yourself? [_pause._] before me? [_pause._] all right. [_raising his voice._] annie, annie! annie. [_enters._] yes, sir. john. [laura _looks at_ john _in bewilderment._] you see your mistress there has a pistol in her hand? annie. [_frightened._] yassuh-john. she wants to kill herself. i just called you to witness that the act is entirely voluntary on her part. now, laura, go ahead. laura. [_nearly collapsing, drops the pistol to the floor._] john, i--can't-john. annie, she's evidently changed her mind. you may go. annie. but, miss laura, ah-john. [_peremptorily._] you may go. [_bewildered and not understanding,_ annie _exits through the portiã¨res. in that same gentle tone, but carrying with it an almost frigid conviction._] you didn't have the nerve. i knew you wouldn't. for a moment you thought the only decent thing for you to do was to die, and yet you couldn't go through. i am sorry for you,--more sorry than i can tell. [_he takes a step towards the door._ laura. you're going--you're going? john. yes. laura. and--and--you never thought that perhaps i'm frail, and weak, and a woman, and that now, maybe, i need your strength, and you might give it to me, and it might be better. i want to lean on you,--lean on you, john. i know i need someone. aren't you going to let me? won't you give me another chance? john. i gave you your chance, laura. laura. [_throws arms around his neck._] give me another. john. but you leaned the wrong way. good-bye. [_he pulls away and goes out, slamming both doors._ laura. [_screaming._] john--john--i--[_she sits on trunk, weeping in loud and tearful manner; rises in a dazed fashion, starts to cross, sees gun, utters loud cry of mingled despair and anger, grabs up gun, crossing to bureau, opens up-stage drawer, throws gun in, slams drawer shut, calling:_] annie! annie! annie. [_appears through the portiã¨res._] ain't yuh goin' away, miss laura? laura. [_suddenly arousing herself, and with a defiant voice._] no, i'm not. i'm going to stay right here. [annie _crosses and opens trunk, takes out handsome dress, hangs it over back of armchair, crosses up to hat-trunk, takes out hat._ laura _takes it from her, crosses to trunk left, starts to unpack it._] open these trunks, take out those clothes, get me my prettiest dress. hurry up. [_she goes before the mirror._] get my new hat, dress up my body and paint up my face. it's all they've left of me. [_to herself._] they've taken my soul away with them. annie. [_in a happy voice._] yassum, yassum. laura. [_who is arranging her hair._] doll me up, annie. annie. yuh goin' out, miss laura? laura. yes. i'm going to rector's to make a hit, and to hell with the rest! _at this moment the hurdy-gurdy in the street, presumably immediately under her window, begins to play the tune of "bon-bon buddie, my chocolate drop." there is something in this ragtime melody which is particularly and peculiarly suggestive of the low life, the criminality and prostitution that constitute the night excitement of that section of new york city known as the tenderloin. the tune,--its association,--is like spreading before_ laura's _eyes a panorama of the inevitable depravity that awaits her. she is torn from every ideal that she so weakly endeavoured to grasp, and is thrown into the mire and slime at the very moment when her emancipation seems to be assured. the woman, with her flashy dress in one arm and her equally exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, is nearly prostrated by the tune and the realization of the future as it is terrifically conveyed to her. the negress, in the happiness of serving_ laura _in her questionable career, picks up the melody and hums it as she unpacks the finery that has been put away in the trunk._ laura. [_with infinite grief, resignation, and hopelessness._] o god--o my god. [_she turns and totters toward the bedroom. the hurdy-gurdy continues, with the negress accompanying it._ a slow curtain. end of the play. mistress nell the illustrations shown in this edition are reproductions of scenes from the photo-play of "mistress nell," produced and copyrighted by the famous players film company, adolf zukor, president, to whom the publishers desire to express their thanks and appreciation for permission to use the pictures. [illustration: nell gwyn the king's favorite.] mistress nell a merry tale of a merry time (t'wixt fact and fancy) by george c. hazelton, jr. author of the play "let not poor nelly starve." illustrated with scenes from the photo-play produced and copyrighted by the famous players film company, adolph zukor, president. new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, 1901, by charles scribner's sons all rights reserved a word it is the vogue to dramatize successful novels. the author of the present nell gwyn story has pursued the contrary course. his "merry" play of the same name was written and produced before he undertook to compose this tale, suggested by the same historic sources. a word of tribute is gratefully given to the _comédienne_, miss crosman, whose courage and exquisite art introduced the "mistress nell" of the play to the public. contents chapter i 1 "and once nell gwyn, a frail young sprite, looked kindly when i met her; i shook my head perhaps--but quite forgot to quite forget her." chapter ii 10 it's near your cue, mistress nell! chapter iii 41 he took them from castlemaine's hand yo throw to you. chapter iv 62 flowers and music feed naught but love. chapter v 87 it was never treason to steal a king's kisses. chapter vi 101 softly on tiptoe; here nell doth lie. chapter vii 111 come down! come up! chapter viii 126 "and the man that is drunk is as great as a king." chapter ix 142 three chickens! chapter x 168 arrest him yourself! chapter xi 182 in the field, men; at court, women! chapter xii 195 beau adair is my name. chapter xiii 232 for the glory of england? chapter xiv 240 he loves me! he loves me! chapter xv 259 i come, my love; i come. chapter xvi 276 ods-pitikins, my own reflection! chapter xvii 290 the day will be so happy; for i've seen you at the dawn. mistress nell a merry tale of a merry time mistress nell "and once nell gwyn, a frail young sprite, look'd kindly when i met her; i shook my head perhaps--but quite forgot to quite forget her." it was a merry time in merry old england; for king charles ii. was on the throne. not that the wines were better or the ladies fairer in his day, but the renaissance of carelessness and good-living had set in. true roundheads again sought quiet abodes in which to worship in their gray and sombre way. cromwell, their uncrowned king, was dead; and there was no place for his followers at court or in tavern. even the austere and catholic smile of brother james of york, one day to be the ruler of the land, could not cast a gloom over the assemblies at whitehall. there were those to laugh merrily at the king's wit, and at the players' wit. there were those in abundance to enjoy to-day--to-day only,--to drink to the glorious joys of to-day, with no care for the morrow. it was, indeed, merry old england; for, when the king has no cares, and assumes no cares, the people likewise have no cares. the state may be rent, the court a nest of intrigue, king and parliament at odds, the treasury bankrupt: but what care they; for the king cares not. is not the day prosperous? are not the taverns in remotest london filled with roistering spirits who drink and sing to their hearts' content of their deeds in the wars just done? can they not steal when hungry and demand when dry? aye, the worldly ones are cavaliers now--for a cavalier is king--e'en though the sword once followed cromwell and the gay cloak and the big flying plume do not quite hide the not-yet-discarded cuirass of an ironside. cockpits and theatres! it is the restoration! the maypole is up again at maypole lane, and the milk-maids bedecked with garlands dance to the tunes of the fiddle. boys no longer serve for heroines at the play, as was the misfortune in shakespeare's day. the air is full of hilarity and joy. let us too for a little hour forget responsibility and fall in with the spirit of the times; while we tipple and toast, and vainly boast: "the king! long live the king!" old drury lane was alive as the sun was setting, on the day of our visit to london town, with loungers and loafers; busy-bodies and hawkers; traffickers of sweets and other petty wares; swaggering soldiers, roistering by, stopping forsooth to throw kisses to inviting eyes at the windows above. as we turn into little russell street from the lane, passing many chairs richly made, awaiting their fair occupants, we come upon the main entrance to the king's house. not an imposing or spacious structure to be sure, it nevertheless was suited to the managerial purposes of the day, which were, as now, to spend as little and get as much as may be. the pit was barely protected from the weather by a glazed cupola; so that the audience could not always hear the sweetest song to a finish without a drenching, or dwell upon the shapeliness of the prettiest ankle, that revealed itself in the dance by means of candles set on cressets, which in those days sadly served the purposes of foot-lights. it was dryden's night. his play was on--"the conquest of granada." the best of london were there; for a first night then was as attractive as a first night now. in the balcony were draped boxes, in which lovely gowns were seen--lovely hair and lovely gems; but the fair faces were often masked. the king sat listless in the royal box, watching the people and the play or passing pretty compliments with the fair favourites by his side, diverted, perchance, by the ill-begotten quarrel of some fellow with a saucy orange-wench over the cost of her golden wares. the true gallants preferred being robbed to haggling--for the shame of it. a knowing one in the crowd was heard to say: "'tis castlemaine to the king's left." "no, 'tis madame carwell; curse her," snarled a more vulgar companion. "madame querouaille, knave, duchess of portsmouth," irritably exclaimed a handsome gallant, himself stumbling somewhat over the french name, though making a bold play for it, as he passed toward his box, pushing the fellow aside. he added a moment later, but so that no one heard: "portsmouth is far from here." it was the duke of buckingham--the great duke of buckingham, in the pit of the king's house! truly, we see strange things in these strange times! indeed, william penn himself did not hesitate to gossip with the orange-wenches, unless pepys lied--and pepys never lied. "what said he?" asked a stander-by, a butcher, who, with apron on and sleeves to elbow, had hastily left his stall at one of the afternoon and still stood with mouth agape and fingers widespread waiting for the play. before, however, his sooty companion could answer, they were jostled far apart. the crowd struggled for places in eager expectation, amid banter none too virtuous, whistlings and jostlings. the time for the play had arrived. "nell! nell! nell!" was on every lip. and who was "nell"? from amidst the players, lords and coxcombs crowded on the stage stepped forth nell gwyn--the prettiest rogue in merry england. a cheer went up from every throat; for the little vixen who stood before them had long reigned in the hearts of drury lane and the habitués of the king's house. yea, all eyes were upon the pretty, witty nell; the one-time orange-girl; now queen of the theatre, and the idol of the lane. her curls were flowing and her big eyes dancing beneath a huge hat--more, indeed, a canopy than a hat--so large that the audience screamed with delight at the incongruity of it and the pretty face beneath. this pace in foolery had been set at the duke's house, but nell out-did them, with her broad-brimmed hat as large as a cart-wheel and her quaint waist-belt; for was not her hat larger by half than that at the rival house and her waist-belt quainter? as she came forward to speak the prologue, her laugh too was merrier and more roguish: _"this jest was first of the other house's making, and, five times tried, has never fail'd of taking;_ * * * * * _this is that hat, whose very sight did win ye to laugh and clap as though the devil were in ye,_ * * * * * _i'll write a play, says one, for i have got a broad-brimm'd hat, and waist-belt, towards a plot. says the other, i have one more large than that, thus they out-write each other with a hat! the brims still grew with every play they writ; and grew so large, they cover'd all the wit. hat was the play; 't was language, wit, and tale: like them that find meat, drink, and cloth in ale."_ the king leaned well out over the box-rail, his dark eyes intent upon nell's face. a fair hand, however, was placed impatiently upon his shoulder and drew him gently back. "lest you fall, my liege." "thanks, castlemaine," he replied, kindly but knowingly. "you are always thoughtful." the play went on. the actors came and went. hart appeared in oriental robes as almanzor--a dress which mayhap had served its purposes for othello, and mayhap had not; for cast-off court-dresses, without regard to fitness, were the players' favourite costumes in those days, the richness more than the style mattering. with mighty force, he read from the centre of the stage, with elocution true and syllable precise, dryden's ponderous lines. the king nodded approvingly to the poet. the poet glowed with pride at the patronage of the king. the old-time audience were enchanted. dryden sat with a triumphant smile as he dwelt upon his poetic lines and heard the cherished syllables receive rounds of applause from the londoners. was it the thought, dear dryden; or was it nell's pretty ways that bewitched the most of it? nell's laugh still echoes in the world; but where are your plays, dear dryden? chapter ii _it's near your cue, mistress nell!_ the greenroom of the king's house was scarcely a prepossessing place or inviting. a door led to the stage; another to the street. on the remaining doors might have been deciphered from the old english of a scene-artist's daub "mistress gwyn" and "mr. hart." these doors led respectively to the tiring-room of the sweet sprite who had but now set the pit wild with a hat over a sparkling eye and to that of the actor-manager of the house. a rough table, a few chairs, a mirror which had evidently seen better days in some grand mansion and a large throne-chair which might equally well have satisfied the royalty of macbeth or christopher sly--its royalty, forsooth, being in its size, for thus only could it lord-it over its mates--stood in the corner. old armour hung upon the wall, grim in the light of candles fixed in braziers. rushes were strewn about the floor. ah! pepys, pepys, was it here that you recalled "specially kissing of nell"? mayhap; for we read in your book: "i kissed her, and so did my wife, and a mighty pretty soul she is." be that as it may, however, you must have found nell's lips very agreeable; for a great wit has suggested that it was well that mrs. pepys was present on the occasion. on great play-nights, however, this most unroyal room assumed the proportions of royalty. gallants and even lords sought entrance here and elbowed their way about; and none dared say them nay. they forced a way even upon the stage during the play, though not so commonly as before the restoration, yet still too much; and the players played as best they could, and where best they could. _billets-doux_ passed, sweet words were said,--all in this dilapidated, unpretentious, candle-lighted room. at the moment of which we speak, the greenroom was deserted save for a lad of twelve or fourteen years, who stood before the mirror, posing to his personal satisfaction and occasionally delivering bits from "hamlet." he was none other than "dick," the call-boy of the king's house. the lad struck a final attitude, his brow clouded. he assumed what seemed to him the proper pose for the royal dane. his meditations and his pose, however, were broken in upon by the sudden entrance of manager hart, flushed and in an unusual state of excitement. "where is my dagger, dick?" he exclaimed, pacing the room. the boy came to himself but slowly. "what are you doing? get my dagger, boy," wildly reiterated the irate manager. "don't you see there will be a stage-wait?" he cast an anxious glance in the direction of the door which led to the stage. "where did you leave it, sir?" asked the lad, finally realizing that it would be wise not to trifle at such a time. "never mind where i left it. get it, get it; do you hear! nell's on the stage already." hart rushed to the door and looked off in an increasing state of excitement. "why, you've got your dagger on, sir," hesitatingly suggested the lad, as he caught the gleam of a small scimiter among the folds of almanzor's tunic. hart's face flushed. "devil take you, boy," he exclaimed; "you are too stupid ever to make an actor!" with this speech, the manager strode out of the greenroom toward the stage. poor dick sank back in an attitude of resignation. "how long, o rome, must i endure this bondage?" he said, sadly. he again observed his boyish figure in the mirror, and the pretty face brightened as he realized that there might still be hope in life, despite manager hart's assertion that he would never be able to act. his features slowly sank into a set expression of tremendous gloom, such as he thought should characterize his conception of himself as hamlet when in days to come the mantles of burbage and of betterton should be his and manager hart must bow to him. he stood transfixed before the glass in a day-dream, forgetful of his ills. his pretty lips moved, and one close by might have heard again, "to be or not to be" in well-modulated phrase. "ah, boy; here!" dick started. it was a richly dressed gallant, in old-rose with royal orders, who had entered the room quietly but authoritatively from the street--the same lordly personage we observed in the pit. his manner was that of one accustomed to be obeyed and quickly too. the lad knew him and bowed low. "tell mistress nell, buckingham would speak with her. lively, lad; lively," he said. "she is on the stage, my lord," replied dick, respectfully. "gad, i thought otherwise and stepped about from my box. here; put these flowers in her tiring-room." the boy took the beautiful bouquet of white roses. "yes, my lord," he replied, and turned to do the bidding. "flowers strewn in ladies' ways oft' lead to princely favours," muttered his lordship, thoughtfully, as he removed his gloves and vainly adjusted his hat and sword. "portsmouth at dover told me that." it was apparent from his face that much passed before his mind, in that little second, of days when, at dover castle not long since, he had been a part--and no small part--of the intrigue well planned by louis of france, and well executed by the duchess of orléans assisted by the fair louise, now duchess of portsmouth, in which his own purse and power had waxed mightily. whatever his lordship thought, however, it was gone like the panorama before a drowning brain. he stopped the lad as he was entering nell's tiring-room, with an exclamation. the boy returned. "you gave mistress nell my note bidding her to supper?" he asked, questioningly. "i did, my lord," answered dick. "'sheart, a madrigal worthy of bacchus! she smiled delightedly?" continued his lordship, in a jocular mood. "no, my lord; quite serious." his lordship's face changed slightly. "read it eagerly?" he ventured, where he might have commanded, further to draw out the lad. "yes, my lord," added dick, respectfully, "after a time." the boy's lids dropped to avoid revealing his amused recollection of the incident; and his lordship's quick eye noted it. "good!" he exclaimed, with an assumed triumphant air. "she folded it carefully and placed it in her bosom next her heart?" "she threw it on the floor, my lord!" meekly answered dick, hiding his face in the flowers to avoid revealing disrespect. "my _billet-doux_ upon the floor!" angrily exclaimed his lordship. "plague on't, she said something, made some answer, boy?" the diplomat was growing earnest despite himself, as diplomats often do in the cause of women. dick trembled. "she said your dinners made amends for your company, my lord," he said, meekly. buckingham's eyes snapped; but he was too clever to reveal his feelings further to a call-boy, whom he dismissed with a wave of the hand. he then swaggered to the table and complacently exclaimed: "the rogue! nelly, nelly, your lips shall pay tribute for that. rosy impudence! buckingham's dinners make amends for his company? minx!" he threw himself into a chair, filled with deep reflections of supper and wine, wit and beauty, rather than state-craft. thus lost in selfish reflection, he did not observe, or, if he did, cared not for, the frail figure and sweet face of one who cautiously tiptoed into the greenroom. it was orange moll, whose sad countenance and tattered garments betokened a sadder story. her place was in the pit, with her back to the stage, vending her oranges to artisans, girls with vizards or foolish gallants. she had no right behind the scenes. "i am 'most afraid to enter here without nell," she thought, faint-heartedly, as she glanced about the room and her eyes fell upon the great lord buckingham. "oranges? will you have my oranges? only sixpence, my lord," she ventured at length, then hesitatingly advanced and offered her wares; but his lordship's thoughts were far away. "what shall we have for supper?" was his sole concern. "i think nelly would like spiced tongue." instantly his hands and eyes were raised in mock invocation of the intervention of the powers that be, and so suddenly that moll drew back. "ye gods," he exclaimed aloud, "she has enough of that already! ah, the vintage of----" it was more habit than courage which brought to moll's trembling lips the familiar orange-cry, which again interrupted him: "oranges; only sixpence. here is one picked for you, my lord." buckingham's eyes flashed with anger; he was not wont to have his way, much less his pleasure, disturbed by the lowly. "oh, hang you, you disturb me. i am thinking; don't you perceive i am thinking? begone!" "only sixpence, my lord; i have not sold one to-night," pleaded the girl, sadly. his lordship rose irritably. "i have no pauper's pence," he exclaimed. "out of my way! ragbag!" he pushed the girl roughly aside and crossed the room. at the same instant, there was confusion at the stage-door, the climax of which was the re-entrance of hart into the greenroom. "how can a man play when he trembles for his life lest he step upon a lord?" cried the angry manager. "they should be horsewhipped off the stage, and"--his eyes falling upon buckingham--"out of the greenroom." "ah, hart," began his lordship, with a patronizing air, "why is nelly so long? i desire to see her." hart's lips trembled, but he controlled his passion. "indeed? his majesty and the good folk in front would doubtless gladly await your interview with mistress eleanor gwyn. shall i announce your will, my lord, unto his majesty and stop the play?" "you grow ironical, friend hart," replied his lordship. "not so," said the actor, bowing low; "i am your lordship's most obedient servant." buckingham's lip curled and his eyes revealed that he would have said more, but the room was meantime filling with players from the stage, some exchanging compliments, some strutting before the glass, and he would not so degrade his dignity before them. dick, foil in hand even in the manager's room, was testing the steel's strength to his utmost, in boyish fashion. this confusion lent moll courage, and forth came again the cry: "oranges? will you have my oranges? only sixpence, sir." she boldly offered her wares to almanzor, but started and paled when the hero turned and revealed manager hart. "what are you doing here, you little imp? back to the pit, where you belong." the manager's voice was full of meaning. "nell told me i might come here, sir," said the girl, faintly excusing herself. hart's temper got the better of him. to admit before all that nell ruled the theatre was an affront to his managerial dignity which he could not brook. "oh, nell did, did she?" he almost shrieked, as he angrily paced the room like some caged beast, gesticulating wildly. the actors gathered in groups and looked askant. "gadso," he continued, "who is manager, i should like to know! nell would introduce her whole trade here if she could. every orange-peddler in london will set up a stand in the greenroom at the king's, next we know. out with you! this is a temple of art, not a marketplace. out with you!" he seized moll roughly in his anger and almost hurled her out at the door. he would have done so, indeed, had not nell entered at this moment from the stage. her eye caught the situation at a glance. "oh, blood, iago, blood!" she exclaimed, mock-heroically, then burst into the merriest laugh that one could care to hear. "how now, a tragedy in the greenroom! what lamb is being sacrificed?" hart stood confused; the players whispered in expectation; and an amused smile played upon the features of my lord buckingham at the manager's discomfiture. finally hart found his tongue. "an old comrade of yours at orange-vending before you lost the art of acting," he suggested, with a glance at moll. [illustration: "enemies to the king--beware!"] "by association with you, jack?" replied the witch of the theatre in a way which bespoke more answers that wisdom best not bring forth. nell's whole heart went out to the subject of the controversy. poor little tattered orange moll! she was carried back in an instant to her own bitter life and bitter struggles when an orange-girl. throwing an arm about the child, she kissed away the tears with, "what is the matter, dear moll?" "they are all mocking me, and sent me back to the pit," replied the girl, hysterically. "shame on you all," said nell; and the eyes that were so full of comedy revealed tragic fire. "fy, fy," pleaded hart; "i'll be charitable to-morrow, nell, after this strain is off--but a first night--" "you need charity yourself?" suggested nell; and she burst into a merry laugh, in which many joined. buckingham instantly took up the gauntlet for a bold play, for a _coup d'état_ in flattery. "pshaw!" he cried, waving aside the players in a princely fashion. "when nell plays, we have no time to munch oranges. let the wench bawl in the street." poor moll's tears flowed again with each harsh word. nell was not so easily affected. "odso, my lord! it is a pity your lordship is not a player. then the orange-trade would flourish," she said. buckingham bowed, amused and curious. "say you so, i' faith! pray, why, mad minx?" "your lordship would make such a good mark for the peel," retorted nell, tossing a bit of orange-peel in his face, to the infinite delight of hart and his fellow-players. "devil!" angrily exclaimed his lordship as he realized the insult. "i would kill a man for this; a woman, i can only love." his hand left his sword-hilt; and he bowed low to the vixen of the theatre, picked from the floor the bit of peel which had fallen, kissed it, tossed it over his shoulder and turned away. nell was not done, however; her revenge was incomplete. "there! dry your eyes, moll," she exclaimed. "give me your basket, child. you shall be avenged still further." the greenroom had now filled from the stage and the tiring-rooms; and all gathered gleefully about to see what next the impish nell would do, for avenged she would be they all knew, though the course of her vengeance none could guess. the manager, catching at the probable outcome when nell seized from moll's trembling arm the basket heaped with golden fruit, gave the first warning: "great heavens! flee for your lives! i'faith, here comes the veteran robber at such traffic." there was a sudden rush for the stage, but nell cried: "guard the door, moll; don't let a rascal out. i'll do the rest." it was not moll's strength, however, which kept the greenroom filled, but expectation of nell. all gathered about with the suspense of a drama; for nell herself was a whole play as she stood in the centre of that little group of lords and players, dressed for almahyde, dryden's heroine, with a basket of oranges on her dimpled arm. what a pretty picture she was too--prettier here even than on the stage! the nearer, the prettier! a band of roses, one end of which formed a garland falling to the floor, circled and bound in her curls. what a figure in her oriental garb, hiding and revealing. indeed, the greenroom seemed bewitched by her cry: "oranges, will you have my oranges?" she lifted the basket high and offered the fruit in her enchanting old-time way, a way which had won for her the place of first actress in england. could it not now dispose of moll's wares and make the child happy? almahyde's royal train was caught up most unroyally, revealing two dainty ankles; and she laughed and danced and disposed of her wares all in a breath. listen and love: _sweet as love-lips, dearest mine, picked by spanish maids divine, black-eyed beauties, who, like eve, with golden fruit their loves deceive! buy oranges; buy oranges!_ _close your eyes, when these you taste; think your arm about her waist: thus with sixpence may you win happiness unstained with sin. buy oranges; buy oranges!_ _as the luscious fruit you sip, you will wager 'tis her lip; nothing sweeter since the rise of wickedness in paradise. buy oranges; buy oranges!_ there were cries of "brava!" "another jig!" and "hurrah for nelly!" it was one of those bits of acting behind the scenes which are so rare and exquisite and which the audience never see. "marry, gallants, deny me after that, if you dare"; and nell's little foot came down firmly in the last step of a triumphant jig, indicating a determination that moll's oranges should be sold and quickly too. "last act! all ready for the last act," rang out in dick's familiar voice from the stage-door as she ended. it was well some one thought of the play and of the audience in waiting. many of the players hastily departed to take up their cues; but not so nell. her eyes were upon the lordly buckingham, who was endeavouring to effect a crafty exit. "not so fast, my lord," she said as she caught his handsome cloak and drew him back into the room. "i want you with me." she looked coyly into his lordship's face as though he were the one man in all the world she loved, and her curls and cheek almost nestled against his rich cloak. "a dozen, did you say? what a heart you have, my lord. a bountiful heart!" buckingham was dazed; his eyes sought nell, then looked aghast at the oranges she would force upon him. the impudence of it! "a dozen!" he exclaimed in awe. "'slife, nelly; what would i do with a dozen oranges?" "pay for them, in sooth," promptly replied the vixen. "i never give a lord credit." the player-folk gathered closer to watch the scene; for there was evidently more fun brewing, and that too at the expense of a very royal gentleman. "a player talk of credit!" replied his lordship, quite ironically, as he straightened up proudly for a wit-encounter. "what would become of the mummers, if the lords did not fill their empty pockets?" he said, crushingly. "what would become of the lords, if the players' brains did not try to fill their empty skulls with wits?" quickly retorted nell. "if you were a man, sweet nelly, i should answer: 'the lords first had fools at court; then supplanted them with players!'" "and, being a woman, i do answer," replied the irrepressible nell, "'--and played the fools themselves, my lord!'" the players tried to smother their feelings; but the retort was too apt, and the greenroom rang with laughter. buckingham turned fiercely upon them; but their faces were instantly mummified. "gad, i would sooner face the dutch fleet, nelly. up go my hands, fair robber," he said. he had decided to succumb for the present. in his finger-tips glistened a golden guinea. nell eyed the coin dubiously. "nay, keep this and your wares too," added his lordship, in hope of peace, as he placed it in her hand. "do you think me a beggar?" replied nell, indignantly. "take your possessions, every one--every orange." she filled his hands and arms to overflowing with her golden wares. his lordship winced, but stood subdued. "what am i to do with them?" he asked, falteringly. "eat them; eat them," promptly and forcefully retorted the quondam orange-vender. "all?" asked his lordship. "all!" replied her ladyship. "damme, i cannot hold a dozen," he exclaimed, aghast. "a chair! a chair!" cried nell. "would your lordship stand at the feast of gold?" before buckingham had time to reflect upon the outrage to his dignity, nell forced him into a chair, to the great glee of the by-standers, especially of manager hart, who chuckled to an actor by his side: "she'll pluck his fine feathers; curse his arrogance." "your knees together, my lord! what, have they never united in prayer?" gleefully laughed nell as she further humbled his lordship by forcing his knees together to form a lap upon which to pile more oranges. buckingham did not relish the scene; but he was clever enough to humour the vixen, both from fear of her tongue and from hope of favours as well as words from her rosy lips. "they'll unite to hold _thee_, wench," he suggested, with a sickly laugh, as he observed his knees well laden with oranges. "i trow not," retorted nell; "they can scarce hold their own. there!" and she roguishly capped the pyramid which burdened his lordship's knees with the largest in her basket. "i'll barter these back for my change, sweet nell," he pleaded. "what change?" quickly cried the merry imp of satan. "i gave you a golden guinea," answered his lordship, woefully. "i gave you a golden dozen, my lord!" replied nell, gleefully. "oranges, who will have my oranges?" she was done with buckingham and had turned about for other prey. hart could not allow the opportunity to escape without a shot at his hated lordship. "fleeced," he whispered grimly over his lordship's shoulder, with a merry chuckle. buckingham rose angrily. "a plague on the wench and her dealings," he said. his oranges rolled far and wide over the floor of the greenroom. "you should be proud, my lord, to be robbed by so fair a hand," continued hart, consolingly. "'tis an honour, i assure you; we all envy you." buckingham did not relish the consolation. "'tis an old saw, master hart," he replied: "'he laughs best who laughs last.'" as he spoke, nell's orange-cry rang out again above the confusion and the fun. she was still at it. moll was finding vengeance and money, indeed, though she dwelt upon her accumulating possessions through eyelashes dim with tears. "it's near your cue, mistress nell," cried out the watchful dick at the stage-door. "six oranges left; see me sell them, moll," cried the unheeding vender. "it's near your cue, mistress nell!" again shouted the call-boy, in anxious tones. "marry, my cue will await my coming, pretty one," laughed nell. the boy was not so sure of that. "oh, don't be late, mistress nell," he pleaded. "i'll buy the oranges rather than have you make a stage-wait." "dear heart," replied nell, touched by the lad's solicitude. "keep your pennies, dick, and you and i will have a lark with them some fine day. six oranges, left; going--going--" she sprang into the throne-chair, placed one of the smallest feet in england impudently on one of its arms and proceeded to vend her remaining wares from on high, to the huge satisfaction of her admirers. the situation was growing serious. nell was not to be trifled with. the actors stood breathless. hart grew wild as he realized the difficulty and the fact that she was uncontrollable. king and parliament, he well knew, could not move her from her whimsical purpose, much less the manager of the king's. "what are you doing, nell?" he pleaded, wildly. "you will ruin the first night. his majesty in front, too! dryden will never forgive us if 'granada' goes wrong through our fault." "heyday! what care i for 'granada'?" and nell swung the basket of oranges high in air and calmly awaited bids. "not a step on the stage till the basket is empty." it was buckingham's turn now. "here's music for our manager," he chuckled. "our deepest sympathy, friend hart." this was more than hart could bear. the manager of the king's house was forced into profanity. "damn your sympathy," exclaimed he; and few would criticise him for it. he apologized as quickly, however, and turned to nell. "there goes your scene, nell. i'll buy your oranges, when you come off," he continued to plead, in desperation, scarcely less fearful of offending her than of offending the great lord buckingham. "now or never," calmly replied the vender from her chair-top. "the devil take the women," muttered hart, frantically, as he rushed headlong into his tiring-room. "marry, heaven defend," laughed nell; "for he's got the men already." she sprang lightly from the chair to the floor. hart was back on the instant, well out of breath but purse in hand. "here, here," he exclaimed. "never mind the oranges, wench. the audience will be waiting." "faith and troth, and is not nell worth waiting for?" she cried, her eyes shining radiantly. indeed, the audience would have gladly waited, could they have but seen her pretty, winsome way! "these are yours--all--all!" she continued, as she gleefully emptied the basket of its remaining fruit over prince almanzor's head. hart protested vainly. then rushing back to moll, nell threw both arms about the girl triumphantly. "there, moll," she said, "is your basket and all the trophies"; and she gave moll the basket with the glittering coins jangling in it. "your cue--your cue is spoken, mistress nell," shrieked dick from the stage-door. nell heeded not. her eyes happening upon an orange which had fallen near the throne-chair, she caught it up eagerly and hurled it at manager hart. "forsooth, here's another orange, master manager." he succeeded in catching it despite his excitement. "your cue--your cue--mistress nell!" came from every throat as one. nell tossed back her head indifferently. "let them wait; let them wait," she said, defiantly. the stage-beauty crossed leisurely to the glass and carelessly arranged her drapery and the band of roses encircling her hair. then the hoyden was gone. in an instant, nell was transformed into the princess, almahyde. the room had been filled with breathless suspense; but what seemed to the players an endless period of time was but a minute. nell turned to the manager, and with all the suavity of a princess of tragedy kissed her hand tantalizingly to him and said: "now, jack, i'll teach you how to act." she passed out, and, in a moment, rounds of applause from the amphitheatre filled the room. she was right; the audience would wait for her. a moment later, the greenroom was deserted except for manager hart and lord buckingham. hart had thrown the call-boy almost bodily through the door that led to the stage, thus venting his anger upon the unoffending lad, who had been unfortunate enough to happen in his way ill betimes. he now stood vainly contemplating himself before the glass and awaiting his cue. buckingham leaned upon a chair-top, uncertain as to his course. "damme! she shall rue this work," he muttered at length. "a man might as well make love to a wind-mill. i forgot to tell her how her gown becomes her. that is a careless thing to forget." the reflection forthwith determined his course. "nelly, nelly, nelly," he called as he quickly crossed the room after the departed nell, "you are divine to-night. your gown is simply--" the manager's voice stayed him at the stage-door. "my lord, come back; my lord--" buckingham's hand had gone so far, indeed, as to push open the door. he stood entranced as he looked out upon the object of his adoration upon the stage. "perfection!" he exclaimed. "your eyes--" "my lord, my lord, you forget--" buckingham turned indignantly at the voice which dared to interrupt him in the midst of his rhapsody. "you forget--your oranges, my lord," mildly suggested hart, as he pointed to the fruit scattered upon the floor. buckingham's face crimsoned. "plague on't! they are sour, master hart." with a glance of contempt, he turned on his heel and left the room. a triumphant smile played upon the manager's face. he felt that he had annoyed his lordship without his intention being apparent. "a good exit, on my honour," he muttered, as he stood contemplating the door through which buckingham had passed; "but, by heaven, he shall better it unless he takes his eyes from nell. great men believe themselves resistless with the fair; more often, the fair are resistless with great men." he took a final look at himself in the glass, adjusted his scimiter; and, well satisfied with himself and the conceit of his epigram unheard save by himself, he also departed, to take up his cue. chapter iii _he took them from castlemaine's hand to throw to you._ the greenroom seemed like some old forest rent by a storm. its furniture, which was none too regular at best, either in carving or arrangement, had the irregularity which comes only with a tempest, human or divine. the table, it is true, still stood on its four oaken legs; but even it was well awry. the chairs were scattered here and there, some resting upon their backs. to add to all this, oranges in confusion were strewn broadcast upon the floor. a storm in fact had visited the greenroom. the storm was nell. in the midst of the confusion, a jolly old face peeped cautiously in at the door which led to the street. at the sound of manager hart's thunderous tones coming from the stage, however, it as promptly disappeared, only to return when the apparent danger ceased. it was a rare old figure and a rare old dress and a rare old man. yet, not an old man either. his face was red; for he was a tavern spirit, well known and well beloved,--a lover of good ale! across his back hung a fiddle which too had the appearance of being the worse for wear, if fiddles can ever be said to be the worse for wear. the intruder took off his dilapidated hat, hugged his fiddle closely under his arm and looked about the room, more cautiously than respectfully. "oons, here is a scattering of props; a warfare of the orange-wenches!" he exclaimed. "a wise head comes into battle after the last shot is fired." he proceeded forthwith to fill his pockets, of which there seemed to be an abundance of infinite depth, with oranges. this done, he calmly made a hole in the next orange which came to his hand and began to suck it loudly and persistently, boy-fashion, meanwhile smacking his lips. his face was one wreath of unctuous smiles. "there is but one way to eat an orange," he chuckled; "that's through a hole." at this moment, hart's voice was heard again upon the stage, and the new-comer to the greenroom liked to have dropped his orange. "odsbud, that's one of master hart's love-tones," he thought. "i must see nell before he sees me, or it will be farewell strings." he hastened to nell's tiring-room and rapped lightly on the door. "mistress nell! mistress nell!" he called. the door opened, but it was not nell. her maid pointed toward the stage. strings--for strings was his name, or at least none knew him by a better--accordingly hobbled across the room--for the wars too had left their mark on him--and peeped off in the direction indicated. "gad," he exclaimed, gleefully clapping his hands, "there she goes on the stage as a moorish princess." there was a storm of applause without. "bravo, nelly, bravo!" he continued. "she's caught the lads in the pit. they worship nell out there." the old fellow straightened up as if he felt a personal pride in the audience for evincing such good taste. "oons! jack hart struts about like a young game-cock at his first fight," he observed. he broke into an infectious laugh, which would have been a fine basso for nell's laugh. from the manager, his eye turned toward the place which he himself had once occupied among the musicians. he began to dance up and down with both feet, his knees well bent, boy-fashion, and to clap his hands wildly. "look ye, little tompkins got my old place with the fiddle. whack, de-doodle-de-do! whack, de-doodle, de-doodle-de-do!" he cried, giving grotesque imitations to his own great glee of his successor as leader of the orchestra. then, shaking his head, confident of his own superiority with the bow, he turned back into the greenroom and, with his mouth half full of orange, uttered the droll dictum: "it will take more than catgut and horse-hair to make you a fiddler, tommy, my boy." thus strings stood blandly sucking his orange with personal satisfaction in the centre of the room, when dick entered from the stage. the call-boy paused as if he could not believe his eyes. he looked and looked again. "heigh-ho!" he exclaimed at last, and then rushed across the room to greet the old fiddler. "why, strings, i thought we would never see you again; how fares it with you?" strings placed the orange which he had been eating and which he knew full well was none of his own well behind him; and, assuming an unconcerned and serious air, he replied: "odd! a little the worse for wear, dickey, me and the old fiddle, but still smiling with the world." there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. dick, ever mindful of the welfare and appearance of the theatre, unhooked from the wall a huge shield, which mayhap had served some favourite knight of yore, and, using it as a tray, proceeded to gather the scattered fruit. "have an orange?" he inquired of strings, who still stood in a reflective mood in the centre of the room, as he rested in his labours by him. "how; do they belong to you?" demanded strings. "oh, no," admitted dick, "but--" the fiddler instantly assumed an air of injured innocence. "how dare you," he cried, "offer me what don't belong to you?" he turned upon the boy almost ferociously at the bare thought. "honesty is the best policy," he continued, seriously. "i have tried both, lad"; and, in his eagerness to impress upon the boy the seriousness of taking that which does not belong to you, he gestured inadvertently with the hand which till now had held the stolen orange well behind him. [illustration: a friend even unto her worst enemy.] dick's eye fell upon it, and so did strings's. there was a moment's awkwardness, and then both burst into a peal of joyous laughter. "oh, well, egad,--i _will_ join you, dick," said strings, with more patronage still than apology. he seated himself upon the table and began anew to suck his orange in philosophic fashion. "but, mind you, lad; never again offer that which is not your own, for there you are twice cursed," he discoursed pompously. "you make him who receives guilty of your larceny. oons, my old wound." he winced from pain. "he becomes an accomplice in your crime. so says the king's law. hush, lad, i am devouring the evidence of your guilt." the boy by this time had placed the shield of oranges in the corner of the room and had returned to listen to strings's discourse. "you speak with the learning of a solicitor," he said, as he looked respectfully into the old fiddler's face. strings met the glance with due dignity. "marry, i've often been in the presence of a judge," he replied, with great solemnity. his face reflected the ups and downs in his career as he made the confession. "is that where you have been, strings, all these long days?" asked dick, innocently. "heaven forbid!" exclaimed strings, with sadly retrospective countenance. "travelling, lad--contemplating the world, from the king's highways. take note, my boy,--a prosperous man! i came into the world without a rag that i could call my own, and now i have an abundance. saith the philosopher: some men are born to rags, some achieve rags and some have rags thrust upon them." "i wish you were back with us, strings," said the boy, sympathetically, as he put a hand upon strings's broad shoulder and looked admiringly up into his face. "i wish so myself," replied the fiddler. "thrice a day, i grow lonesome here." a weather-beaten hand indicated the spot where good dinners should be. "they haven't all forgot you, strings," continued his companion, consolingly. "right, lad!" said strings, musingly, as he lifted the old viol close against his cheek and tenderly picked it. "the old fiddle is true to me yet, though there is but one string left to its dear old neck." there was a sob in his voice as he spoke. "i tell you, a fiddle's human, dick! it laughs at my jokes alone now; it weeps at my sorrows." he sighed deeply and the tears glistened in his eyes. "the fiddle is the only friend left me and the little ones at home now, my lad." "--and dick!" the boy suggested, somewhat hurt. he too was weeping. "it's a shame; that's what it is!" he broke out, indignantly. "tompkins can't play the music like you used to, strings." "oons!" exclaimed the fiddler, the humour in his nature bubbling again to the surface. "it's only now and then the lord has time to make a fiddler, dickey, my boy." as he spoke, the greenroom shook with the rounds of applause from the pit and galleries without. "hurrah!" he shouted, following dick to the stage-door--his own sorrows melting before the sunshine of his joy at the success of his favourite. "nell has caught them with the epilogue." he danced gleefully about, entering heartily into the applause and totally forgetful of the fact that he was on dangerous ground. dick was more watchful. "manager hart's coming!" he exclaimed in startled voice, fearful for the welfare of his friend. strings collapsed. "oh, lord, let me be gone," he said, as he remembered the bitter quarrel he had had with the manager of the king's house, which ended in the employment of tompkins. he did not yearn for another interview; for hart had forbidden him the theatre on pain of whipping. "where can you hide?" whispered dick, woefully, as the manager's voice indicated that he was approaching the greenroom, and that too in far from the best of humour. "behind richard's throne-chair! it has held sinners before now," added the fiddler as he glided well out of sight. dick was more cautious. in a twinkling, he was out of the door which led to the street. the greenroom walls looked grim in the sputtering candle-light, but they had naught to say. the door from the stage opened, and in came nell. there was something sadly beautiful and pathetic in her face. she had enjoyed but now one of the grandest triumphs known to the theatre, and yet she seemed oblivious to the applause and bravas, to the lights and to the royalty. a large bouquet of flowers was in her arms--a bouquet of red roses. her lips touched them reverently. her eyes, however, were far away in a dream of the past. "from the hand of the king of england!" she mused softly to herself. "the king? how like his face to the youthful cavalier, who weary and worn reined in his steed a summer's day, now long ago, and took a gourd of water from my hand. could he have been the king? pooh, pooh! i dream again." she turned away, as from herself, with a heart-heavy laugh. the manager entered from the stage. "see, jack, my flowers," she said, again in an ecstasy of happiness. "are they not exquisite?" "he took them from castlemaine's hand to throw to you," snarled hart, jealously. "the sweeter, then!" and nell broke into a tantalizing laugh. "mayhap he was teaching the player-king to do likewise, jack," she added, roguishly, as she arranged the flowers in a vase. "i am in no mood for wit-thrusts," replied hart as he fretfully paced the room. "you played that scene like an icicle." "in sooth, your acting froze me," slyly retorted nell, kindly but pointedly. she took the sweetest roses from the bunch, kissed them and arranged them in her bosom. this did not improve hart's temper. strings seized the opportunity to escape from his hiding-place to the stage. "i say, you completely ruined my work," said hart. "the audience were rightly displeased." "with you, perhaps," suggested nell. "i did not observe the feeling." hart could no longer control himself. "you vilely read those glorious lines: _"see how the gazing people crowd the place; all gaping to be fill'd with my disgrace. that shout, like the hoarse peals of vultures rings, when, over fighting fields they beat their wings."_ "and how should i read them, dear master?" she asked demurely of her vainglorious preceptor. "like i read them, in sooth," replied he, well convinced that his reading could not be bettered. "like you read them, in sooth," replied nell, meekly. she took the floor and repeated the lines with the precise action and trick of voice which hart had used. every "r" was well trilled; "gaping" was pronounced with an anaconda-look, as though she were about to swallow the theatre, audience and all; and, as she spoke the line, "when, over fighting fields they beat their wings," she raised her arms and shoulders in imitation of some barn-yard fowl vainly essaying flight and swept across the room, the picture of grace in ungracefulness. "'tis monstrous!" exclaimed hart, bitterly, as he realized the travesty. "you cannot act and never could. i was a fool to engage you." nell was back by the vase, toying with the flowers. "london applauds my acting," she suggested, indifferently. "london applauds the face and figure; not the art," replied hart. "london is wise; for the art is in the face and figure, master jack. you told me so yourself," she added, sharply, pointing her finger at her adversary in quick condemnation. she turned away triumphant. "i was a fool like the rest," replied hart, visibly irritated that he could not get the better of the argument. "come, don't be angry," said nell. her manner had changed; for her heart had made her fearful lest her tongue had been unkind. "mayhap almahyde is the last part nell will ever play." she looked thoughtfully into the bunch of roses. did she see a prophecy there? he approached the table where she stood. "your head is turned by the flowers," he said, bitterly. "an honest motive, no doubt, prompted the royal gift." nell turned sharply upon him. her lips trembled, but one word only came to them--"jack!" hart's eyes fell under the rebuke; for he knew that only anger prompted what he had said. he would have struck another for the same words. "pardon, nell," he said, softly. "my heart rebukes my tongue. i love you!" nell stepped back to the mirror, contemplating herself, bedecked as she was with the flowers. in an instant she forgot all, and replied playfully to hart's confession of love: "of course, you do. how could you help it? so do others." "i love you better than the rest," he added, vehemently, "better than my life." he tried to put his arms about her. nell, however, was by him like a flash. "not so fast, dear sir," she said, coyly; and she tiptoed across the room and ensconced herself high in the throne-chair. hart followed and knelt below her, adoring. "admit that i can act--a little--just a little--dear hart, or tell me no more of love." she spoke with the half-amused, half-indifferent air of a beautiful princess to some servant-suitor; and she was, indeed, most lovable as she leaned back in the great throne-chair. she seemed a queen and the theatre her realm. her beautiful arms shone white in the flickering candle-light. her sceptre was a rose which the king of england had given her. hart stepped back and looked upon the picture. "by heaven, nell," he cried, "i spoke in anger. you are the most marvellous actress in the world. nature, art and genius crown your work." nell smiled at his vehemence. "i begin to think that you have taste most excellent," she said. hart sprang to her side, filled with hope. as the stage-lover he ne'er spoke in tenderer tones. "sweet nell, when i found you in the pit, a ragged orange-girl, i saw the sparkle in your eye, the bright intelligence, the magic genius, which artists love. i claimed you for my art, which is the art of arts--for it embraces all. i had the theatre. i gave it you. you captured the lane--then london. you captured my soul as well, and held it slave." "did i do all that, dear jack?" she asked, wistfully. "and more," said hart, rapturously. "you captured my years to come, my hope, ambition, love--all. all centred in your heart and eyes, sweet nell, from the hour i first beheld you." nell's look was far away. "is love so beautiful?" she murmured softly. her eye fell upon her sceptre-rose. "yea, i begin to think it is." she mused a moment, until the silence seemed to awaken her. she looked into hart's eyes again, sadly but firmly, then spoke as with an effort: "you paint the picture well, dear jack. paint on." her hand waved commandingly. "i could not paint ill with such a model," said he, his voice full of adoration. "well said," she replied; "and by my troth, i have relented like you, dear jack. i admit you too can act--and marvellously well." she took his trembling hand and descended from the throne. he tried once again to embrace her, but she avoided him as before. "is't true?" he asked, eagerly, without observing the hidden meaning in her voice. "'tis true, indeed--with proper emphasis and proper art and proper intonation." she crossed the room, hart following her. "i scarce can live for joy," he breathed. nell leaned back upon the table and looked knowingly and deeply into hart's eyes. her voice grew very low, but clear and full of meaning. "in faith," she said, "i trow and sadly speak but true; for i am sad at times--yea--very sad--when i observe, with all my woman's wiles and arts, i cannot act the hypocrite like men." "what mean you, darling cynic?" asked he, jocosely. "darling!" she cried, repeating the word, with a peculiar look. "to tell two girls within the hour you love each to the death would be in me hypocrisy, i admit, beyond my art; but you men can do such things with conscience clear." hart turned away his face. "she's found me out," he thought. "nell, i never loved the spanish dancing-girl. you know i love but you." "oh, ho!" laughed nell. "then why did you tell her so?--to break her heart or mine?" the manager stood confused. he scarce knew what to say. "you are cruel, nell," he pleaded, fretfully. "you never loved me, never." "did i ever say i did?" hart shook his head sadly. "come, don't pout, jack. an armistice in this, my friend, for you were my friend in the old days when i needed one, and i love you for that." she placed her hands kindly on the manager's shoulders, then turned and began to arrange anew the gift-flowers in the vase. "i'll win your life's love, nell, in spite of you," he said, determinedly. she turned her honest eyes upon him. "nay, do not try; believe me, do not try," she said softly. "nell, you do not mean--?" his voice faltered. "you must not love me," she said, firmly; "believe me, you must not." "i must not love you!" his voice scarcely breathed the words. "there, there; we are growing sentimental, jack,--and at our age," she replied. she laughed gaily and started for her tiring-room. he followed her. "sup with me, nell," he pleaded. "no word of this, i promise you." "heyday, i'll see how good you are, jack," she answered, cordially. "my second bid to sup to-night," she thought. "who sets the better feast?" the tiring-room door was open; and the little candles danced gleefully about the make-up mirror, for even candles seemed happy when nell came near. the maid stood ready to assist her to a gown and wrap, that she might leave the theatre. nell turned. hart still stood waiting. the spirit of kindness o'er-mastered her. "your hand, friend, your hand," she said, taking the manager's hand. "when next you try to win a woman's love, don't throw away her confidence; for you will never get it back again entire." hart bowed his head under the rebuke; and she entered her room. chapter iv _flowers and music feed naught but love._ the manager stood a moment looking through the half-closed door at nell. there was a strange mingling of contending forces at work in his nature. to be sure, he had trifled with the affections of the spanish dancing-girl, a new arrival from madrid and one of the latest attractions of the king's house; but it was his pride, when he discovered that nell's sharp eyes had found him out, that suffered, not his conscience. was he not the fascinating actor-manager of the house? could he prevent the ladies loving him? must he be accused of not loving nell, simply because his charms had edified the shapely new-comer? nell's rebuke had depressed him, but there was a smouldering fire within. "'slife!" he muttered. "if i do not steal my way into nell's heart, i'll abandon the rouge-box and till the soil." as he approached his tiring-room, he bethought him that it would be well first to have an oversight of the theatre. he turned accordingly and pulled open the door that led to the stage. as he did so, a figure fell into the greenroom, grasping devotedly a violin, lest his fall might injure it. strings had been biding his time, waiting an opportunity to see nell, and had fallen asleep behind the door. "how now, dog!" exclaimed the manager when he saw who the intruder was. strings hastened to his feet and hobbled across the room. "i told you not to set foot here again," shouted hart, following him virulently. strings bowed meekly. "i thought the king's house in need of a player; so i came back, sir," said he. hart was instantly beside himself. "zounds!" he stormed. "i have had enough impudence to contend with to-night. begone; or up you go for a vagrant." "i called on mistress gwyn, sir," explained strings. "mistress gwyn does not receive drunkards," fiercely retorted hart; and he started hastily to the stage-door and called loudly for his force of men to put the fiddler out. nell's door was still ajar. she had removed the roses from her hair and dress. she caught at once her name. indeed, there was little that went on which nell did not see or hear, even though walls intervened. "who takes my name in vain?" she called. her head popped through the opening left by the door, and she scanned the room. as her eye fell upon the old fiddler, who had often played songs and dances for her in days gone by, a cry of joy came from her lips. she rushed into the greenroom and threw both arms about strings's neck. "my old comrade, as i live," she cried, dancing about him. "i am joyed to see you, strings!" turning, she saw the manager eying them with fiery glances. she knew the situation and the feeling. "jack, is it not good to have strings back?" she asked, sweetly. hart's face grew livid with anger. he could see the merry devil dancing in her eye and on her tongue. he knew the hoyden well. "gad, i will resign management." he turned on his heel, entered his tiring-room and closed the door, none too gently. he feared to tarry longer, lest he might say too much. nell broke into a merry laugh; and the fiddler chuckled. "you desert me these days, strings," she said, as she leaned against the table and fondly eyed the wayfarer of the tattered garments and convivial spirits. "i don't love your lackey-in-waiting, mistress nell," said he, with a wink in the direction of the departed manager. "poor jack. never mind him," she said, with a roguish laugh, though with no touch of malice in it, for there was devil without malice in nell's soul. as she again sought the eyes of the fiddler, her face grew thoughtful. she spoke--hesitated--and then spoke again, as if the thought gave her pain. "have you kept your word to me, strings, and stopped--drinking?" she asked. the last word fell faintly, tremblingly, from her lips--almost inaudibly. "mistress nell, i--i--" strings's eyes fell quickly. nell's arm was lovingly about him in an instant. "there, there; don't tell me, strings. try again, and come and see me often." there was a delicacy in her voice and way more beautiful than the finest acting. the words had hurt her more than him. she changed her manner in an instant. not so with strings. the tears were in his eyes. "mistress nell, you are so good to me," he said; "and i am such a wretch." "so you are, strings," and she laughed merrily. "i have taught my little ones at home who it is that keeps the wolf from our door," he continued. "not a word of that!" she exclaimed, reprovingly. "poor old fellow!" her eyes grew big and bright as she reflected on the days she had visited the fiddler's home and on the happiness her gifts had brought his children. for her, giving was better than receiving. the feeling sprang from the fulness of her own joy at seeing those about her happy, and not from the teachings of priests or prelates. dame nature was her sole preceptor in this. "i'll bring the babes another sugar plum to-morrow. i haven't a farthing to-night. moll ran away with the earnings, and there is no one left to rob," she said. "heyday," and she ran lightly to the vase and caught up the flowers. "take the flowers to the bright eyes, to make them brighter." they would at least add cheerfulness to the room where strings lived until she could bring something better. as she looked at the roses, she began to realize how dear they were becoming to herself, for they were the king's gift; and her heart beat quickly and she touched the great red petals lovingly with her lips. strings took the flowers awkwardly; and, as he did so, something fell upon the floor. he knelt and picked it up, in his eagerness letting the roses fall. "a ring among the flowers, mistress nell," he cried. "a ring!" she exclaimed, taking the jewel quickly. her lips pressed the setting. "bless his heart! a ring from his finger," she continued half aloud. "is it not handsome, strings?" her eyes sparkled brightly and there was a triumphant smile upon her lips. the fiddler's face, however, was grave; his eyes were on the floor. "how many have rings like that, while others starve," he mused, seriously. nell held the jewel at arm's length and watched its varying brightness in the candle-light. "we can moralize, now we have the ring," she said, by way of rejoinder, then broke into a ringing laugh at her own way-of-the-world philosophizing. "bless the giver!" she added, in a mood of rhapsody. she turned, only again to observe the sad countenance of strings. "alack-a-day! why do you not take the nosegay?" she asked, wonderingly; for she herself was so very happy that she could not see why strings too should not be so. "it will not feed my little ones, mistress nell," he answered, sadly. nell's heart was touched in an instant. "too true!" she said, sympathetically, falling on her knee and lovingly gathering up the roses. "flowers and music feed naught but love, and often then love goes hungry--very hungry." her voice was so sweet and tender that it seemed as though the old viol had caught the notes. "last night, mistress nell," said strings, "the old fiddle played its sweetest melody for them, but they cried as if their tiny hearts would break. they were starving, and i had nothing but music for them." "starving!" nell listened to the word as though at first she did not realize its meaning. "what can i send?" she cried, looking about in vain and into her tiring-room. her eyes fell suddenly upon the rich jewel upon her finger. "no, no; i cannot think of that," she thought. then the word "starving" came back to her again with all its force. "starving!" her imagination pictured all its horrors. "starving" seemed written on every wall and on the ceiling. it pierced her heart and brain. "yes, i will," she exclaimed, wildly. "here, strings, old fellow, take the ring to the babes, to cut their teeth on." strings stood aghast. "no, mistress nell; it is a present. you must not," he protested. "there are others where that came from," generously laughed nell. "you must not; you are too kind," he continued, firmly. [illustration: nell prevents a quarrel.] "pooh, pooh! i insist," said nell as she forced the jewel upon him. "it will make a pretty mouthful; and, besides, i do not want my jewels to outshine me." strings would have followed her and insisted upon her taking back the beautiful gift, but nell was gone in an instant and her door closed. "to cut their teeth on!" he repeated as he placed the jewelled ring wonderingly upon his bow-finger and watched it sparkle and laugh in the light as he pretended to play a tune. "she is always joking like that; heaven reward her." he stood lost in the realization of sudden affluence. buckingham entered the room from the stage-door. his eyes were full of excitement. "the audience are wild over nell, simply wild," he exclaimed in his enthusiasm, unconscious of the fact that he had an auditor, who was equally oblivious of his lordship's presence. "gad," he continued, rapturously, half aloud, half to himself, "when they are stumbling home through london fog, the great _comédienne_ will be playing o'er the love-scenes with buckingham in a cosy corner of an inn. she will not dare deny my bid to supper, with all her impudence. _un petit souper!_" he broke into a laugh. "tis well old rowley was too engaged to look twice at nelly's eyes," he thought. "his majesty shall never meet the wench at arm's length, an i can help it." he observed or rather became aware for the first time that there was another occupant of the room. "ah, sirrah," he called, without noting the character of his companion, "inform mistress nell, buckingham is waiting." strings looked up. he seemed to have grown a foot in contemplation of his sudden wealth. indeed, each particular tatter on his back seemed to have assumed an independent air. "inform her yourself!" he declared; and his manner might well have become the dress of buckingham. "lord strings is not your lackey this season." buckingham gazed at him in astonishment, followed by amusement. "lord strings!" he observed. "lord rags!" strings approached his lordship with a familiar, princely air. "how does that look on my bow-finger, my lord?" and he flourished his hand wearing the ring where buckingham could well observe it. his lordship started. "the king's ring!" he would have exclaimed, had not the diplomat in his nature restrained him. "a fine stone!" he said merely. "how came you by it?" "nell gave it to me," strings answered. buckingham nearly revealed himself in his astonishment. "nell!" he muttered; and his face grew black as he wondered if his majesty had out-generalled him. "damme," he observed aloud, inspecting the ring closely, "i have taken a fancy to this gem." "so have i," ejaculated strings, as he avoided his lordship and strutted across the room. "i'll give you fifty guineas for it," said buckingham, following him more eagerly than the driver of a good bargain is wont. strings stood nonplussed. "fifty guineas!" he exclaimed, aghast. this was more money than the fiddler had ever thought existed. "now?" he asked, wonderingly. "now," replied his lordship, who proceeded at once to produce the glittering coins and toss them temptingly before the fiddler's eyes. "oons, nell surely meant me to sell it," he cried as he eagerly seized the gold and fed his eyes upon it. "odsbud, i always did love yellow." he tossed some of the coins in the air and caught them with the dexterity of a juggler. buckingham grew impatient. he desired a delivery. "give me the ring," he demanded. strings looked once more at the glittering gold; and visions of the plenty which it insured to his little home, to say nothing of a flagon or two of good brown ale which could be had by himself and his boon comrades without disparagement to the dinners of the little ones, came before him. if he had ever possessed moral courage, it was gone upon the instant. "done!" he exclaimed. "oons, fifty guineas!" and he handed the ring to buckingham. the fiddler was still absorbed in his possessions, whispering again and again to the round bits of yellow: "my little bright-eyes will not go to bed hungry to-night!" when manager hart entered proudly from his tiring-room, dressed to leave the theatre. buckingham nodded significantly. "not a word of this," he said, indicating the ring, which he had quickly transferred to his own finger, turning the jewel so that it could not be observed. "'sdeath, you still here?" said hart, sharply, as his eyes fell upon the fiddler. strings straightened up and puffed with the pomposity and pride of a landed proprietor. he shook his newly acquired possessions until the clinking of the gold was plainly audible to the manager. "still here, master hart, negotiating. when you are pressed for coin, call on me, master hart. i run the exchequer," he said, patronizingly. it was humorous to see his air of sweeping condescension toward the tall and dignified manager of the theatre who easily overtopped him by a head. "gold!" exclaimed hart, as he observed the glitter of the guineas in the candle-light. his eyes turned quickly and suspiciously upon the lordly buckingham. there was nothing, however, in his lordship's face to indicate that he was aware even of the existence of the fiddler or of his gold. he sat by the table, leaning carelessly upon it, his face filled with an expression of supreme satisfaction. he had the attitude of one who was waiting for somebody or something and confidently expected not to be disappointed. "sup with me, hart," continued strings, with the air of a boon comrade. "sup with me--venison, capons, and--epsom water." "thank you, i am engaged to supper," replied hart, contemptuously, brushing his cloak where it had been touched by the fiddler, as if his fingers had contaminated it. the insult clearly observable in the manager's tone, however, had no effect whatever upon strings. he tossed his head proudly and said indifferently: "oh, very well. strings will sup with strings. my coach, my coach, i say. drive me to my bonnie babes!" he pushed open the door with a lordly air and passed out; and, for some seconds, they heard a mingling of repeated demands for the coach and a strain of music which sounded like "away dull care; prythee away from me." buckingham had observed the fiddler's tilt with the manager and the royal exit of the ragged fellow with much amusement. "a merry wag! who is that?" he asked, as strings's voice grew faint in the entry-way. hart was strutting actor-fashion before the mirror, arranging his curls to hang gracefully over his forehead and tilting now and again the big plumed hat. "a knave of fortune, it seems," he answered coolly and still suspiciously. "family?" asked buckingham, indifferently. "twins, i warrant," replied hart, in an irritated tone. buckingham chuckled softly. "no wonder he's tattered and gray," he declared, humorously philosophizing upon hart's reply, though it was evident that hart himself was too much chafed by the presence of his lordship in the greenroom after the play to know what he really had said. an ominous coolness now pervaded the atmosphere. buckingham sat by the table, impatiently tapping the floor with his boot, his eyes growing dark at the delay. hart still plumed himself before the mirror. his dress was rich; his sword was well balanced, a damascus blade; his cloak hung gracefully; his big black hat and plumes were jaunty. he had, too, vigour in his step. with it all, however, he was a social outcast, and he felt it, while his companion, whose faults of nature were none the less glaring than his own, was almost the equal of a king. there was a tap at nell's door. it was the call-boy, who had slipped unobserved into the room. "what is it, dick?" asked nell, sweetly, as she opened the door slightly to inspect her visitor. "a message,--very important," whispered dick, softly, as he passed a note within. "thank you," replied the actress; and the door closed again. dick was about to depart, when the alert buckingham, rising hastily from his seat, called him. "that was nell's voice?" he asked. "yes, my lord. she's dressing," answered dick. "good night, master hart," he added, as he saw the manager. hart, however, was not in a good humour and turned sharply upon him. dick vanished. "she will be out shortly, my lord," the manager observed to buckingham, somewhat coldly. "but it will do you little good," he thought, as he reflected upon his conversation with nell. buckingham leaned lazily over the back of a chair and replied confidently, knowing that his speech would be no balm to the irate manager: "nell always keeps her engagements religiously with me. we are to sup together to-night, hart." "odso!" retorted the other, drawing himself up to his full height. "you will be disappointed, methinks." "i trow not," buckingham observed, with a smile which made hart wince. "pepys's wife has him mewed up at home when nelly plays, and the king is tied to other apron-strings." his lordship chuckled as he bethought him how cleverly he had managed that his majesty be under the proper influence. "what danger else?" he inquired, cuttingly. though the words were mild, the feelings of the two men were at white-heat. "your lordship's hours are too valuable to waste," politely suggested the manager. "i happen to know mistress gwyn sups with another to-night." "another?" sneered his lordship. "another!" hotly repeated the actor. "we shall see, friend hart," said buckingham, in a tone no less agreeable, with difficulty restraining his feelings. he threw himself impatiently into a big arm-chair, which he had swung around angrily, so that its back was to the manager. the insult was more than hart could bear. he also seized a chair, and vented his vengeance upon it. almost hurled from its place, it fell back to back with buckingham's. "we shall see, my lord," he said as he likewise angrily took his seat and folded his arms. it was like "the schism" of vibert. it is difficult to tell what would have been the result, had the place been different. each knew that nell was just beyond her door; each hesitated; and each, with bitterness in his heart, held on to himself. they sat like sphinxes. suddenly, nell's door slightly opened. she was dressed to leave the theatre. in her hand she held a note. "a fair message, on my honour! worth reading twice or even thrice," she roguishly exclaimed unto her maid as she directed her to hold a candle nearer that she might once again spell out its words. "'to england's idol, the divine eleanor gwyn.' a holy apt beginning, by the mass! 'my coach awaits you at the stage-door. we will toast you to-night at whitehall.'" nell's eyes seemed to drink in the words, and it was her heart which said: "long live his majesty." she took the king's roses in her arms; the duke's roses, she tossed upon the floor. the manager awoke as from a trance. "you will not believe me," he said to buckingham, confidently. "here comes the arbiter of your woes, my lord." he arose quickly. "it will not be hard, methinks, sir, to decide between a coronet and a player's tinsel crown," observed his princely rival, with a sneer, as he too arose and assumed an attitude of waiting. "have a care, my lord. i may forget--" hart's fingers played upon his sword-hilt. "your occupation, sir?" jeered buckingham. "aye; my former occupation of a soldier"; and hart's sword sprang from its scabbard, with a dexterity that proved that he had not forgotten the trick of war. buckingham too would have drawn, but a merry voice stayed him. "how now, gentlemen?" sprang from nell's rosy lips, as she came between them, a picture of roguish beauty. hart's pose in an instant was that of apology. "pardon, nell," he exclaimed, lifting his hat and bowing in courtly fashion. "a small difference of opinion; naught else." "between friends," replied nell, reprovingly. "by the gods," cried buckingham,--and his hat too was in the air and his knee too was bent before the theatre-queen,--"the rewards are worth more than word-combats." "pshaw!" said nell, as she hugged the king's roses tighter in her arms. "true englishmen fight shoulder to shoulder, not face to face." "in this case," replied his lordship, with the air of a conqueror, "the booty cannot be amicably distributed." "oh, ho!" cried nell. "brave generals, quarrelling over the spoils. pooh! there is no girl worth fighting for--that is, not over one! buckingham! jack! for shame! what coquette kindles this hot blood?" "the fairest maid in england," said hart, with all the earnestness of conviction, and with all the courtesy of the theatre, which teaches courtesy. "the dearest girl in all this world," said buckingham as quickly; for he too must bow if he would win. "how stupid!" lisped nell, with a look of baby-innocence. "you must mean me! who else could answer the description? a quarrel over poor me! this is delicious. i love a fight. out with your swords and to't like men! to the victor! come, name the quarrel." "this player--" began his lordship, hotly. he caught the quick gleam in nell's eyes and hesitated. "i mean," he substituted, apologetically, "master hart--labours under the misapprehension that you sup with him to-night." "nell," asserted the manager, defensively, "it is his lordship who suffers from the delusion that the first actress of england sups with him to-night." "my arm and coach are yours, madame," pleaded his lordship, as he gallantly offered an arm. "pardon, my lord; nell, my arm!" said hart. "heyday!" cried the witch, bewitchingly. "was ever maid so nobly squired? this is an embarrassment of riches." she looked longingly at the two attending gallants. there was something in her voice that might be mockery or that might be love. only the devil in her eyes could tell. "gentlemen, you tear my heart-strings," she continued. "how can i choose between such loves? to-night, i sup at whitehall!" and she darted quickly toward the door. "whitehall!" the rivals cried, aghast. "aye, whitehall--_with the king_!" there was a wild, hilarious laugh, and she was gone. [illustration: mistress nell is told of the king's danger.] buckingham and hart stood looking into each other's face. they heard the sound of coach-wheels rapidly departing in the street. chapter v _it was never treason to steal a king's kisses._ a year and more had flown. it was one of those glorious moon-lit nights in the early fall when there is a crispness in the air which lends an edge to life. st. james's park was particularly beautiful. the giant oaks with their hundreds of years of story written in their rings lifted high their spreading branches, laden with leaves, which shimmered in the light. the historic old park seemed to be made up of patches of day and night. in the open, one might read in the mellow glow of the harvest-moon; in the shade of one of its oaks, a thief might safely hide. facing on the park, there stood a house of elizabethan architecture. along its wrinkled, ivy-mantled wall ran a terrace-like balustrade, where one might walk and enjoy the night without fear. the house was well defined by the rays of the moon, which seemed to dance upon it in a halo of mirth; and from the park, below the terrace, came the soft notes of a violin, tenderly picked. none other than strings was sitting astride of a low branch of an oak, looking up at a window, like some guardian spirit from the devil-land, singing in his quaintly unctuous way: _"four and twenty fiddlers all in a row, and there was fiddle-fiddle, and twice fiddle-fiddle."_ "how's that for a serenade to mistress nell?" he asked himself as he secured a firm footing on the ground and slung his fiddle over his back. "she don't know it's for her, but the old viol and old strings know." he came to a stand-still and winced. "oons, my old wound again," he said, with a sharp cry, followed as quickly by a laugh. his eyes still wandered along the balustrade, as eagerly as some young romeo at the balcony of his juliet. "i wish she'd walk her terrace to-night," he sighed, "where we could see her--the lovely lady!" his rhapsody was suddenly broken in upon by the approach of some one down the path. he glided into the shadow of an oak and none too quickly. from the obscurity of the trees, into the open, a chair was swiftly borne, by the side of which ran a pretty page of tender years, yet well schooled in courtly wisdom. the lovely occupant leaned forward and motioned to the chairmen, who obediently rested and assisted her to alight. "retire beneath the shadow of the trees," she whispered. "have a care; no noise." the chairmen withdrew quietly, but within convenient distance, to await her bidding. strings's heart quite stopped beating. "the duchess of portsmouth at mistress nell's!" he said, almost aloud in his excitement. "then the devil must be to pay!" and he slipped well behind the oak-trunk again. portsmouth's eyes snapped with french fire as she glanced up at nell's terrace. then she turned to the page by her side. "his majesty came this path before?" she asked, with quick, french accent. "yes, your grace," replied the page. "and up this trellis?" "yes, your grace." "again to-night?" "i cannot tell, your grace," replied the lad. "i followed as you bade me; but the king's legs were so long, you see, i lost him." portsmouth smiled. "softly, pretty one," she said. "watch if he comes and warn me; for we may have passed him." the lad ran gaily down the path to perform her bidding. "state-business!" she muttered, as she reflected bitterly upon the king's late excuses to her. "_mon dieu_, does he think me a country wench? i was schooled at louis's court." her eyes searched the house from various points of advantage. "a light!" she exclaimed, as a candle burned brightly from a window, like a spark of gold set in the silver of the night. "would i had an invisible cloak." she tiptoed about a corner of the wall--woman-like, to see if she could see, not nell, but charles. scarcely had she disappeared when a second figure started up in the moonlight, and a gallant figure, too. it was the duke of buckingham. "not a mouse stirring," he reflected, glancing at the terrace. "fair minx, you will not long refuse buckingham's overtures. come, nelly, thy king is already half stolen away by portsmouth of france, and portsmouth of france is our dear ally in the great cause and shall be more so." to his astonishment, as he drew nearer, he observed a lady, richly dressed, gliding between himself and the terrace. he rubbed his eyes to see that he was not dreaming. she was there, however, and a pretty armful, too. "nell," he chuckled, as he stole up behind her. portsmouth meanwhile had learned that the window was too high to allow her to gain a view within the dwelling. she started--observing, more by intuition than by sight, that she was watched--and drew her veil closely about her handsome features. "nelly, nelly," laughed buckingham, "i have thee, wench. come, a kiss!--a kiss! nay, love; it was never treason to steal a king's kisses." he seized her by the arm and was about to kiss her when she turned and threw back her veil. "buckingham!" she said, suavely. "portsmouth!" he exclaimed, awestruck. he gathered himself together, however, in an instant, and added, as if nothing in the world had happened: "an unexpected pleasure, your grace." "yes," said she, with a pretty shrug. "i did not know i was so honoured, my lord." "or you would not have refused the little kiss?" he asked, suggestively. "you called me 'nelly,' my lord. i do not respond to that name." "damme, i was never good at names, louise," said he, with mock-apology, "especially by moonlight." "buz, buz!" she answered, with a knowing gesture and a knowing look. then, pointing toward the terrace, she added: "a pretty nest! a pretty bird within, i warrant. her name?" "ignorance well feigned," he thought. he replied, however, most graciously: "nell gwyn." "oh, ho! the king's favourite, who has more power, they say, than great statesmen--like my lord." her speech was well defined to draw out his lordship; but he was wary. "unless my lord is guided by my lady, as formerly," he replied, diplomatically. a look of suspicion crept into portsmouth's face: but it was not visible for want of contrast; for all things have a perverted look by the light of the moon. she had known buckingham well at dover. their interests there had been one in securing privileges from england for her french king. both had been well rewarded too for their pains. there were no proofs, however, of this; and where his lordship stood to-day, and which cause he would espouse, she did not know. his eyes at dover had fallen fondly upon her, but men's eyes fall fondly upon many women, and she would not trust too much until she knew more. "my chairmen have set me down at the wrong door-step," she said, most sweetly. "my lord longs for his kiss. _au revoir!_" she bowed and turned to depart. buckingham was alert in an instant. he knew not when the opportunity might come again to deal so happily with louis's emissary and the place and time of meeting had its advantages. "prythee stay, duchess. i left the merry hunters, returning from hounslow heath, all in portsmouth's interest," he said. "is this to be my thanks?" she approached him earnestly. "my lord must explain. i am stupid in fitting english facts to english words." "have you forgotten dover?" he asked, intensely, but subdued in voice, "and my pledges sworn to?--the treaty at the castle?--the duchess of orléans?--the grand monarch?" "hush!" exclaimed portsmouth, clutching his arm and looking cautiously about. "if my services to you there were known," he continued, excitedly, "and to the great cause--the first step in making england pensioner of france and holland the vassal of louis--my head would pay the penalty. can you not trust me still?" "you are on strange ground to-night," suggested portsmouth, tossing her head impatiently to indicate the terrace, as she tried to fathom the real man. "i thought the king might pass this way, and came to see," hastily explained his lordship, observing that she was reflecting upon the incongruity of his friendship for her and of his visit to madame gwyn. "and if he did?" she asked, dubiously, not seeing the connection. "i have a plan to make his visits less frequent, louise,--for your sweet sake and mine." the man was becoming master. he had pleased her, and she was beginning to believe. "yes?" she said, in a way which might mean anything, but certainly that she was listening, and intently listening too. "you have servants you can trust?" he asked. "i have," she replied as quickly; and she gloried in the thought that some at least were as faithful as louis's court afforded. "they must watch nell's terrace here, night and day," he almost commanded in his eagerness, "who comes out, who goes in and the hour. she may forget her royal lover; and--well--we shall have witnesses in waiting. we owe this kindness--to his majesty." portsmouth shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "_mon dieu!_" she said. "my servants have watched, my lord, already. the despatches would have been signed and louis's army on the march against the dutch but for this vulgar player-girl, whom i have never seen. the king forgets all else." the beautiful duchess was piqued, indeed, that the english king should be so swayed. she felt that it was a personal disgrace--an insult to her charms and to her culture. she felt that the court knew it and laughed, and she feared that louis soon would know. nell gwyn! how she hated her--scarce less than she loved louis and her france. "be of good cheer," suggested buckingham, soothingly; and he half embraced her. "my messenger shall await your signal, to carry the news to louis and his army." "there is no news," replied she, and turned upon him bitterly. "charles evades me. promise after promise to sup with me broken. i expected him to-night. my spies warned me he would not come; that he is hereabouts again. i followed myself to see. i have the papers with me always. if i can but see the king alone, it will not take long to dethrone this up-start queen; wine, sweet words--england's sign-manual." there was a confident smile on her lips as she reflected upon her personal powers, which had led louis xiv. of france to entrust a great mission to her. his lordship saw his growing advantage. he would make the most of it. "in the last event you have the ball!" he suggested, hopefully. "aye, and we shall be prepared," she cried. "but louis is impatient to strike the blow for empire unhampered by british sympathy for the dutch, and the ball is--" "a fortnight off," interrupted buckingham, with a smile. "and my messenger should be gone to-night," she continued, irritably. she approached him and whispered cautiously: "i have to-day received another note from bouillon. louis relies upon me to win from charles his consent to the withdrawal of the british troops from holland. this will insure the fall of luxembourg--the key to our success. you see, buckingham, i must not fail. england's debasement shall be won." there was a whistle down the path. "some one comes!" she exclaimed. "my chair!" the page, who had given the signal, came running to her. her chairmen too were prompt. "join me," she whispered to buckingham, as he assisted her to her seat within. "later, louise, later," he replied. "i must back to the neighbouring inn, before the huntsmen miss me." portsmouth waved to the chairmen, who moved silently away among the trees. buckingham stood looking after them, laughing. "king charles, a french girl from louis's court will give me the keys to england's heart and her best honours," he muttered. he glanced once again quickly at the windows of the house, and then, with altered purpose, swaggered away down a side path. he was well pleased with his thoughts, well pleased with his chance interview with the beautiful duchess and well pleased with himself. his brain wove and wove moonbeam webs of intrigue as he passed through the light and shadow of the night, wherein he would lend a helping hand to france and secure gold and power for his pains. he had no qualms of conscience; for must not his estates be kept, his dignity maintained? his purpose was clear. he would bring portsmouth and the king closer together: and what england lost, he would gain--and, therefore, england; for was not he himself a part of england, and a great part? then too he must and would have nell. chapter vi softly on tiptoe; here nell doth lie. as often happens in life, when one suitor departs, another suitor knocks; and so it happened on this glorious night. the belated suitor was none other than charles, the stuart king. he seemed in the moonlight the picture of royalty, of romance, of dignity, of carelessness, of indifference--the royal vagabond of wit, of humour and of love. a well-thumbed "hudibras" bulged from his pocket. he was alone, save for some pretty spaniels that played about him. he heeded them not. his thoughts were of nell. "methought i heard voices tuned to love," he mused, as he glanced about. "what knave has spied out the secret of her bower? ho, rosamond, my rosamond! why came i here again to-night? what is there in this girl, this nell? and yet her eyes, how like the pretty maid's who passed me the cup that day at the cottage where we rested. have i lived really to love--i, solomon's rival in the entertainment of the fair,--to have my heart-strings torn by this roguish player?" his reflections were broken in upon by the hunters' song in the distance. the music was so in harmony with the night that the forest seemed enchanted. "hush; music!" he exclaimed, softly, as he lent himself reluctantly to the spell, which pervaded everything as in a fairyland. "odds, moonlight was once for me as well the light for revels, bacchanals and frolics; yet now i linger another evening by nell's terrace, mooning like a lover o'er the memory of her eyes and entranced by the hunters' song." [illustration: the king professes his love for nell.] the singers were approaching. the king stepped quickly beneath the trellis, in an angle of the wall, and waited. their song grew richer, as melodious as the night, but it struck a discord in his soul. he was thinking of a pair of eyes. "cease those discordant jangles," he exclaimed impatiently to himself; "cease, i say! no song except for nell! nell! pour forth your sweetest melody for nell!" the hunters stopped as by intuition before the terrace. a goodly company they were, indeed; there were james and rochester and others of the court returning from the day's hunt. there was buckingham too, who had rejoined them as they left the inn. the music died away. "whose voice was that?" asked james, as he caught the sound of the king's impatient exclamation from the corner of the wall. "some dreamer of the night," laughed buckingham. "yon love-sick fellow, methinks," he continued, pointing to a figure, well aloof beneath the trees, who was watching the scene most jealously. it was none other than hart, who rarely failed to have an eye on nell's terrace and who instantly stole away in the darkness. "this is the home of eleanor gwyn we are passing," said rochester, superfluously; for all knew full well that it was nelly's terrace. "the love-lorn seer is wise," cried the duke of york, quite forgetting his frigid self as he bethought him of nell, and becoming quite lover-like, as he, sighing, said: "it were well to make peace with nelly. sing, hunters, sing!" the command was quickly obeyed and the voices well attuned; for none were there but worshipped nelly. hail to the moonbeams' crystal spray, nestling in heaven all the day, falling by night-time, silvery showers, twining with love-rhyme nell's fair bowers. sing, hunters, sing, gently carolling, here lies our hart- sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. hail to the king's oaks, sentries blest, spreading their branches, guarding her rest, telling the breezes, hastening by: "softly on tiptoe; here nell doth lie." sing, hunters, sing, gently carolling, here lies our hart- sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. the king heard the serenade to the end, then stepped gaily from his hiding-place. "brother james under nelly's window!" he said, with a merry laugh. "the king!" exclaimed james, in startled accents, as he realized the presence of his majesty and the awkward position in which he and his followers were placed. "the king!" repeated the courtiers. hats were off and knees were bent respectfully. "brother," saluted charles, as he embraced the duke of york good-naturedly. buckingham withdrew a few steps. he was the most disturbed at the presence of the king at nelly's bower. "as i feared," he thought. "devil take his majesty's meandering heart." "odsfish," laughed charles, "we must guard our nelly, or james and his saintly followers will rob her bower by moonlight." the duke of york assumed a devout and dignified mien. "sire," he attempted to explain, but was interrupted quickly by his majesty. "no apologies, pious brother. god never damned a man for a little irregular pleasure." there was a tittering among the courtiers as the king's words fell upon their ears. james continued to apologize. "in faith, we were simply passing--" he said. again he was interrupted by his majesty, who was in the best of humour and much pleased at the discomfiture of his over-religious brother. "lorenzo too was simply passing," he observed, "but the fair jessica and some odd ducats stuck to his girdle; and the jew will still be tearing his hair long after we are dust. ah, buckingham, they tell me you too have a taste for roguish nelly. have a care!" the king strode across to buckingham as he spoke; and while there was humour in his tone, there was injunction also. buckingham was too great a courtier not to see and feel it. he bowed respectfully, replying to his majesty, "sire, i would not presume to follow the king's eyes, however much i admire their taste." "'t'is well," replied his majesty, pointedly, "lest they lead thee abroad on a sleeveless mission." others had travelled upon such missions; buckingham knew it well. "but what does your majesty here to-night, if we dare ask?" questioned james, who had just bethought him how to turn the tables upon the king. charles looked at his brother quizzically. "humph!" he exclaimed, in his peculiar way. "feeding my ducks in yonder pond." his staff swept indefinitely toward the park. "hunting with us were nobler business, sire," suggested james, decisively. "not so," replied the king, quite seriously. "my way--i learn to legislate for ducks." "'t'were wiser," preached york, "to study your subjects' needs." the king's eyes twinkled. "i go among them," he said, "and learn their needs, while you are praying, brother." at this sally, rochester became convulsed, though he hid it well; for rochester was not as pious as brother james. york, feeling that the sympathy was against him, grew more earnest still. "i wish your majesty would have more care," he pleaded. "'tis a crime against yourself, a crime against the state, a crime against the cavaliers who fought and died for you, to walk these paths alone in such uncertain times. perchance, 'tis courting lurking murder!" "no kind of danger, james," answered the king, with equal seriousness, laying a hand kindly on his brother's shoulder; "for i am sure no man in england would take away my life to make you king." there was general laughter from the assembled party; for all dared laugh, even at the expense of the duke of york, when the jest was of the king's making. indeed, not to laugh at a king's jest has been in every age, in or out of statutes, the greatest crime. fortunately, king charles's wit warranted its observation. james himself grew mellow under the influence of the gaiety, and almost affectionately replied, "god grant it be ever so, brother." he then turned the thought. "we heard but now an ambassador from morocco's court is lately landed. he brings your majesty two lions and thirty ostriches." "odsfish, but he is kind," replied the king, reflecting on the gift. "i know of nothing more proper to send by way of return than a flock of geese." his brow arched quizzically, as he glanced over the circle of inert courtiers ranged about him. "methinks i can count them out at whitehall," he thought. "he seeks an audience to-night. will you grant it, sire?" besought james. "'sheart!" replied the king. "most cheerfully, i'll lead you from nelly's terrace, brother. hey! tune up your throats. on to the palace." chapter vii come down! come up! the music died away among the old oaks in the park. before its final notes were lost on the air, however, hasty steps and a chatter of women's voices came from the house. the door leading to the terrace was thrown quickly open, and nell appeared. her eyes had the bewildered look of one who has been suddenly awakened from a sleep gilded with a delightful dream. she had, indeed, been dreaming--dreaming of the king and of his coming. as she lay upon her couch, where she had thrown herself after the evening meal, she had seemed to hear his serenade. then the music ceased and she started up and rubbed her eyes. it was only to see the moonlight falling through the latticed windows on to the floor of her dainty chamber. she was alone and she bethought herself sadly that dreams go by contraries. once again, however, the hunters' song had arisen on her startled ear--and had died away in sweet cadences in the distance. it was not a dream! as she rushed out upon the terrace, she called moll reprovingly; and, in an instant, moll was at her side. the faithful girl had already seen the hunters and had started a search for nell; but the revellers had gone before she could find her. "what is it, dear nell?" asked her companion, well out of breath. "why did you not call me, cruel girl?" answered nell, impatiently. "to miss seeing so many handsome cavaliers! where is my kerchief?" nell leaned over the balustrade and waved wildly to the departing hunters. a pretty picture she was too, in her white flowing gown, silvered by the moonlight. "see, see," she exclaimed to moll, with wild enthusiasm, "some one waves back. it may be he, sweet mouse. heigh-ho! why don't you wave, moll?" before moll could answer, a rich bugle-horn rang out across the park. "the hunters' horn!" cried nell, gleefully. "oh, i wish i were a man--except when one is with me"; and she threw both arms about moll, for the want of one better to embrace. she was in her varying mood, which was one 'twixt the laughter of the lip and the tear in the eye. "i have lost my brother!" ejaculated some one; but she heard him not. this laconic speech came from none other than the king, who in a bantering mood had returned. "i went one side a tree and pious james t'other; and here i am by nelly's terrace once again," he muttered. "oh, ho! wench!" his eyes had caught sight of nell upon the terrace. he stepped back quickly into the shadow and watched her playfully. nell looked longingly out into the night, and sighed heavily. she was at her wit's end. the evening was waning, and the king, as she thought, had not come. "why do you sigh?" asked moll, consolingly. "i was only looking down the path, dear heart," replied nell, sadly. "he will come," hopefully suggested moll, whose little heart sympathized deeply with her benefactress. "nay, sweet," said nell, and she shook her curls while the moonbeams danced among them, "he is as false as yonder moon--as changeable of face." she withdrew her eyes from the path and they fell upon the king. his majesty's curiosity had quite over-mastered him, and he had inadvertently stepped well into the light. the novelty of hearing himself derided by such pretty lips was a delicious experience, indeed. "the king!" she cried, in joyous surprise. moll's diplomatic effort to escape at the sight of his majesty was not half quick enough for nell, who forthwith forced her companion into the house, and closed the door sharply behind her, much to the delight of the humour-loving king. nell then turned to the balustrade and, somewhat confused, looked down at his majesty, who now stood below, calmly gazing up at her, an amused expression on his face. "pardon, your majesty," she explained, falteringly, "i did not see you." "you overlooked me merely," slyly suggested charles, swinging his stick in the direction of the departed hunters. "i'faith, i thought it was you waved answer, sire," quickly replied nell, whose confusion was gone and who was now mistress of the situation and of herself. "no, nell; i hunt alone for my hart." "you hunt the right park, sire." "yea, a good preserve, truly," observed the king. "i find my game, as i expected, flirting, waving kerchiefs, making eyes and throwing kisses to the latest passer-by." "i was encouraging the soldiers, my liege. that is every woman's duty to her country." "and her country_men_," said he, smiling. "you are very loyal, nell. come down!" it was irritating, indeed, to be kept so at arm's length. she gazed down at him with impish sweetness--down at the king of england! "come up!" she said, leaning over the balustrade. "nay; come down if you love me," pleaded the king. "nay; come up if you love me," said nell, enticingly. "egad! i am too old to climb," exclaimed the merry monarch. "egad! i am too young yet for the downward path, your majesty," retorted nell. the king shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "you will fall if we give you time," he said. "to the king's level?" she asked, slyly, then answered herself: "mayhap." thus they stood like knights after the first tilt. charles looked up at nell, and nell looked down at charles. there was a moment's silence. nell broke it. "i am surprised you happen this way, sire." "with such eyes to lure me?" asked the king, and he asked earnestly too. "tush," answered nell, coyly, "your tongue will lead you to perdition, sire." "no fear!" replied he, dryly. "i knelt in church with brother james but yesterday." "in sooth, quite true!" said nell, approvingly, as she leaned back against the door and raised her eyes innocently toward the moon. "i sat in the next pew, sire, afraid to move for fear i might awake your majesty." the king chuckled softly to himself. nell picked one of the flowers that grew upon the balustrade. "ah, you come a long-forgotten path to-night," she said abruptly. the king was alert in an instant. he felt that he had placed himself in a false light. he loved the witch above despite himself. "i saw thee twa evenings ago, lass," he hastily asserted, in good scotch accents, somewhat impatiently. "and is not that a long time, sire," questioned nell, "or did portsmouth make it fly?" "portsmouth!" exclaimed charles. he turned his face away. "can it be my conscience pricks me?" he thought. "you know more of her than i, sweet nell," he then asserted, with open manner. "marry, i know her not at all and never saw her," said nell. "i shall feel better when i do," she thought. "it were well for england's peace you have not met," laughed charles. "faith and troth," said nell, "i am happy to know our king has lost his heart." "odso! and why?" asked charles; and he gazed at nell in his curious uncertain way, as he thought it was never possible to tell quite what she meant or what she next would think or say or do. "we feared he had not one to lose," she slyly suggested. "it gives us hope." "to have it in another's hand as you allege?" asked charles. "marry, truly!" answered nell, decisively. "the duchess may find it more than she can hold and toss it over." "how now, wench!" exclaimed the king, with assumption of wounded dignity. "my heart a ball for women to bat about!" "sire, two women often play at rackets even with a king's heart," softly suggested nell. "odsfish," cried the king, with hands and eyes raised in mock supplication. "heaven help me then." again the hunters' horn rang clearly on the night. "the horn! the horn!" said nell, with forced indifference. "they call you, sire." there was a triumphantly bewitching look in her eyes, however, as she realized the discomfiture of the king. he was annoyed, indeed. his manner plainly betokened his desire to stay and his irritation at the interruption. "'tis so!" he said at last, resignedly. "the king is lost." the horn sounded clearer. the hunters were returning. "again--nearer!" exclaimed charles, fretfully. his mind reverted to his pious brother; and he laughed as he continued: "poor brother james and his ostriches!" he could almost touch nell's finger-tips. "farewell, sweet," he said; "i must help them find his majesty or they will swarm here like bees. yet i must see my nell again to-night. you have bewitched me, wench. sup with me within the hour--at--ye blue boar inn. can you find the place?" there was mischief in nell's voice as she leaned upon the balustrade. she dropped a flower; he caught it. "sire, i can always find a rendezvous," she answered. "you're the biggest rogue in england," laughed charles. "of a _subject_, perhaps, sire," replied nell, pointedly. "that is treason, sly wench," rejoined the king; but his voice grew tender as he added: "but treason of the tongue and not the heart. adieu! let that seal thy lips, until we meet." he threw a kiss to the waiting lips upon the balcony. "alack-a-day," sighed nell, sadly, as she caught the kiss. "some one may break the seal, my liege; who knows?" "how now?" questioned charles, jealously. nell hugged herself as she saw his fitful mood; for beneath mock jealousy she thought she saw the germ of true jealousy. she laughed wistfully as she explained: "it were better to come up and seal them tighter, sire." "minx!" he chuckled, and tossed another kiss. the horn again echoed through the woods. he started. "now we'll despatch the affairs of england, brother; then we'll sup with pretty nelly. poor brother james! heaven bless him and his ostriches." he turned and strode quickly through the trees and down the path; but, as he went, ever and anon he called: "ye blue boar inn, within the hour!" each time from the balcony in nell's sweet voice came back--"ye blue boar inn, within the hour! i will not fail you, sire!" then she too disappeared. there was again a slamming of doors and much confusion within the house. there were calls and sounds of running feet. the door below the terrace opened suddenly, and nell appeared breathless upon the lawn--at her heels the constant moll. nell ran some steps down the path, peering vainly through the woods after the departing king. her bosom rose and fell in agitation. "oh, moll, moll, moll!" she exclaimed, fearfully. "he has been at portsmouth's since high noon. i could see it in his eyes." her own eyes snapped as she thought of the hated french rival, whom she had not yet seen, but whose relation to the royal household, as she thought, gave her the king's ear almost at will. she walked nervously back and forth, then turned quickly upon her companion, asking her, who knew nothing, a hundred questions, all in one little breath. "what is she? how looks she? what is her charm, her fascination, the magic of her art? is she short, tall, fat, lean, joyous or sombre? i must know." "oh, nell, what will you do?" cried moll in fearful accents as she watched her beautiful mistress standing passion-swayed before her like a queen in the moonlight, the little toe of her slipper nervously beating the sward as she general-like marshalled her wits for the battle. "see her, see her,--from top to toe!" nell at length exclaimed. "oh, there will be sport, sweet mouse. france again against england--the stake, a king!" she glanced in the direction of the house and cried joyously as she saw strings hobbling toward her. "heaven ever gave me a man in waiting," she said, gleefully. "poor fellow, he limps from youthful, war-met wounds. comrade, are you still strong enough for service?" "to the death for you, mistress nell!" he faithfully replied. "you know the duchess of portsmouth, and where she lives?" artfully inquired nell. "portsmouth!" he repeated, excitedly. "she was here but now, peeping at your windows." nell stood aghast. her face grew pale, and her lips trembled. "here, here!" she exclaimed, incredulously. "the imported hussy!" she turned hotly upon strings, as she had upon poor moll, with an array of questions which almost paralyzed the old fiddler's wits. "how looks she? what colour eyes? does her lip arch? how many inches span her waist?" strings looked cautiously about, then whispered in nell's ear. he might as well have talked to all london; for nell, in her excitement, repeated his words at the top of her voice. "you overheard? great heavens! drug the king and win the rights of england while he is in his cups? bouillon--the army--louis--the dutch! a conspiracy!" "oh, dear; oh, dear," came from moll's trembling lips. nell's wits were like lightning playing with the clouds. her plans were formed at once. "fly, fly, comrade," she commanded strings. "overtake her chair. tell the duchess that her beloved charles--she will understand--entreats her to sup at ye blue boar inn, within the hour. nay, she will be glad enough to come. say he awaits her alone. run, run, good strings, and you shall have a hospital to nurse these wounds, as big as noah's ark; and the king shall build it for the message." strings hastened down the path, fired by nell's inspiration, with almost the eagerness of a boy. "run, run!" cried nell, in ecstasy, as she looked after him and dwelt gleefully upon the outcome of her plans. he disappeared through the trees. "heigh-ho!" she said, with a light-hearted step. "now, moll, we'll get our first sight of the enemy." she darted into the house, dragging poor moll after her. chapter viii _"and the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_ an old english inn! what spot on earth is more hospitable, even though its floor be bare and its tables wooden? there is a homely atmosphere about it, with its cobwebbed rafters, its dingy windows, its big fireplace, where the rough logs crackle, and its musty ale. it has ever been a home for the belated traveller, where the viands, steaming hot, have filled his soul with joy. oh, the southdown mutton and the roasts of beef! if england has given us naught else, she should be beloved for her wealth of inns, with their jolly landlords and their pert bar-maids and their lawns for the game of bowls. may our children's children find them still unchanged. in a quaint corner of london, there stood such an inn, in the days of which we speak; and it lives in our story. when it was built, no one knew and none cared. tradition said that it had been a rendezvous for convivial spirits for ages that had gone. a sign hung from the door, on which was a boar's head; and under it, in old english lettering, might have been deciphered, if the reader had the wit to read, "ye blue boar inn." it was the evening of a certain day, known to us all, in the reign of good king charles. three yesty spirits sat convivially enjoying the warmth of the fire upon the huge hearth. a keg was braced in the centre of the room. one of the merry crew--none other, indeed, than swallow, a constable to the king--sat astride the cask, don quixote-like. in place of the dauntless lance, he was armed with a sturdy mug of good old ale. he sang gaily to a tune of his own, turning ever and anon for approbation to buzzard, another spirit of like guild, who sat in a semi-maudlin condition by the table, and also to the moon-faced landlord of the inn, who encouraged the joviality of his guests--not forgetting to count the cups which they demolished. swallow sang: _"here's a health unto his majesty, with a fa, la, fa, conversion to his enemies with a fa, la, fa, and he that will not pledge his health, i wish him neither wit nor wealth, nor yet a rope to hang himself- with a fa, la, fa, with a fa, la, fa."_ the song ended in a triumphant wave of glory. the singer turned toward the fellow, buzzard, and demanded indignantly: "why don't ye sing, knave, to the tune of the spigot?" "my gullet's dry, master constable," stupidly explained his companion, as he too buried his face in the ale. "odsbud, thou knowest not the art, thou clod," retorted the constable, wisely. "nay; i can sing as well as any man," answered buzzard, indignantly, "an i know when to go up and when to come down." he pointed stupidly, contrary to the phrase, first to the floor and then to the ceiling. the landlord chuckled merrily, imitating him. "when to go up and when to come down!" he repeated with the same idiotic drawl and contradictory gesture. "go to, simple," replied swallow, with tremendous condescension of manner. "thy mother gave thee a gullet but no ear. pass the schnapps." he arose and staggered to the table. "good master constable, how singest thou?" sheepishly inquired buzzard, as he filled swallow's tankard for the twentieth time. "marry, by main force, thou jack-pudding; how else?" demanded swallow, pompously. he reseated himself with much effort astride the cask. "oh, bury me here," he continued, looking into the foaming mug, and then buried his face deep in the ale. his companions were well pleased with the toast; for each repeated it after him, each in his turn emphasizing the "me" and the "here"--"oh, bury _me here!"_ "oh, bury _me here!_"--buzzard in a voice many tones deeper than that of swallow and the landlord in a voice many tones deeper than that of buzzard. indeed, the guttural tones of the landlord bespoke the grave-yard. the three faces were lost in the foam; the three sets of lips smacked in unison; and the world might have wagged as it would for these three jolly topers but for a woman's voice, calling sharply from the kitchen: "jenkins, love!" "body o' me!" exclaimed the landlord, almost dropping his empty tankard. "coming, coming, my dear!" and he departed hastily. the constable poked buzzard in the ribs; buzzard poked the constable in the ribs. "jenkins, love!" they exclaimed in one breath as the landlord returned, much to his discomfiture; and their eyes twinkled and wrinkled as they poked fun at the taverner. "body o' me! thou sly dog!" said the constable, as he continued to twit him. "whence came the saucy wench in the kitchen, landlord? a dimpled cook, eh?" the landlord's face grew serious with offended dignity as he attempted to explain. "'tis my wife, master constable," he said. "marry, the new one?" inquired swallow. "'tis not the old one, master swallow," replied the old hypocrite, wiping away a forced tear. "poor soul, she's gone, i know not where." "i' faith, i trow she's still cooking, landlord," consolingly replied the constable, with tearful mien, pointing slyly downward for the benefit of buzzard and steadying himself with difficulty on the cask. "bless matilde," said the landlord as he wiped his eyes again, "i had a hard time to fill her place." "yea, truly," chuckled swallow in buzzard's ear, between draughts, "three long months from grave to altar." "a good soul, a good soul, master swallow," continued the landlord, with the appearance of deep affliction. "and a better cook, landlord," said swallow, sadly. "odsbud, she knew a gooseberry tart. patch your old wife's soul to your new wife's face, and you'll be a happy man, landlord. here's a drop to her." "thank ye, master constable," replied the landlord, much affected. he looked well to the filling of the flagon in his hand, again wiped a tear from his eye and took a deep draught to the pledge of "the old one!" swallow, with equal reverence, and with some diplomacy, placed his flagon to his lips with the pledge of "the new one!" buzzard, who had not been heard from for some time, roused sufficiently to realize the situation, and broke out noisily on his part with "the next one!" a startled expression pervaded the landlord's face as he realized the meaning of buzzard's words. he glanced woefully toward the kitchen-door, lest the new wife might have overheard. "peace, buzzard!" swallow hastened to command, reprovingly. "would ye raise a man's dead wife? learn discretion from thy elders, an thou hop'st to be a married man." "marry, i do not hope," declared buzzard, striking the table with his clenched hand. he had no time for matrimony while the cups were overflowing. there was a quick, imperative knock at the door. the constable, buzzard and the landlord, all started up in confusion and fear. "thieves," stammered swallow, faintly, from behind the cask, from which he had dismounted at the first sign of danger. "they are making off with thy tit-bit-of-a-wife, landlord." "be there thieves in the neighbourhood, master constable?" whispered the landlord, in consternation. "why should his majesty's constable be here else?" said swallow, reaching for a pike, which trembled in his hand as if he had the ague. "the country about's o'er-run with them; and i warrant 'tis thy new wife's blue eyes they are after." he steadied himself with the pike and took a deep draught of ale to steady his courage as well. buzzard started to crawl beneath the table, but the wary constable caught him by his belt and made a shield for the nonce of his trembling body. the landlord's eyes bulged from their sockets as if a spirit from the nether regions had confronted him. the corners of his mouth, which ascended in harmony with his moon-face, twitched nervously. "mercy me, sayest thou so?" he asked. [illustration: mistress nell finds happiness.] "and in thine ear," continued swallow, consolingly, "and if thou see'st old rowley within a ten league, put thy new huswife's face under lock and key and constable swallow on the door to guard thy treasure." it was not quite clear, however, what the constable meant; for "old rowley" was the name of the king's favourite racehorse, of newmarket fame, and had also come to be the nickname of the king himself. charles assumed it good-naturedly. assuredly, neither might be expected as a visitor to ye blue boar. there came a more spirited knock at the door. the constable sought a niche in the fireplace, whence he endeavoured to exclude buzzard, who was loath to be excluded. "pass the dutch-courage, good landlord," entreated swallow, in a hoarse whisper. the landlord started boldly toward the door, but his courage failed him. "go thou, master constable," he exclaimed. "go thou thyself," wisely commanded swallow, with the appearance of much bravery, though one eye twitched nervously in the direction of the kitchen-door in the rear, as a possible means of exit. "there's no need of his majesty's constable till the battery be complete. there must be an action and intent, saith the law." "old rowley!" muttered the landlord, fearfully. "good master constable--" he pleaded. his face, which was usually like a roast of beef, grew livid with fear. swallow, however, gave him no encouragement, and the landlord once more started for the door. on the way his eye lighted on a full cask which was propped up in the corner. instinct was strong in him, even in death. it had been tapped, and it would be unsafe to leave it even for an instant within reach of such guests. he stopped and quickly replaced the spigot with a plug. there was a third knock at the door--louder than before. "anon, anon!" he called, hastily turning and catching up the half-filled flagon from the table. he disappeared in the entry-way. the brave representatives of the king's law craned their necks, but they could hear nothing. as the silence continued, courage was gradually restored to them; and, with the return of courage, came the desire for further drink. swallow again seized his pike and staggered toward the entry-way to impress his companion with his bravery. buzzard caught the spirit of the action. "marry, i'd be a constable, too, an it were to sit by the fire and guard a pretty wench," he said. his face glowed in anticipation of such happiness as he glanced through the half-open door to the kitchen, where the landlord's wife reigned. "egad, thou a constable!" ejaculated swallow, contemptuously, throwing a withering glance in the direction of his comrade. "thou ignoramamus! old rowley wants naught but brave men and sober men like me to guard the law. thou art a drunken roundhead. one of old noll's vile ruffians. i can tell it by the wart on thy nose, knave." "nay, master constable," explained buzzard, with an injured look at the mention of the wart, "it will soon away. mother says, when i was a rosy babe, master wart was all in all; now i'm a man, master nose is crowding neighbour wart." swallow put his hands on his knees and laughed deeply. he contemplated the nose and person of his companion with a curious air and grew mellow with patronage. "thy fool's pate is not so dull," he said, half aloud, as he lighted a long pipe and puffed violently. "thy wit would crack a quarter-staff. 'sbud, would'st be my _posse?_ this was, indeed, a concession on the part of the constable, who was over-weighted with the dignity of the law which he upheld. "would'st be at my command," he continued, "to execute the king's _statu quos_ on rogues?" "marry, constable buzzard!" exclaimed the toper, gleefully. "nay, and i would!" "marry, 'constable' buzzard!" replied swallow, with tremendous indignation at the assumption of the fellow. "nay, and thou would'st not, ass! by my patron saint--" as the constable spoke, buzzard's eye, with a leer, lighted on the cask in the corner. he bethought him that it had a vent-hole even though the landlord had removed the spigot. he tiptoed unsteadily across the room, and proceeded with much difficulty to insert a straw in the small opening. he had thus already added materially to his maudlin condition, before swallow discovered, with consternation and anger, the temporary advantage which the newly appointed _posse_ had secured. the cunning constable held carefully on to his tongue, however. he quietly produced a knife and staggered in his turn to the cask, unobserved by the unsuspecting buzzard, whose eyes were tightly closed in the realization of a dream of his highest earthly bliss. in an instant, the straw was clipped mid-way and the constable was enjoying the contents of the cask through the lower half, while buzzard slowly awakened to the fact that his dream of bliss had vanished and that he was sucking a bit of straw which yielded naught. "here, knave," commanded swallow, between breaths, pushing the other roughly aside, "thou hast had enough for a _posse_. fill my mug, thou ignoranshibus." buzzard staggered toward the table to perform the bidding. "the flagon's empty, master constable," he replied, and forthwith loudly called out, "landlord! landlord!" the constable dropped his straw and raised himself with difficulty to his full height, one hand firmly resting on the cask. "silence, fool of a _posse_" he commanded, when he had poised himself; "look ye, i have other eggs on the spit. to thy knee, sirrah; to thy knee, knave!" buzzard with difficulty and with many groans unsuspectingly obeyed the command. swallow lifted the cask which not long since he had been riding and which had not as yet been tapped upon the shoulder of his kneeling companion. there was another groan. "'tis too heavy, good master constable," cried buzzard, in sore distress. "thou clodhopper'" yelled swallow, unsympathetically. "an thou cannot master a cask of wine, thou wilt never master the king's law. to the kitchen with thee; and keep thy eyes shut, thou knave of a _posse_." the constable made a dive for his pike and lantern, and enforced his authority by punctuating his remarks with jabs of the pike from behind at his powerless friend, who could scarce keep his legs under the weight of the cask. as buzzard tottered through the kitchen-door and made his exit, the constable, finding his orders faithfully obeyed, steadied himself with the pike to secure a good start; and then, with long staggering strides, he himself made his way after the _posse_, singing loudly to his heart's content: _"good store of good claret supplies everything and the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_ chapter ix _three chickens!_ the door opened quickly, and in came king charles; but who would have known him? the royal monarch had assumed the mien and garb of a ragged cavalier. his eyes swept the inn quickly and approvingly. he turned upon the landlord, who followed him with dubious glances. "cook the chickens to a turn; and, mark you, have the turbot and sauce hot, and plenty of wine," he said. "look to't; the vintage i named, master landlord. i know the bouquet and sparkle and the ripple o'er the palate." "who is to pay for all this, sir?" asked the landlord, aghast at the order. "insolent!" replied charles. "i command it, sirrah." "pardon, sir," humbly suggested the landlord; "guineas, and not words, command here." "odso!" muttered the king, remembering his disguise. "my temper will reveal me. never fear, landlord," he boasted loudly. "you shall be paid, amply paid. i will pledge myself you shall be paid." "pardon, sir," falteringly repeated the landlord, rubbing his hands together graciously; "but the order is a costly one and you--" "do not look flourishing?" said charles, as he laughingly finished the sentence, glancing somewhat dubiously himself at his own dress. "never judge a man by his rags. plague on't, though; i would not become my own creditor upon inspection. take courage, good master landlord; england's debt is in my pocket." "how many to supper, sir?" asked the landlord, fearful lest he might offend. "two! two! only two!" decisively exclaimed charles. "a man is an extravagant fool who dines more. the third is expensive and in the way. eh, landlord?" the king winked gaily at the landlord, who grinned in response and dropped his eyes more respectfully. "two, sir," acquiesced the landlord. "aye, mine host, thou art favoured beyond thy kind," laughed charles, knowingly, as he dwelt upon the joys of a feast incognito alone with nell. "a belated goddess would sup at thy hostelry." the landlord's eyes grew big with astonishment. "i will return. obey her every wish, dost hear, her every wish, and leave the bill religiously to me." charles swaggered gaily up the steps to the entry-way and out the door. the moon-face of the inn-keeper grew slowly serious. he could not reconcile the shabby, road-bespattered garments of the strange cavalier with his princely commands. "body o' me!" he muttered, lighting one by one the candles in the room, till the rafters fairly glowed in expectation of the feast. "roundhead-beggar, on my life! turbot and capons and the best vintage! the king could not have better than this rogue. marry, he shall have the best in the larder; but constable swallow shall toast his feet in the kitchen, with a mug of musty ale to make him linger." the corners of the mouth in the moon-face ascended in a chuckle. "his ragged lordship'll settle the bill very religiously," he thought, "or sleep off his swollen roundhead behind the bars." he passed into the kitchen and gave the order for the repast. as he returned, there was a tap at the door; and he hastened to the window. "bless me, a petticoat!" he cried. "well, he's told the truth for once. she's veiled. ashamed of her face or ashamed of him." he opened the door and ushered in a lady dressed in white; across her face and eyes was thrown a scarf of lace. "not here?" questioned the new-comer, glancing eagerly about the room and peeping into every nook and corner without the asking, to the astonishment of the inn-keeper. "not here?" she asked herself again, excitedly. "tell me, tell me, is this ye blue boar inn?" "yes, lady--" replied the landlord, graciously. "good, good! has she been here? have you seen her?" "who, the goddess?" asked the landlord, stupidly. "the goddess!" retorted nell, for it was none other, with humorous irony of lip. "how can you so belie the duchess?" she laughed merrily at the thought. there was a second knock; and the landlord again hastened to the window. "'tis she; 'tis she!" exclaimed nell, excitedly. "haste ye, man; i am in waiting! what has she on? how is she dressed?" "body o' me!" exclaimed the landlord, in awe, as he craned his neck at the sash. "'tis a lady of quality." "bad quality," ejaculated nell. "she has come in a chair of silver," cried the landlord. "my chair shall be of beaten gold, then," thought nell, with a twinkle of the eye. "charles, you must raise the taxes." "mercy me, the great lady's coming in," continued the landlord, beside himself in his excitement. "she shall be welcome, most welcome, landlord," observed nell promptly. "body o' me! what shall i say?" asked the landlord, in trembling accents. "faith and troth," replied nell, coming to his rescue, "i will do the parlez-vousing with her ladyship. haste thee, thou grinning fat man." she glided quickly into a corner of the old fireplace, where she could not be observed so readily. the duchess of portsmouth entered, with all the haughty grandeur of a queen. she glanced about contemptuously, and her lip could be seen to curl, even through the veil which partially hid her face. "this _bourgeois_ place," she said, "to sup with the king! it cannot be! _garçon!_" "what a voice," reflected nell, in her hiding-place, "in which to sigh, 'i love you.'" "barbarous place!" exclaimed portsmouth. "his majesty must have lost his wits." she smiled complacently, however, as she reflected that the king might consent even within these walls and that his sign-manual, if so secured, would be as binding as if given in a palace. "_garçon!_" again she called, irritably. nell was meanwhile inspecting her rival from top to toe. nothing escaped her quick eye. "i'll wager her complexion needs a veil," she muttered, with vixenish glee. "that gown is an insult to her native france." "_garçon_; answer me," commanded portsmouth, fretfully. the landlord had danced about her grace in such anxiety to please that he had displeased. he had not learned the courtier's art of being ever present, yet never in the way. "yes, your ladyship," he stupidly repeated again and again. "what would your ladyship?" "did a prince leave commands for supper?" she asked, impatiently. "no, your ladyship," he replied, obsequiously. "a ragged rogue ordered a banquet and then ran away, your ladyship." "how, sirrah?" she questioned, angrily, though the poor landlord had meant no discourtesy. "if he knew his guests, he would ne'er return," softly laughed nell. "_parbleu_," continued portsmouth, in her french, impatient way, now quite incensed by the stupidity of the landlord, "a cavalier would meet me at ye blue boar inn; so said the messenger." she suddenly caught sight of nell, whose biting curiosity had led her from her hiding-place. "this is not the rendezvous," she reflected quickly. "we were to sup alone." the landlord still bowed and still uttered the meaningless phrase: "yes, your ladyship." the duchess was at the end of her patience. "_mon dieu_," she exclaimed, "do you know nothing, sirrah?" the moon-face beamed. the head bowed and bowed and bowed; the hands were rubbed together graciously. "good lack, i know not; a supper for a king was ordered by a ragged roundhead," he replied. "here are two petticoats, your ladyship. when i know which petticoat is which petticoat, your ladyship, i will serve the dinner." the tavern-keeper sidled toward the kitchen-door. as he went out, he muttered, judiciously low: "i wouldn't give a ha'penny for the choice." "beggar!" snapped portsmouth. "musty place, musty furniture, musty _garçon_, musty everything!" she stood aloof in the centre of the room as if fearful lest she might be contaminated by her surroundings. nell approached her respectfully. "you may like it better after supper, madame," she suggested, mildly. "a good spread, sparkling wine and most congenial company have cast a halo o'er more time-begrimed rafters than these." "who are you, madame?" inquired the duchess, haughtily. "a fellow-passenger on the earth," gently replied nell, "and a lover of good company, and--some wine." "yes?" said the duchess, in a way that only a woman can ask and answer a question with a "yes" and with a look such as only a woman can give another woman when she asks and answers that little question with a "yes." there was a moment's pause. the duchess continued: "perhaps you have seen the cavalier i await." "marry, not i," replied nell, promptly; and she bethought her that she had kept a pretty sharp lookout for him, too. "is this a proper place for a lady to visit?" pompously inquired the duchess. "you raise the first doubt," said nell quickly. "madame!" exclaimed portsmouth, interrupting her, with fiery indignation. "i say, you are the first to question the propriety of the place," explained nell, apologetically, though she delighted inwardly at the intended shot which she had given her grace. "i came by appointment," continued the duchess; "but it seems i was misled. _garçon_, my chair!" the duchess made a move toward the door, but nell's words stopped her. "be patient, duchess! he is too gallant to desert you." "she knows me!" thought portsmouth. she turned sharply upon the stranger. "i have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, madame." "such is my loss, not yours," replied nell, suavely. "remove your veil," commanded the duchess; and her eyes flashed through her own. "i dare not before the beauty of versailles," continued nell, sweetly. "remove yours first. then i may take mine off unseen." "do i know you?" suspiciously inquired portsmouth. "i fear not," said nell, meekly, and she courtesied low. "i am but an humble player--called nell gwyn." the duchess raised herself to her full height. "nell gwyn!" she hissed, and she fairly tore off her veil. "your grace's most humble servant," said nell, again courtesying low and gracefully removing her veil. "this is a trap," exclaimed the duchess, as she realized the situation. "heaven bless the brain that set it then," sweetly suggested nell. "your own, minx," snapped portsmouth. "i'll not look at the hussy!" she muttered. she crossed the room and seated herself upon the bench, back to nell. "your grace would be more kind if you knew my joy at seeing you." "and why?" asked the duchess, ironically. "i would emulate your warmth and amiability," tenderly responded nell. "yes?" said portsmouth; but how much again there was in her little "yes," accented as it was with a french shrug. "i adore a beautiful woman," continued nell, "especially when i know her to be--" "a successful rival?" triumphantly asked the duchess. "a rival!" exclaimed nell, in well-feigned astonishment, still toying with the duchess's temper. "is the poor actress so honoured in a duchess's thought? your grace is generous." if all the angels had united, they could not have made her speech more sweet or her manner more enticing. "i presumed you might conceive it so," replied portsmouth, with mocking, condescending mien. nell approached her timidly and spoke softly, lovingly, subserviently. "a rival to the great duchess of portsmouth!" she said. "perish the thought! it is with trepidation i look upon your glorious face, madame; a figure that would tempt st. anthony; a foot so small it makes us swear the gods have lent invisible wings to waft you to your conquest. nay, do not turn your rosy lip in scorn; i am in earnest, so in earnest, that, were i but a man, i would bow me down your constant slave--unless perchance you should grow fat." the turn was delicious: nell's face was a study; and so was portsmouth's. the duchess sprang to her feet, realizing fully for the first time that she had been trapped and trifled with. "hussy! beware your own lacings," she angrily exclaimed, turning now full face upon her adversary. nell was leaning against the table across the room, quietly observing portsmouth upon the word-wrack. her whole manner had changed. she watched with evident delight the play of discomfiture, mingled with contempt, upon the beautiful duchess's face. "_me_ fat!" she derisively laughed. "be sure i shall never grow too much so. and have not the stars said i shall ne'er grow old?" "your stars are falser than yourself," tartly snapped the duchess. "mayhap," said nell, still gleeful; "but mark you this truth: i shall reign queen of love and laughter while i live, and die with the first wrinkle." she was interrupted by his majesty, who, unsuspecting, swaggered into the room in buoyant spirits. "the king!" exclaimed nell, as she slyly glanced over her shoulder. the king looked at one woman and then at the other in dismay and horror. "scylla and charybdis!" he muttered, nervously, glancing about for means of escape. "all my patron-saints protect me!" nell was by his side in an instant. "good even' to your majesty," she roguishly exclaimed. "how can i ever thank you, sire, for inviting the duchess to sup with me! i have been eager to meet her ladyship." "ods-pitikins," he thought, "a loophole for me." "well,--you see--" he said, "a little surprise, nelly,--a little surprise--for me." the last two words were not audible to his hearers. he looked at the beautiful rivals an instant, then ventured, "i hoped to be in time to introduce you, ladies." "oh, your majesty," asserted nell, consolingly, "we are already quite well acquainted. i knew her grace through her veil." "no doubt on't," observed the king, knowingly. "yes, sire," said the duchess, haughtily, casting a frigid glance at nell, "i warrant we understand each other perfectly." "better and better," said charles, with a sickly laugh. his majesty saw rocks and shoals ahead, and his wits could find no channel of escape. he turned in dire distress upon nell, who stood aloof. she looked up into his face with the innocence of a babe in every feature. "minx, this is your work!" he whispered. "yes, sire!" she answered, mock-reprovingly, bending quite to the floor as she courtesied low. "'yes, sire.' baggage!" he exclaimed good-naturedly despite himself. as he turned away, praying heaven to see him out of the difficulty, he observed the landlord, who had just entered with bread and cups, muttering some dubious invocations to himself. he clutched at this piece of human stupidity--like a drowning man clutching at a straw: "ah, landlord, bring in what we live for; and haste ye, sirrah. the wine! the wine!" "it is ready, sir," obsequiously replied the landlord, who had just sense enough in his dull cranium to reflect also, by way of complement, "so is constable swallow." "good news, good news!" cried charles; and he tossed his plumed hat upon the sideboard, preparatory to the feast. "d'ye hear, my fair and loving friends? come, it is impolite to keep the capons waiting. my arms; my arms!" the king stepped gallantly between the ladies, making a bold play for peace. the duchess took one arm formally. nell seized the remaining arm and almost hugged his majesty, nestling her head affectionately against his shoulder. charles observed the decorum of due dignity. he was impartial to a fault; for he realized that there only lay his salvation. the phalanx approached the feast in solemn march. the king tossed his head proudly and observed: "who would not play the thorn with two such buds to blush on either side?" there was a halt. the duchess looked coldly at the table, then coldly at the king, then more coldly at nell. the king looked at each inquiringly. "i thought your majesty ordered supper for three," she said. "it is set for two." "odsfish, for two!" cried charles, glancing, anxiously, for the first time at the collation. nell had taken her place at the feast, regardless of formality. she was looking out for herself, irrespective of king or duchess. she believed that a dinner, like the grave, renders all equal. "egad!" she exclaimed, as she dwelt upon the force of the duchess's observation. "our host is teaching us the virtues of economy." the unsuspecting landlord re-entered at this moment, wine in hand, which he proceeded to place upon the table. "what do you mean, knave, by this treachery!" almost shrieked the king at sight of him. "another plate, dost hear; another plate, dog!" "bless me," explained the landlord, in confusion, "you said supper for two, sir; that a man was a fool who dined more; that the third was expensive and in the way." "villain!" cried charles, in a hopeless effort to suppress the fellow, "i said two-two--beside myself. i never count myself in the presence of these ladies." the landlord beat a hasty retreat. the duchess smiled a chilling smile, and asked complacently: "which one of us did you expect, sire?" "yes, which did you expect, sire?" laughed nell. "oh, my head," groaned charles; "well, well,--you see--duchess, the matter lies in this wise--" "let me help your majesty," generously interrupted nell. "her ladyship is ill at figures. you see, charles and i are one, and you make two, duchess." "i spoke to the king," haughtily replied the duchess, not deigning to glance at nell. the king placed his hands upon his forehead in bewilderment. "this is a question for the prime minister and sages of the realm in council." "there are but two chairs, sire," continued portsmouth, coldly. "two chairs!" exclaimed the merry monarch, aghast, as he saw the breach hopelessly widening. "i am lost." "that is serious, sire," said nell, sadly; and then her eye twinkled as she suggested, "but perhaps we might make out with one, for the duchess's sake. i am so little." she turned her head and laughed gaily, while she watched the duchess's face out of the corner of her eye. "'sheart," sighed the king, "i have construed grave controversies of state in my time, but ne'er drew the line yet betwixt black eyes and blue, brunette and blonde, when both were present. another chair, landlord! come, my sweethearts; eat, drink and forget." the king threw himself carelessly into a chair in the hope that, in meat and drink, he might find peace. "aye," acquiesced nell, who was already at work, irrespective of ceremony, "eat, drink and forget! i prefer to quarrel after supper." "i do not," said the duchess, who still stood indignant in the centre of the room. nell could scarce speak, for her mouthful; but she replied gaily, with a french shrug, in imitation of the duchess: "oh, very well! i have a solution. let's play sphinx, sire." charles looked up hopefully. "anything for peace," he exclaimed. "how is't?" "why," explained nell, with the philosophical air of a learned doctor, "some years before you and i thought much about the ways and means of this wicked world, your majesty, the sphinx spent her leisure asking people riddles; and if they could not answer, she ate them alive. give me some of that turbot. don't stand on ceremony, sire; for the duchess is waiting." the king hastened to refill nell's plate. "thank you," laughed the vixen; "that will do for now. let the duchess propound a riddle from the depths of her subtle brain; and if i do not fathom it upon the instant, sire, 't is the duchess's--not nell's--evening with the king." "odsfish, a great stake!" cried charles. he arose with a serio-comic air, much pleased at the turn things were taking. "don't be too confident, madame," ironically suggested the duchess; "you are cleverer in making riddles than in solving them." as she spoke, the room was suddenly filled with savoury odour. the moon-faced landlord had again appeared, flourishing a platter containing two finely roasted chickens. his face glowed with pride and ale. "the court's famished," exclaimed charles, as he greeted the inn-keeper; "proceed!" "two capons! i have it," triumphantly thought portsmouth, as she reflected upon a riddle she had once heard in far-off france. it could not be known in england. nothing so clever could be known in england. she looked contemptuously at nell, and then at the two chickens, as she propounded it. "let your wits find then three capons on this plate." "three chickens!" cried charles, in wonderment, closely scrutinizing the two fowl upon the plate and then looking up inquiringly at the duchess. "there are but two." nell only gurgled. "another glass, landlord, and i'll see four," she said. "here's to you two, and to me too." she drank gaily to her toast. "that is not the answer, madame," coldly retorted the duchess. "are we come to blows over two innocent chickens?" asked charles, somewhat concerned still for the outcome. "bring on your witnesses." "this is one chicken, your majesty," declared the duchess. "another's two; and two and one make three." with much formality and something of the air of a conjurer, she counted the first chicken and the second chicken and then recounted the first chicken, in such a way as to make it appear that there were three birds in all. the king, who was ill at figures, like all true spendthrifts, sat confused by her speech. nell laughed again. the landlord, who was in and out, stopped long enough to enter upon his bill, in rambling characters, "3 chickens." this was all his dull ear had comprehended. he then piously proceeded on his way. "gadso!" exclaimed the king, woefully. "it is too much for me." "pooh, pooh, 'tis too simple for you, sire," laughed nell. "i solved it when a child. here is my bird; and here is your bird; and our dearest duchess shall sup on her third bird!" nell quickly spitted one chicken upon a huge fork and so removed it to her own plate. the second chicken, she likewise conveyed to his majesty's. then, with all the politeness which she only could summon, she bowed low and offered the empty platter to the duchess. portsmouth struck it to the board angrily with her gloved hand and steadied herself against the table. "hussy!" she hissed, and forthwith pretended to grow faint. charles was at her elbow in an instant, supporting her. "oh,--sire, i--" she continued, in her efforts to speak. "what is it?" cried charles, seriously, endeavouring to assist her. "you are pale, louise." "i am faint," replied she, with much difficulty. "pardon my longer audience, sire; i am not well. _garçon_, my chair. assist me to the door." the fat landlord made a hasty exit, for him, toward the street, in his desire to help the great lady. charles supported her to the threshold. "call a leech, sire," cried nell after them, with mock sympathy. "her grace has choked on a chicken-bone." "be still, wench," commanded the king. "do not leave us, louise; it breaks the sport." "nay," pleaded nell also, "do not go because of this little merry-making, duchess. i desire we may become better friends." her voice revived the duchess. "_sans doute_, we shall, madame," portsmouth replied, coldly. "_à mon bal! pas adieu, mais au revoir_." the great duchess courtesied low, kissed the king's hand, arose to her full height and, with an eye-shot at nell, took her departure. chapter x _arrest him yourself!_ the king stood at the door, thoughtfully reflecting on the temper of the departing duchess. she was a maid of honour and, more than that, an emissary from his brother louis of france. gossip said he loved her, but it was not true, though he liked her company exceeding well when the mood suited. he regretted only the evening's incident, with the harsher feeling it was sure to engender. nell stood by the fireplace, muttering french phrases in humorous imitation of her grace. observing the king's preoccupation, she tossed a _serviette_ merrily at his head. this brought his majesty to himself again. he turned, and laughed as he saw her; for his brain and heart delighted in her merry-making. he loved her. "what means this vile french?" she asked, with delicious suggestion of the shrug, accent and manner of her vanquished rival. "the duchess means," explained the king, "that she gives a royal ball--" "and invites me?" broke in nell, quickly, placing her elbows upon a cask and looking over it impishly at charles. "and invites you _not_" said the king, "and so outwits you." "by her porters' wits and not her own," retorted nell. she threw herself into a chair and became oblivious for the moment of her surroundings. "the french hussy! so she gives a ball?" she thought. "well, well, i'll be there! i'll teach her much. oh, i'll be pretty, too, aye, very pretty. no fear yet of rivalry or harm for england." charles watched her amusedly, earnestly, lovingly. the vixen had fallen unconsciously into imitating again the duchess's foreign ways, as an accompaniment even for her thoughts. "_sans doute_, we shall, _madame_" nell muttered audibly, with much gesticulating and a mocking accent. "_à mon bal! pas adieu, mais au revoir_." the king came closer. "are you ill," he asked, "that you do mutter so and wildly act?" "i was only thinking that, if i were a man," she said, turning toward him playfully, "i would love your duchess to devotion. her wit is so original, her repartee so sturdy. your majesty's taste in horses--and some women--is excellent." she crossed the room gaily and threw herself laughing upon the bench. the king followed her. "heaven help the being, naughty nell," he said, "who offends thy merry tongue; but i love thee for it." he sat down beside her in earnest adoration, then caught her lovingly in his arms. "love me?" sighed nell, scarce mindful of the embrace. "ah, sire, i am but a plaything for the king at best, a caprice, a fancy--naught else." "nay, sweet," said charles, "you have not read this heart." "i have read it too deeply," replied nell, with much meaning in her voice. "it is this one to-day, that one to-morrow, with king charles. ah, sire, your love for the poor player-girl is summed up in three little words: 'i amuse you!'" "amuse me!" exclaimed charles, thoughtfully. "hark ye, nell! states may marry us; they cannot make us love. ye gods, the humblest peasant in my realm is monarch of a heart of his own choice. would i were such a king!" "what buxom country lass," asked nell, sadly but wistfully, "teaches your fancy to follow the plough, my truant master?" "you forget: i too," continued charles, "have been an outcast, like orange nell, seeking a crust and bed." he arose and turned away sadly to suppress his emotion. he was not the king of england now: he was a man who had suffered; he was a man among men. "forgive me, sire," said nell, tenderly, as a woman only can speak, "if i recall unhappy times." "unhappy!" echoed charles, while fancy toyed with recollection. "nell, in those dark days, i learned to read the human heart. god taught me then the distinction 'twixt friend and enemy. when a misled rabble had dethroned my father, girl, and murdered him before our palace gate, and bequeathed the glorious arts and progressive sciences to religious bigots and fanatics, to trample under foot and burn--when, if a little bird sang overjoyously, they cut out his tongue for daring to be merry--in some lonely home by some stranger's hearth, a banished prince, called charles stuart, oft found an asylum of plenty and repose; and in your eyes, my nell, i read the self-same, loyal, english heart." there was all the sadness of great music in his speech. nell fell upon her knee, and kissed his hand, reverently. "my king!" she said; and her voice trembled with passionate love. he raised her tenderly and kissed her upon the lips. "my queen," he said; and his voice too trembled with passionate love. "and milton says that paradise is lost," whispered nell. her head rested on the king's shoulder. she looked up--the picture of perfect happiness--into his eyes. "not while nell loves charles," he said. "and charles remembers nell," her voice answered, softly. meanwhile, the rotund landlord had entered unobserved; and a contrast he made, indeed, to the endearing words of the lovers as at this instant he unceremoniously burst forth in guttural accents with: "the bill! the bill for supper, sir!" nell looked at the king and the king looked at nell; then both looked at the landlord. the lovers' sense of humour was boundless. that was their first tie; the second, their hearts. "the bill!" repeated nell, smothering a laugh. "yes, we were just speaking of the bill." "how opportune!" exclaimed charles, taking the cue. "we feared you would forget it, sirrah." "see that it is right," ejaculated nell. the king glanced at the bill indifferently, but still could not fail to see "3 chickens" in unschooled hand. his eyes twinkled and he glanced at the landlord, but the latter avoided his look with a pretence of innocence. [illustration: the deception.] "gad," said charles, with a swagger, "what are a few extra shillings to parliament? here, my man." he placed a hand in a pocket, but found it empty. "no; it is in the other pocket." he placed his hand in another, only to find it also empty. then he went through the remaining pockets, one by one, turning them each out for inspection--his face assuming an air of mirthful hopelessness as he proceeded. he had changed his garb for a merry lark, but had neglected to change his purse. "devil on't, i--have--forgotten--odsfish, where is my treasurer?" he exclaimed at last. "your treasurer!" shrieked the landlord, who had watched charles's search, with twitching eyes. "want your treasurer, do ye? constable swallow'll find him for ye. constable swallow! i knew you were a rascal, by your face." charles laughed. this exasperated the landlord still further. he began to flutter about the room aimlessly, bill in hand. he presented it to charles and he presented it to nell, who would have none of it; while at intervals he called loudly for the constable. "peace, my man," entreated nell; "be still for mercy's sake." "good lack, my lady," pleaded the landlord, in despair, "good lack, but you would not see a poor man robbed by a vagabond, would ye? constable swallow!" the situation was growing serious indeed. the king was mirthful still, but nell was fearful. "nell, have you no money to stop this heathen's mouth?" he finally ejaculated, as he caught up his bonnet and tossed it jauntily upon his head. "not a farthing," replied she, sharply. "i was invited to sup, not pay the bill." "if the king knew this rascal," yelled the landlord at the top of his voice, pointing to charles, "he would be behind the bars long ago." this was too much for his majesty, who broke into the merriest of laughs. "verily, i believe you," he admitted. then he fell to laughing again, almost rolling off the bench in his glee. "master constable," wildly repeated the landlord, at the kitchen-door. "let my new wife alone; they are making off with the house." nell was filled with consternation. "he'll raise the neighbourhood, sire," she whispered to charles. "have you no money to stop this heathen's mouth?" "not even holes in my pockets," calmly replied the merry monarch. "odsfish, what company am i got into!" sighed nell. she ran to the landlord and seized his arm in her endeavour to quiet him. the landlord, however, was beside himself. he stood at the kitchen-door gesticulating ferociously and still shouting at the top of his voice: "constable swallow! help, help; thieves; constable swallow!" swallow staggered into the room with all his dignity aboard. tankard in hand, he made a dive for the table, and catching it firmly, surveyed the scene. nell turned to her lover for protection. "murder, hic!" ejaculated the constable. "thieves! what's the row?--hic!" "arrest this blackguard," commanded the landlord, nervously, "this perfiler of honest men." "arrest!--you drunken idiot!" indignantly exclaimed charles; and his sword cut the air before the constable's eyes. nell seized his arm. her woman's intuition showed her the better course. "you will raise a nest of them," she whispered. "you need your wits, sire; not your sword." "nay; come on, i say," cried charles, fearlessly. "we'll see what his majesty's constables are made of." "you rogue--_posse!_" exclaimed swallow, starting boldly for the king, then making a brilliant retreat, calling loudly for help, as the rapier tickled him in the ribs. "you ruffian--_posse!_" he continued to call, alternately, first to one and then to the other; for his fear paralyzed all but his tongue. "you outlaw--_posse commi-ti-titous_--hic!" buzzard also now entered from his warm nest in the kitchen, so intoxicated that he vented his enthusiasm in song, which in this case seemed apt: _"the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_ "another champion of the king's law!" ejaculated charles, not without a shadow of contempt in his voice, once more assuming an attitude of defence. "oh, charles!" pleaded nell, again catching his arm. "_posse_, arrest that vagabond," commanded the constable, from a point of safety behind the table. "aye, aye, sir," replied the obedient buzzard. "on what charge--hic?" "he's a law-breaker and a robber!" yelled the watchful landlord. "he called the law a drunken idiot. hic--hic!" woefully wailed swallow. "odsbud, that's treason! arrest him, _posse_--hic!" "knave, i arrest--hic!" asserted buzzard. the _posse_ started boldly enough for his game, but was suddenly brought to a stand-still in his reeling course by the sharp point of the rapier playing about his legs. he made several indignant efforts to overcome the obstacle. the point of the blade was none too gentle with him, even as he beat a retreat; and his enthusiasm waned. "arrest him yourself--hic!" he exclaimed. swallow's face grew red with rage. to have his orders disobeyed fired him with much more indignation of soul than the escape of the ruffian, who was simply defrauding the landlord of a dinner. he turned hotly upon the insubordinate _posse_, crying: "i'll arrest you, you buzzard--hic!" "i'll arrest you, you swallow--hic!" with equal dignity retorted buzzard. "i'm his majesty's constable--hic!" hissed swallow, from lips charged with air, bellows-like. "i'm his majesty's _posse_--hic!" hissed buzzard in reply. the two drunken representatives of the law seized each other angrily. the landlord, in despair, endeavoured hopelessly to separate them. "a wrangle of the generals," laughed charles. "now is our time." he looked about quickly for an exit. "body o' me! the vagabonds'll escape," shouted the landlord. "fly, fly!" said nell. "this way, charles." she ran hastily toward the steps leading to the entry-way; the king assisted her. "stop, thief! stop, thief!" screamed the landlord. "the bill! the bill!" "send it to the duchess!" replied nell, gaily, as she and the merry monarch darted into the night. the landlord turned in despair, to find the drunken champions of the king's law in a struggling heap upon the floor. he raised his foot and took out vengeance where vengeance could be found. chapter xi _in the field, men; at court, women!_ it was the evening of portsmouth's long-awaited _bal masqué_. music filled her palace with rhythmic sound. in the gardens, its mellowing strains died away among the shrubs and over-hanging boughs. in every nook and corner wandered at will the nobility--the richest--the greatest--in the land. none entertain like the french; and the duchess had, indeed, exhausted french art in turning the grand old place into a land of ravishing enchantment, with its many lights, its flowers, its works of art. her abode was truly an enlivening scene, with its variety of maskers, bright dominoes and vizards. the king was there and took a merry part in all the sport, although, beneath his swaggering abandon, there lurked a vein of sadness. he laughed heartily, he danced gaily, he jested with one and all; but his manner was assumed. the shrewdest woman's eye could not have seen it; though she might have felt it. brother james too enjoyed the dance, despite his piety; and buckingham, rochester and a score of courtiers beloved by the king entered mirthfully into the scene, applauding the duchess's entertainment heartily. as the evening wore apace, the merry maskers grew merrier and merrier. in a drawing-room adjoining the great ball-room, a robber-band, none other than several gallants, whose identity was concealed by silken vizards, created huge amusement by endeavouring to steal a kiss from lady hamilton. she feigned shyness, then haughtiness, then anger; then she ran. they were after her and about her in an instant. there were cries of "a kiss!" "a kiss!" "this way!" "make a circle or she'll escape us!" a dozen kisses so were stolen by the eager gallants before my lady broke away, stamping her foot in indignation, as she exclaimed: "nay, i am very angry, very--" "that there were no more, wench!" laughed buckingham. "marry, 'tis a merry night when portsmouth reigns. long live the duchess in the king's heart!" "so you may capture its fairer favourite, friend buckingham?" suggested the king, softly; and there was no hidden meaning in his speech, for the king suspected that buckingham's heart as well was not at portsmouth's and buckingham knew that the king suspected it. buckingham was the prince of courtiers; he bowed low and, saying much without saying anything, replied respectfully: "so i may console her, sire, that she is out-beautied by france to-night." "out-beautied! not bidden, thou mean'st," exclaimed the king, his thoughts roving toward nelly's terrace. ah, how he longed to be there! "the room is close," he fretted. "come, gallants, to the promenade!" he was dressed in white and gold; and a princely prince he looked, indeed, as the courtiers separated for him to pass out between them. all followed save buckingham, whom portsmouth's eye detained. she broke into a joyous laugh as she turned from the tapestry-curtains, through which she could see his majesty--the centre of a mirthful scene without. "what say you now, my lord?" she asked, triumphantly, of buckingham. "i am half avenged already, and the articles half signed. the king is here despite his madame gwyn, and in a playful mood that may be tuned to love." buckingham's ardour did not kindle as she hoped. "merriment is oft but sadness's mask, louise," he replied, thoughtfully. "what meanest thou?" she asked, in her nervous, gallic way, and as quickly, her mind anticipating, answered: "this trifle of the gossips that charles advances the player's whim to found a hospital at chelsea, for broken-down old soldiers? _ce n'est rien!"_ she broke into a mocking laugh. "aye!" replied buckingham, quietly but significantly. "the orders are issued for its building and the people are cheering nell throughout the realm." "_ma foi!_" came from the duchess's contemptuous lips. "and what say the rabble of portsmouth?" "that she is louis's pensioner sent here from france--a spy!" he answered, quickly and forcefully too. "the hawkers cry it in the streets." "fools! fools!" she mused. then, making sure that no arras had ears, she continued: "before the night is done, thou shalt hear that luxembourg has fallen to the french--mark!--luxembourg! feed the rabble on that, my lord. heaven preserve king louis!" the duke started incredulously. when had portsmouth seen the king? and by what arts had she won the royal consent? a score of questions trembled on his lips--and yet were checked before the utterance. not an intimation before of her success had reached his ear, though he had advised with the duchess almost daily since their accidental meeting below nell's terrace. indeed, in his heart, he had never believed that she would be able so to dupe the king. the shadow from the axe which fell upon charles i. still cast its warning gloom athwart the walls of whitehall; and, in the face of the temper of the english people and of well-known treaties, the acquiescence of charles ii. in louis's project would be but madness. luxembourg was the key strategetically to the netherlands and the states beyond. its fall meant the augmentation of the empire of louis, the personal ignominy of charles! "luxembourg!" he repeated the word cautiously. "king charles did not consent--" "nay," replied the duchess, in her sweetest way, "but i knew he would; and so i sent the message in advance." "forgery! 'twas boldly done, louise," cried buckingham, in tones of admiration mixed with fear. "i knew my power, my lord," she said confidently; and her eyes glistened with womanly pride as she added: "the consent will come." buckingham's eyes--usually so frank--fell; and, for some seconds, he stood seemingly lost in abstraction over the revelations made by the duchess. he was, however, playing a deeper game than he appeared to play. apparently in thoughtlessness, he began to toy with a ring which hung upon a ribbon about his neck and which till then had been cautiously concealed. "nay, what have you there?" questioned portsmouth. buckingham's face assumed an expression of surprise. he pretended not to comprehend the import of her words. she pointed to the ring. he glanced at it as though he regretted it had been seen, then added carelessly, apparently to appease but really to whet the duchess's curiosity: "merely a ring the king gave nell." there was more than curiosity now in portsmouth's eyes. "i borrowed it to show it you," continued buckingham, indifferently, then asked, with tantalizing calmness: "is your mission quite complete?" with difficulty, the duchess mastered herself. without replying, she walked slowly toward the table, in troubled thought. the mask of crime revealed itself in her beautiful features, as she said, half to herself: "i have a potion i brought from france." she was of the latin race and poison was a heritage. buckingham caught the words not meant for him, and realized too well their sinister meaning. poison nell! his eyes swept the room fearfully and he shuddered. he hastened to portsmouth's side, and in cold whispers importuned her: "for heaven's mercy, woman, as you love yourself and me--poison is an unhealthy diet to administer in england." the duchess turned upon him impatiently. the black lines faded slowly from her face; but they still were there, beneath the beauty-lines. "my servants have watched her house without avail," she sneered. "your plan is useless; my plan will work." "stay!" pleaded buckingham, still fearful. "we can ourselves entice some adventurous spirit up nell's terrace, then trap him. so our end is reached." "aye," replied the duchess, in milder mood, realizing that she had been over-hasty at least in speech, "the minx presumes to love the king, and so is honest! but of her later. the treaties! he shall sign to-night--to-night, i say." with a triumphant air, she pointed to the quills and sand upon a table in readiness for his signing. buckingham smiled approvingly; and in his smile lurked flattery so adroit that it pleased the duchess despite herself. "lord hyde, st. albans and the rest," said he, "are here to aid the cause." "bah!" answered portsmouth, with a shrug. "in the field, men; at court, women! this girl has outwitted you all. i must accomplish my mission alone. charles must be louis's pensioner in full; england the slave of france! my fortune--_le grand roi's_ regard--hang upon it." buckingham cautioned her with a startled gesture. "nay," smiled portsmouth, complacently, "i may speak frankly, my lord; for your head is on the same block still with mine." "and my heart, louise," he said, in admiration. "back to the king! do nothing rash. we will banish thy rival, dear hostess." he did not add, save in thought, that nell's banishment, if left to him, would be to his own country estate. there was almost a touch of affection in the duchess's voice as she prepared to join the king. "leave all to me, my lord," she said, then courtesied low. "yea, all but nell!" reflected his lordship, as he watched her depart. "with this ring, i'll keep thee wedded to jealous interest, and so enrich my purse and power. thou art a great woman, fair france; i half love thee myself. but thou knowest only a moiety of my purpose. the other half is nell!" he stood absorbed in his own thoughts. the draperies at the further doorway, on which was worked in gobelin tapestry a forest with its grand, imposing oaks, were pushed nervously aside. jack hart entered, mask in hand, and scanned the room with skeptic eye. "a happy meeting," mused buckingham, reflecting upon hart's one-time ardour for mistress nell and upon the possibility that that ardour, if directed by himself, might yet compromise nell in the king's eyes and lead to the realization of his own fond dreams of greater wealth and power and, still more sweet, to the possession of his choice among all the beauties of the realm. "it is a sad hour," thought hart, glancing at the merry dancers through the arch, "when all the world, like players, wear masks." buckingham assumed an air of bonhomie. "whither away, master hart?" he called after the player, who started perceptibly at his voice. "let not thy fancy play truant to this gay assemblage, to mope in st. james's park." "my lord!" exclaimed hart, hotly. the fire, however, was gone in an instant; and he added, evidently under strong constraint: "pardon; but we prefer to change the subject." "the drift's the same," chuckled the shrewd buckingham; "we may turn it to advantage." he approached the player in a friendly manner. "be not angry," he exclaimed soothingly; "for there's a rift even in the clouds of love. brighter, man; for king charles was seeking your wits but now." "he'd have me play court-fool for him?" asked the melancholy mime, who had in his nature somewhat of the cynicism of jaques, without his grand imaginings of soul. "there are many off the stage, my lord, in better practice." "true, most true," acquiesced buckingham; "i could point them out." he would have continued in this vein but beyond the door, whence hart had just appeared, leading by a stair-way of cupids to the entrance to the palace, arose the sound of many voices in noisy altercation. "hark ye, hark!" he exclaimed, in an alarmed tone. "what is't? confusion in the great hallway below. we'll see to't." he had assumed a certain supervision of the palace for the night. with the player as a body-guard, he accordingly made a hasty exit. chapter xii _beau adair is my name._ the room was not long vacant. the hostess herself returned. she was radiant. as she crossed the threshold, she glanced back proudly at the revellers, who, led by his majesty, were turning night into day with their merry-making. she had the right, indeed, to be proud; for the evening, though scarce half spent, bespoke a complete triumph for her entertainment. this was the more gratifying too, in that she knew that there were many at court who did not wish the "imported" duchess, as they called her, or her function well, though they always smiled sweetly at each meeting and at each parting and deigned now to feast beyond the limit of gentility upon her rich wines and collations. the _bal masqué_, however, as we have seen, was with the duchess but a means to an end. she took from the hand of a pretty page the treaties, lately re-drawn by bouillon, and glanced hastily over the parchments to see that her instructions from louis were covered by their words. a smile played on her arching lips as she read and re-read and realized how near she was to victory. "'tis portsmouth's night to-night!" she mused. "my great mission to england is nearly ended. dear france, i feel that i was born for thy advancement." she seated herself by the table, where the materials for writing had been placed, and further dwelt upon the outcome of the royal agreements, their contingencies and triumphs. she could write charles rex almost as well as the king, she thought, as her eye caught the places left for his signature. "bouillon never fails me," she muttered. "drawn by king charles's consent, except perchance some trifling articles which i have had interlined for louis's sake. we need not speak of them. it would be troublesome to charles. a little name and seal will make these papers history." her reflections were interrupted by the return of buckingham, who was laughing so that he could scarcely speak. "what is 't?" she asked, petulantly. "the guard have stayed but now a gallant, irish youth," replied he, as best he could for laughter, "who swore that he had letters to your highness. oh, he swore, indeed; then pleaded; then threatened that he would fight them all with single hand. of course, he won the ladies' hearts, as they entered the great hall, by his boyish swagger; but not the guards. your orders were imperative--that none unbidden to the ball could enter." "'tis well," cried portsmouth. "none, none! letters to me! did he say from whom?" "he said," continued buckingham, still laughing, "that he was under orders of his master to place them only in the duchess's hands. oh, he is a very lordly youth." the duke throughout made a sad attempt at amusing imitations of the brogue of the strange, youthful, irish visitor who, with so much importunity, sought a hearing. portsmouth reflected a moment and then said: "i will see him, buckingham, but briefly." buckingham, not a little surprised, bowed and departed graciously to convey the bidding. the duchess lost herself again in thought. "his message may have import," she reflected. "louis sends strange messengers ofttimes." in the midst of her reverie, the tapestry at the door was again pushed back, cautiously this time, then eagerly. there entered the prettiest spark that ever graced a kingdom or trod a measure. it was nell, accoutred as a youth; and a bold play truly she was making. her face revealed that she herself was none too sure of the outcome. "by my troth," she thought, as she glanced uncomfortably about the great room, "i feel as though i were all breeches." she shivered. "it is such a little way through these braveries to me." her eyes turned involuntarily to the corner where portsmouth sat, now dreaming of far-off france. "the duchess!" her lips breathed, almost aloud, in her excitement. "so you'd play hostess to his majesty," she thought, "give a royal ball and leave poor nelly home, would you?" the duchess was conscious only of a presence. "_garçon!_" she called, without looking up. nell jumped a foot. "that shook me to the boots," she ejaculated, softly. "_garçon!_" again called the impatient duchess. "madame," answered nell, fearfully, the words seeming to stick in her fair throat, as she hastily removed her hat and bethought her that she must have a care or she would lose her head as well, by forgetting that she was an irishman with a brogue. "who are you?" asked portsmouth, haughtily, as, rising, with surprised eyes, she became aware of the presence of a stranger. indeed, it is not strange that she was surprised. the youth who stood before her was dressed from top to toe in gray--the silver-gray which lends a colour to the cheek and piquancy to the form. the dress was of the latest cut. the hat had the longest plume. the cloak hung gracefully save where the glistening sword broke its falling lines. the boots were neat, well rounded and well cut, encasing a jaunty leg. the dress was edged with silver. ah, the strange youth was a love, indeed, with his bright, sparkling eyes, his lips radiant with smiles, his curls falling to his shoulders. "well," stammered nell, in awkward hesitation but in the richest brogue, as the duchess repeated her inquiry, "i'm just i, madame." the duchess smiled despite herself. "you're just you," she said. "that's very clear." "yes, that's very clear," reiterated nell, still fearful of her ground. "a modest masker, possibly," suggested portsmouth, observing the youth's embarrassment and wishing to assist him. "yea, very modest," replied nell, her speech still stumbling, "almost ashamed." portsmouth's eyes looked sharply at her. "she suspects me," thought nell, and her heart leaped into her throat. "i am lost--boots and all." "your name?" demanded the duchess again, impatiently. for the life of her nell could not think of it. "you see," she replied evasively, "i'm in london for the first time in my present self, madame, and--" "your name and mission, sir?" the tone was imperative. nell's wits returned to her. "beau adair is my name," she stammered, "and your service my mission." it was out, though it had like to have choked her, and nell was more herself again. the worst she had feared was that the duchess might discover her identity and so turn the tables and make her the laughing-stock at court. she grew, indeed, quite hopeful as she observed a kindly smile play upon the duchess's lips and caught the observation: "beau adair! a pretty name, and quite a pretty fellow." a smile of self-satisfaction and a low bow were nell's reply. "vain coxcomb!" cried portsmouth, reprovingly, though she was highly amused and even pleased with the strange youth's conceit. "nay; if i admire not myself," wistfully suggested nell, in reply, with pretence of much modesty, "who will praise poor me in this great palace?" "you are new at court?" asked portsmouth, doubtingly. "quite new," asserted nell, gaining confidence with each speech. "my london tailor made a man of me only to-day." "a man of you only to-day!" cried the duchess, in wonderment. "he assured me, madame," nell hastened to explain, "that the fashion makes the man. he did not like my former fashion. it hid too much that was good, he said. i am the bearer of this letter to the great duchess of portsmouth; that you are she, i know by your royalty." she bowed with a jaunty, boyish bow, sweeping the floor with her plumed hat, as she offered the letter. "oh, you are the gentleman," said portsmouth, recalling her request to buckingham, which for the instant had quite escaped her. she took the letter and broke the seal eagerly. "she does not suspect," thought nell; and she crossed quickly to the curtained arch, leading to the music and the dancing, in the hope that she might see the king. portsmouth, who was absorbed in the letter, did not observe her. "from rochet! dear rochet!" mused the duchess, as she read aloud the lines: "'the bearer of this letter is a young gallant, very modest and very little versed in the sins of court.'" "very little," muttered nell, with a mischievous wink, still intent upon the whereabouts and doings of the king. "'he is of excellent birth,'" continued the duchess, reading, "'brave, young and to be trusted--_to be trusted_. i commend him to your kindness, protection and service, during his stay in town.'" she reflected a moment intently upon the letter, then looked up quickly. nell returned, somewhat confused, to her side. "this is a very strong letter, sir," said portsmouth, with an inquiring look. "yes, very strong," promptly acquiesced nell; and she chuckled as she recalled that she had written it herself, taking near a fortnight in the composition. her fingers ached at the memory. "where did you leave rochet?" inquired the duchess, almost incredulously. "leave rochet?" thought nell, aghast. "i knew she would ask me something like that." there was a moment's awkwardness--nell was on difficult ground. she feared lest she might make a misstep which would reveal her identity. the duchess grew impatient. finally, nell mustered courage and made a bold play for it, as ever true to her brogue. "where did i leave rochet?" she said, as if she had but then realized the duchess's meaning, then boldly answered: "in cork." "in cork!" cried portsmouth, in blank surprise. "i thought his mission took him to dublin." she eyed the youth closely and wondered if he really knew the mission. "nay; cork!" firmly repeated nell; for she dared not retract, lest she awaken suspicion. "i am quite sure it was cork i left him in." "quite sure?" exclaimed the duchess, her astonishment increasing with each confused reply. "well, you see, duchess," said nell, "we had an adventure. it was dark; and we were more solicitous to know whither the way than whence." the duchess broke into a merry laugh. the youth had captured her, with his wistful, irish eyes, his brogue and his roguish ways. "we give a ball to-night," she said, gaily. "you shall stay and see the king." "the king!" cried nell, feigning fright. "i should tremble so to see the king." "you need not fear," laughed the hostess. "he will not know you." "i trust not, truly," sighed nell, with much meaning, as she scanned her scanty masculine attire. "take my mask," said the duchess, graciously. "as hostess, i cannot wear it." nell seized it eagerly. she would be safe with this little band of black across her eyes. even the king would not know her. "i shall feel more comfortable behind this," she said, naïvely. "did you ever mask?" inquired portsmouth, gaily. [illustration: as a cavalier mistress nell deceives even the king.] "nay, i am too honest to deceive," answered nell; and her eyes grew so round and so big, who would not believe her? "but you are at court now," laughed the duchess, patronizingly. "masking is the first sin at court." "then i'll begin with the first sin," said nell, slyly, raising the duchess's fingers to her lips, "and run the gamut." they passed together into the great ball-room, nell exercising all her arts of fascination--and they were many. the music ceased as they entered. the dancers, and more especially the ladies, eyed curiously the jaunty figure of the new-comer. there were merry whisperings among them. "who can he be?" asked one, eagerly. "what a pretty fellow!" exclaimed a second, in admiration. "i've been eying him," said a third, complacently. the men too caught the infection. "who can he be?" inquired rochester. "marry, i'll find out," said lady hamilton, with an air of confidence, having recovered by this time from the kisses which had been thrust upon her and being now ready for a new flirtation. she approached adair, artfully, and inquired: "who art thou, my butterfly? tell me now, e'er i die." her attitude was a credit to the extremes of euphuism. there was general laughter at her presumptuous and effete pose and phrase. the ladies had gathered about the new hero, like bees about new clover. the gallants stood, or sat as wall-flowers in a row, deserted. the king too had been abandoned for the lion of the hour and sat disconsolate. "peace, jealous ones!" cried lady hamilton, reprovingly, then continued, with a winning way: "i know thou art apollo himself, good sir." nell smiled complacently, though she felt her mask, to assure herself that it was firm. "apollo, truly," she said, jauntily, "if thou art his lyre, sweet lady." lady hamilton turned to the duchess. "oh, your grace," she asked, languishingly, "tell us in a breath, tell us, who is this dainty beau of the ball?" "how am i to know my guests," answered portsmouth, feigning innocence, "with their vizors down? nay, sweet sir, unmask and please the ladies. i'faith, who art thou?" the hostess was delighted. the popularity of the new-comer was lending a unique novelty to her entertainment. she was well pleased that she had detained monsieur adair. she thought she saw a jealous look in the king's usually carelessly indifferent gaze when she encouraged the affectionate glances of the irish youth. "i'faith," laughed nell, in reply, "i know not, duchess." "d'ye hear?" said portsmouth. "he knows not himself." "but i have a suspicion, duchess," sighed nell. "hark ye," laughed portsmouth, with a very pretty pout, "he has a suspicion, ladies." "nay, you will tell?" protested nell, as the ladies gathered closer about her in eager expectation. there was a unison of voices to the contrary. "trust us, fair sir," said one. "oh, we are good at keeping secrets." "then, 'twixt you and me, i am--" began nell; and she hesitated, teasingly. the group about grew more eager, more wild with curiosity. "yes, yes--" they exclaimed together. "i am," said nell, "the pied piper of hamlin town." "the rat-catcher," cried portsmouth. "oh, oh, oh!" there was a lifting of skirts, revealing many high-born insteps, and a scramble for chairs, as the ladies reflected upon the long lines of rats in the train of the mesmeric pied piper. "flee, flee!" screamed lady hamilton, playfully. "he may pipe us into the mountains after the children." "you fill me with laughter, ladies," said portsmouth to her guests. "the man does not live who can entrap me." "the woman does," thought nell, as, mock-heroically, she placed near her lips a reed-pipe which she had snatched from a musician in the midst of the fun; and, whistling a merry tune which the pipe took no part in, she circled about the room, making quite a wizard's exit. the ladies, heart and soul in the fun, fell into line and followed, as if spell-bound by the magic of the piper. charles, james, rochester and the gallants, who remained, each of whom had been in turn deserted by his fair lady, unmasked and looked at one another in wonderment. of one accord, they burst into a peal of laughter. "sublime audacity," exclaimed charles. "who is this curled darling--this ball-room adonis? ods-pitikins, we are in the sear and yellow leaf." "truly, sire," said james, dryly, "i myself prefer a gathering of men only." "brother james," forthwith importuned the king, waggishly, "will you favour me with your lily-white hand for the next dance? i am driven to extremity." "pardon, sire," replied james, quite humorously for him, "i am engaged to a handsomer man." "odsfish," laughed charles, "king charles of england a wall-flower. come, rochester, my epitaph." the king threw himself into a chair, in an attitude of hopeless resignation, quite delicious. rochester perked up with the conceit and humour of the situation. with the utmost dignity, and with the quizzical, pinched brow of the labouring muse, halting at each line, he said: _"here lies our sovereign lord, the king, whose word no man relies on; who never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one!"_ the post-mortem verse was sufficiently subtle and clever to revive the king's drooping spirits; and he joined heartily in the applause. "the matter," he said, approvingly, "is easily accounted for--my discourse is my own, my actions are my ministry's." there was a _frou-frou_ of petticoats. the hostess entered gaily. "the king! the courtiers! unmasked!" she exclaimed, in coy reproof. "fy, fy, your majesty! for shame! gallants! are you children that i must pair you off?" "we are seeking consolation," suggested charles, dryly; "for modest souls have small chance to-night, louise." he nodded significantly in the direction of the great ball-room, where the chatter of women's voices betokened the unrivalled popularity of nell. "when did you turn modest, sire?" slyly inquired portsmouth, with a look of love. "when i was out-stripped in audacity by yon hibernian youth," replied the king, seriously. "who is this peacock you are introducing?" a peal of laughter from without punctuated the king's speech. it was the reward of a wit-thrust from nell. "the piper the maids would now unmask?" queried portsmouth, rapturously. "marry, 'tis the fascinating beau adair of cork, entertaining the ladies. oh, he is a love, sire; he does not sulk in corners. see! see!" she pointed toward the archway, through which nell was plainly visible. she was strutting jauntily back and forth upon the promenade. it is unnecessary to say that she was escorted by the assembled fair ones. as nell caught the eye of the hostess in the distance, she gaily tossed a kiss to her. "'sdeath, that i were a woman to hope for one of his languishing smiles," observed buckingham. "even the old hens run at his call," sneered the pious james, in discontent; for he too had been deserted by his ladylove and even before the others. the king looked at his brother with an air of bantering seriousness, to the delight of all assembled. "brother james is jealous of the old ones only," he observed. "you know his favourites are given him by his priests for penance." a merry ripple ran through the group. the hostess took advantage of the king's speech to make a point. "and you are jealous of the young ones only," she said, slyly, quickly adding as a bid for jealousy: "pooh, pooh! _le beau_ had letters to me, sire. nay, we do not love him very much. we have not as yet had time." "alas, alas," sighed charles, with drooping countenance, "that it should come to this." "my liege, i protest--" cried portsmouth, hastily, fearful lest she might have gone too far. "to-night is the first i ever saw the youth. i adore you, sire." "not a word!" commanded charles, with mock-heroic mien. he waved his hand imperatively to his followers. "friends," he continued, "we will mix masks and dominoes and to't again to drown our sorrow." "in the thames?" inquired james, facetiously for him. "tush! in the punch-bowl, pious brother!" protested the merry monarch, with great dignity. "you know, a very little water will drown even a king." the gallants mixed masks and dominoes in obedience to the royal wish. the king, sighing deeply, cast a hopeless glance at portsmouth, not without its tinge of humour. he then sauntered slowly toward the windows of the great ball-room, followed subserviently by all the courtiers, save buckingham, who was lost in converse with player hart. "hark ye," suddenly broke off buckingham, observing the approach of adair and his adorers, "here come again the merry maskers. by bacchus, the little bantam still reigns supreme. the king and his gallants in tears. let us join the mourners, master hart." as the duke and the player, the former assuming a fraternal air for an end of his own, joined the royal group, nell re-entered gaily, every inch the man. she was still surrounded by the ladies, who, fluttering, flattering and chattering, hung upon her every word. with one hand she toyed with her mask, which she had good-naturedly dropped as none were about who knew her. she clapped it, however, quickly to her eyes at sight of the king. "you overwhelm me, my fair ones," she said, with spirit, as she held court in the centre of the room. "i assure you, i am not used to such attention--from the ladies." "our hospitality is beggarly to your deserts," sighed portsmouth, who had joined the bevy, but loud enough for the king to hear. "you quite o'erpower me, duchess," answered nell, modestly, adding for the satisfaction of her own sense of humour: "no wonder we men are fools, if you women talk like this." while she was speaking, lady hamilton whispered facetiously in portsmouth's ear. "beau adair married!" exclaimed the duchess, in response. "it cannot be. he looks too gay for a married man." "no confidences, my pretty ones," observed nell, reprovingly. the hostess hesitated; then she out with it in a merry strain. "lady hamilton asks after the wife you left at home." "my wife!" cried nell, in astonishment; for this phase of her masquerading had not presented itself to her before. "great heavens, i have no wife--i assure you, ladies!" "so?" observed portsmouth, her curiosity awakened. "modest--for a bachelor." "a bachelor!" exclaimed nell, now fully _en rapport_ with the spirit of the situation. "well,--not exactly a bachelor either,--ladies." "alack-a-day," sighed lady hamilton, with a knowing glance at her companions, "neither a bachelor nor a married man!" "well, you see--" explained nell, adroitly, "that might seem a trifle queer, but--i'm in mourning--deeply in mourning, ladies." she drew a kerchief from her dress and feigned bitter tears. "a widower!" tittered lady hamilton, heartlessly. "our united congratulations, sir." the other ladies one by one sobbed with affected sympathy, wiping their eyes tenderly, however, lest they might remove the rich colour from their cheeks. "mesdames," said nell, reprovingly, "the memory is sacred. believe me, very sacred." she fell apparently once again to weeping bitterly. "the memory is always sacred--with men," observed portsmouth, for the benefit of her guests, not excepting the irish youth. "nay, tell us the name of the fair one who left you so young. my heart goes out to you, dear beau." "kind hostess," replied nell, assuming her tenderest tones, "the name of my departed self is--nell!" hart caught the word. the player was standing near, reflecting on the scene and on the honeyed words of the duke of buckingham, who was preparing the way that he might use him. "nell!" he muttered. "who spoke that name?" the hostess too was startled. "nell!" she exclaimed, with contending emotions. "strange! another cavalier who graces _mon bal masqué_ to-night has lost a loved one whose name is nell. ah, but she was unworthy of his noble love." she spoke pointedly at the masked king, who started perceptibly. "yes," he thought; for his conscience smote him, "unworthy--he of her." "unworthy, truly, if he dances so soon and his own nell dead," added nell, reflectively, but so that all might hear, more especially charles. "perchance nell too thinks so," thought he, as he restlessly walked away, sighing: "i wish i were with her on the terrace." "'sdeath, duchess," continued nell abruptly, in assumed horror at the sudden thought, "the lady's spirit may visit the ball, to the confusion of us all. such things have been." "the nell i mean," said portsmouth, with a confident smile, "will not venture here, e'en in spirit." nell assumed a baby-innocence of face. "she has not been bidden, i presume?" she queried. "the vixen would not stop for asking," declared portsmouth, almost fiercely. "come without asking?" cried nell, as if she could not believe that there could be such people upon the earth. "how ill-bred! thine ear, loved one. my nell revisits the world again at midnight. the rendezvous--st. james's park." hart brushed close enough to the group, in his biting curiosity, to catch her half-whisper to portsmouth. he at once sought a window and fresh air, chafing with surprise and indignation at what he had overheard. "st. james's at midnight," he muttered. "'tis my nell's abode." the duchess herself stood stunned at what appeared to her a possible revelation of great import. "st. james's!" she thought. "can he mean madame gwyn? no, no!" the look of suspicion which for an instant had clouded her face changed to one of merriment, under adair's magic glance. "and you would desert me for such a fleshless sprite?" she asked. "not so," said nell, with a winning look; "but, when my better-half returns to life, i surely cannot refuse an interview--especially an she come from afar." nell's eyes arose with an expression of sadness, while her finger pointed down--ward in the direction of what she deemed the probable abode of her departed "nell." her lips twitched in merriment, however, despite her efforts to the contrary; and the hostess fell a-laughing. "ladies," she cried, as she appealed to one and all, "is not _le beau_ a delight--so different from ordinary men?" "i am not an ordinary man, i assure you," nell hastened to declare. this assertion was acquiesced in by a buzz of pretty compliments from the entire bevy of ladies. "positively charming!" exclaimed one. "a perfect love!" said another. nell listened resignedly. "'sheart," she said, at length, with an air of _ennui_, "i cannot help it. 'tis all part of being a man, you know." "would that all men were like you, _le beau_!" sighed the hostess, not forgetting to glance at the king, who again sat disconsolate, in the midst of his attendant courtiers, drawn up, as in line of battle, against the wall. "heaven help us if they were!" slyly suggested nell. rochester, who had been watching the scene in his mischievous, artistic way, drew from portsmouth's compliment to adair another meaning. he was a mixture 'twixt a man of arts and letters and satan's own--a man after the king's own heart. turning to the king, with no desire to appease the mischief done, he said, banteringly: "egad, there's a rap at you, sire. france would make you jealous." the duke of buckingham too, though he appeared asleep, had seen it all. "and succeeds, methinks," he reflected, glancing approvingly in the direction of the irish youth. "a good ally, i'faith." nell, indeed, was using all her arts of fascination to ingratiate herself with the duchess, and making progress, too. "your eyes are glorious, fair hostess," she said, in her most gallant love-tones, "did i not see my rival in them." she could not, however, look at portsmouth for laughter, as she thought: "i believe lying goes with the breeches; i never was so proficient before." the compliment aroused the king's sluggish nature. "i can endure no more, gallants," cried he, with some pretence of anger, rising abruptly, followed, of course, in each move and grimace by his courtier-apes, in their desire to please. "are we to be out-done in our own realm by this usurper with a brogue? ha! the fiddlers! madame, i claim the honour of this fair hand for the dance." at the sound of the music, he had stepped gallantly forward, taking the hostess's hand. "my thanks, gallant masker," replied the duchess, pretending not to know him for flattery's sake, "but i am--" to her surprise, she had no opportunity to complete the sentence. "engaged! engaged!" interposed nell, coming unceremoniously between them, with swaggering assumption and an eye-shot at the king through the portal of her mask. "forsooth, some other time, strange sir." the hostess stood horrified. "pardon, sir masker," she hastened to explain; "but the dance was pledged--" "no apologies, duchess," replied the king, as he turned away, carelessly, with the reflection: "all's one to me at this assemblage." he crossed the room, turning an instant to look, with a humorous, quizzical glance, at portsmouth. nell mistook the glance for a jealous one and, perking up quickly, caught the royal eye with a challenging eye, tapping her sword-hilt meaningly. had the masks been off, the situation would have differed. as it was, the king smiled indifferently. the episode did not affect him further than to touch his sense of humour. nell turned triumphantly to her partner. "odsbud," she exclaimed, with a delicious, youthful swagger, "we may have to measure swords in your behalf, dear hostess. i trow the fellow loves you." "have a care," whispered the duchess, nervously. "it is the king." "what care i for a king?" saucily replied nell, with a finger-snap. she had taken good care, however, to speak very low. "my arm, my arm, duchess!" she continued, with a gallant step. "places, places; or the music will outstrip us." "strut on, my pretty bantam," thought buckingham, whose eyes lost little that might be turned to his own advantage; "i like you well." there was no mending things at this stage by an apology. the duchess, therefore, tactfully turned the affair into one of mirth, in which she was quickly joined by her guests. with a merry laugh, she took the irish gallant's proffered arm, and together they led the dance. the king picked a lady indifferently from among the maskers. it was a graceful old english measure. nell's roguish wits, as well as her feet, kept pace with the music. she assured her partner that she had never loved a woman in all her life before and followed this with a hundred merry jests and sallies, keyed to the merry fiddles, so full of blarney that all were set a-laughing. anon, the gallants drew their swords and crossed them in the air, while the ladies tiptoed in and out. nell's blade touched the king's blade. when all was ended the swords saluted with a knightly flourish, then tapped the floor. there was an exultant laugh from one and all, and the dance was done. nell hastened to her partner's side. she caught the duchess's hand and kissed it. "you dance divinely, your grace," she said. "a goddess on tiptoe." "oh, beau adair!" replied the duchess, courtseying low; and her eyes showed that she was not wholly displeased at the warmth of his youthful adoration. "oh, duchess!" said nell, fondly, acknowledging the salute. the duchess hastened to join his majesty and together they threaded their way through many groups. nell tossed her head. "how i love her!" she muttered, veiling the sarcasm under her breath. she crossed the great room, her head erect. her confidence was quite restored. this had been the most difficult bit of acting she had ever done; and how well it had been done! the other dancers in twos and threes passed from the room in search of quiet corners, in which to whisper nothings. nell's eyes fell upon strings, who had had a slight turn for the better in the world and who now, in a dress of somewhat substantial green, was one of the fiddlers at the duchess's ball. "how now, sirrah!" she said, sharply, as she planted herself firmly before him to his complete surprise. "i knew you were here." she placed one of her feet in a devil-may-care fashion upon a convenient chair in manly contempt of its upholstery and peeped amusedly through her mask at her old friend. he looked at her in blank amazement. "gads-bobbs," he exclaimed, in confusion, "the irish gentleman knows me!" "there's nothing like your old fiddle, strings," continued nell, still playing with delight upon his consternation. "it fills me with forty dancing devils. if you were to play at my wake, i would pick up my shroud, and dance my way into paradise." "your lordship has danced to my fiddling before?" he gasped, in utter amazement. "danced!" gleefully cried nell. "i have followed your bow through a thousand jigs. to the devil with these court-steps. i'm for a jig, jig, jig, jig, jig! oh, i'm for a jig! tune up, tune up, comrade; and we'll have a touch of the old days at the king's house." "the king's house! jigs!" exclaimed the fiddler, now beside himself. "jigs!" chuckled nell. "jigs are my line of business." _oranges, will you have my oranges? sweet as love-lips, dearest mine, picked by spanish maids divine,--_ the room had now quite cleared; and, protected by a friendly alcove, nell punctuated the old song with a few happily turned jig-steps. strings looked at her a moment in bewilderment: then his face grew warm with smiles; the mystery was explained. "mistress nell, as i live," he cried, joyously, "turned boy!" "the devil fly away with you, you old idiot! boy, indeed!" replied nell, indignantly. "i'm a full-grown widower!" she had removed her mask and was dancing about strings gleefully. there was the sound of returning voices. "oons, you will be discovered," exclaimed strings, cautiously. "marry, i forgot," whispered nell, glancing over her shoulder. "you may have to help me out o' this scrape, strings, before the night is done." "you can count on me, mistress nell, with life," he replied, earnestly. "i believe you!" said nell, in her sympathetic, hearty way. her mind reverted to the old days when strings and she were at the king's. "oh, for just one jig with no petticoats to hinder." nell, despite herself, had fallen into an old-time jig, with much gusto, for her heart was for a frolic always, when strings, seized her arm in consternation, pointing through the archway. "the king!" she exclaimed. she clapped her mask to her eyes and near tumbled through the nearest arras out of the room in her eagerness to escape, dragging her ever-faithful comrade with her. chapter xiii _for the glory of england?_ the king entered the room with his historic stride. his brow was clouded; but it was all humorous pretence, for trifles were not wont to weigh heavily upon his majesty. with him came portsmouth. "can you forgive me, sire?" she asked. "i had promised the dance to beau adair. i did not know you, sire; you masked so cleverly." "'sdeath, fair flatterer!" replied the king. "i have lived too long to worry o'er the freaks of women." "the youth knew not to whom he spoke," still pleaded portsmouth. "his introduction here bespeaks his pardon, sire." the king looked sardonic, but his laugh had a human ring. "he is too pretty to kill," he declared, dramatically. "we'll forgive him for your sake. and now good night." "so soon?" asked portsmouth, anxiously. "it is late," he replied. "not while the king is here," she sighed. "night comes only when he departs." "your words are sweet," said charles, thoughtfully observing her. she sighed again. "my thoughts stumble in your speech," she said. "i regret i have not english blood within my veins." "and why?" "the king would trust and love me then. he does not now. i am french and powerless to do him good." there was a touch of honest sadness in her speech which awakened the king's sympathy. "nay," he said hastily, to comfort her; "'tis thy fancy. thy entertainment hath made me grateful--to louis and louise." "think not of louis and louise," she said, sadly and reproachfully, "but of thy dear self and england's glory. for shame! ah, sire, my childhood-dreams were of sunny france, where i was born; at versailles--at fontainebleau among the monarch trees--my early womanhood sighed for love. france gave me all but that. it came not till i saw the english king!" the siren of the nile never looked more bewitchingly beautiful than this siren of france as she half reclined upon the couch, playing upon the king's heart with a bit of memory. his great nature realized her sorrow and encompassed it. "and am i not good to thee, child?" he asked. he took her hand and responded to her eyes, though not with the tenderness of love--the tenderness for which she sought. "you are good to none," she replied, bitterly; "for you are not good to charles." "you speak enigmas," he said, curious. "have you forgotten your promise?" she asked, naïvely. "nay; the passport, pretty one?" he answered, amused at the woman's wiles. "all this subterfuge of words for that! there; rest in peace. thy friend hath a path to france at will." he smiled kindly as he took the passport from his girdle, handed it to her and turned to take his leave. "my thanks are yours. stay, sire," she said, hastily; for her mission was not yet complete and the night was now well gone. "passports are trifles. will you not leave the dutch to louis and his army? think!" she placed her arms about his neck and looked enticingly into his eyes. "but," he replied, kindly, "my people demand that i intervene and stay my brother louis's aggressive hand." "are the people king?" she asked, with coy insinuation. "do they know best for england's good? nay, sire, for your good and theirs, i beseech, no more royal sympathy for holland. i speak to avoid entanglements for king charles and to make his reign the greater. i love you, sire." she fell upon her knee. "i speak for the glory of england." his majesty was influenced by her beauty and her arts,--what man would not be?--but more by the sense of what she said. "for the glory of england?" he asked himself. "true, my people are wrong. 'tis better we remain aloof. no wars!" he took the seat by the table, which the duchess offered him, and scanned casually the parchment which she handed to him. nell peered between the curtains. strings was close behind her. "bouillon's signature for france," mused the king. "'tis well! no more sympathy for the dutch, louise, until holland sends a beauty to our court to outshine france's ambassador." he looked at portsmouth, smiled and signed the instrument, which had been prepared, as he thought, in accordance with his wishes and directions. he then carelessly tossed the sand over the signature to blot it. the fair duchess's eyes revealed all the things which all the adjectives of all the lands ever meant. "holland may outshine in beauty, sire," she said, kneeling by the king's side, "but not in sacrifice and love." she kissed his hand fervently. he sat complacently looking into her eyes, scarce mindful of her insinuating arts of love. he was fascinated with her, it is true; but it was with her beauty, flattery and sophistry, not her heart. "i believe thou dost love england and her people's good," he said, finally. "thy words art wise." portsmouth leaned fondly over his shoulder. "one more request," she said, with modest mien, "a very little one, sire." the king laughed buoyantly. "nay, an i stay here," he said, "thy beauty will win my kingdom! what is thy little wish, sweet sovereign?" "no more parliaments in england, sire," she said, softly. "what, woman!" he exclaimed, rising, half-aghast, half-humorous, at the suggestion; for he too had an opinion of parliament. "to cross the sway of thy great royal state-craft," she continued, quickly following up the advantage which her woman's wit taught her she had gained. "the people's sufferings from taxation spring from parliament only, sire." "'tis true," agreed charles, decisively. portsmouth half embraced him. "for the people's good, sire," she urged, "for my sweetest kiss." "you are mad," said charles, yet three-fourths convinced; "my people--" "will be richer for my kiss," the duchess interrupted, wooingly, "and their king, by divine right and heritage, will rule untrammelled by country clowns, court knaves and foolish lords, who now make up a silly parliament. with such a king, england will be better with no parliament to hinder. think, sire, think!" "i have thought of this before," said charles, who had often found parliament troublesome and, therefore, useless. "the taxes will be less and contention saved." [illustration: between two fires] "why hesitate then?" she asked. "this hour's as good for a good deed as any." "for england's sake?" reflected charles, inquiringly, as he took the second parchment from her hands. "heaven direct my judgment for my people's good. i sign." the treaties which louis xiv. of france had sent the artful beauty to procure lay signed upon her desk. nell almost pulled the portières from their hangings in her excitement. "i must see those papers," she thought. "there's no good brewing." portsmouth threw her arms about the king and kissed him passionately. "now, indeed, has england a great king," she said, adding to herself: "and that king louis's slave!" charles smiled and took his leave. as he passed through the portal, he wiped his lips, good-humouredly muttering: "portsmouth's kisses and nell's do not mix well." portsmouth listened for a moment to his departing footsteps, then dropped into the chair by the table and hastily folded and addressed the papers. her mission was ended! chapter xiv _he loves me! he loves me!_ nell, half draped in the arras, had seen the kiss in reality bestowed by portsmouth but as she thought bestowed by the king. as his majesty departed through the door at the opposite end of the room, the colour came and went in her cheeks. she could scarce breathe. portsmouth sat unconscious of all but her own grand achievement. she had accomplished what shrewd statesmen had failed to bring about; and this would be appreciated, she well knew, by louis. "'sdeath!" muttered nell to herself, hotly, as, with quite a knightly bearing, she approached the duchess. "he kisses her before my very eyes! he kisses her! i'll kill the minx!" she half unsheathed her blade. "pshaw! no! no! i am too gallant to kill the sex. i'll do the very manly act and simply break her heart. aye, that is true bravery in breeches." her manner changed. "your grace!" she said suavely. "yes," answered portsmouth, her eyes still gleaming triumphantly. "it seems you are partial of your favours?" "yes." "such a gift from lips less fair," continued nell, all in wooing vein, "would make a beggar royal." the hostess was touched with the phrasing of the compliment. she smiled. "you would be pleased to think me fair?" she coyly asked, with the air of one convinced that it could not well be otherwise. "fairer than yon false gallant thinks you," cried nell, with an angry toss of the head in the direction of the departed king. "charles's kiss upon her lips?" she thought. "'tis mine, and i will have it." in the twinkling of an eye, she threw both arms wildly about the neck of the astonished hostess and kissed her forcefully upon the lips. then, with a ringing laugh, tinged with triumph, she stepped back, assuming a defiant air. the duchess paled with anger. she rose quickly and, turning on the pretty youth, exclaimed: "sir, what do you mean?" "tilly-vally!" replied the naughty nell, in her most winning way. "a frown upon that alabaster brow, a pout upon those rosy lips; and all for nothing!" "_parbleu!_" exclaimed the indignant duchess. "your impudence is outrageous, sir! we will dispense with your company. good night!" "ods-pitikins!" swaggered nell, feigning umbrage. "angry because i kissed you! you have no right, madame, to be angry." "no right?" asked portsmouth, her feelings tempered by surprise. "no right," repeated nell, firmly. "it is i who should be outraged at your anger." "explain, sir," said the duchess, haughtily. nell stepped toward the lady, and, assuming her most tender tone, with wistful, loving eyes, declared: "because your grace can have no appreciation of what my temptation was to kiss you." the duchess's countenance glowed with delight, despite herself. "i'faith, was there a temptation?" she asked, quite mollified. "an overwhelming passion," cried nell, following up her advantage. "and you were disappointed, sir?" asked portsmouth suggestively, her vanity falling captive to the sweet cajolery. "i only got yon courtier's kiss," saucily pouted nell, "so lately bestowed on you." "do you know whose kiss that was?" inquired the duchess. "it seemed familiar," answered nell, dryly. "the king's," said portsmouth, proudly. "the king's!" cried nell, opening wide her eyes. "take back your kiss. i would not have it." "indeed!" said portsmouth, smiling. "'tis too volatile," charged nell, decisively. "'tis here, 'tis there, 'tis everywhere bestowed. each rosy tavern-wench with a pretty ankle commands it halt. a kiss is the gift of god, the emblem of true love. take back the king's kiss; i do not wish it." "he does not love the king," thought portsmouth, ever on the lookout for advantage. "a possible ally!" she turned upon the youth, with humorous, mocking lip, and said reprovingly: "a kiss is a kiss the world over, fair sir; and the king's kisses are sacred to portsmouth's lips." "zounds," replied nell, with a wicked wink, "not two hours since, he bestowed a kiss on eleanor gwyn--" "nell gwyn!" cried the duchess, interrupting; and she started violently. "with oaths, mountains high," continued nell, with pleasurable harshness, "that his lips were only for her." the duchess stood speechless, quivering from top to toe. nell herself swaggered carelessly across the room, muttering mischievously, as she watched the duchess from the corner of her eye: "methinks that speech went home." "he kissed her in your presence?" gasped portsmouth, anxiously following her. "i was not far off, dear duchess," was the quizzical reply. "you saw the kiss?" "no," answered nell, dryly, and she could scarce contain her merriment. "i--i--felt the shock." before she had finished the sentence, the king appeared in the doorway. his troubled spirit had led him to return, to speak further with the duchess regarding the purport of the treaties. he had the good of his people at heart, and he was not a little anxious in mind lest he had been over-hasty in signing such weighty articles without a more careful reading. he stopped short as he beheld, to his surprise, the irish spark adair in earnest converse with his hostess. "i hate nell gwyn," he overheard the duchess say. "is't possible?" interrogated nell, with wondering eyes. the king caught this utterance as well. "in a passion over nelly?" reflected he. "i'd sooner face cromwell's soldiers at boscobel! all hail the oak!" his majesty's eye saw with a welcome the spreading branches of the monarch of the forest, outlined on the tapestry; and, with a sigh of relief, he glided quickly behind it and, joining a group of maskers, passed into an anteroom, quite out of ear-shot. "most strange!" continued nell, wonderingly. "nell told me but yesterday that portsmouth was charming company--but a small eater." "'tis false," cried the duchess, and her brow clouded at the unpleasant memory of the meeting at ye blue boar. "i never met the swearing orange-wench." "ods-pitikins!" acquiesced nell, woefully. "nell's oaths are bad enough for men." "masculine creature!" spitefully ejaculated the duchess. "verily, quite masculine--of late," said nell, demurely, giving a significant tug at her boot-top. "a vulgar player," continued the indignant duchess, "loves every lover who wears gold lace and tosses coins." "nay; 'tis false!" denied nell, sharply. the duchess looked up, surprised. nell was all obeisance in an instant. "pardon, dear hostess, a thousand pardons," she prayed; "but i have some reason to know you misjudge mistress nell. with all her myriad faults, she never loved but one." "you seem solicitous for her good name, dear beau?" suggested portsmouth, suspiciously. "i am solicitous for the name of all good women," promptly explained nell, who was rarely caught a-napping, "or i would be unworthy of their sex--i mean their friendship." the duchess seemed satisfied with the explanation. "dear beau, what do the cavaliers see in that horrid creature?" archly asked the duchess, contemptuous of this liking of the stronger sex. "alack-a-day, we men, you know," replied nell, boastfully, "well--the best of us make mistakes in women." "are you mistaken?" questioned portsmouth, coyly. "what?" laughed nell, in high amusement. "i love nelly? nay, duchess," and her voice grew tender, "i adore but one!" "and she?" asked the hostess, encouraging the youth's apparently awakening passion. "how can you ask?" said nell, with a deep sigh, looking adoringly into portsmouth's eyes and almost embracing her. "do you not fear?" inquired portsmouth, well pleased. "fear what?" questioned nell. "my wrath," said portsmouth. "nay, more, thy love!" sighed nell, meaningly, assuming a true lover's dejected visage. "my love!" cried portsmouth, curiously. "aye," again sighed nell, more deeply still; "for it is hopeless." "try," said the duchess, almost resting her head upon nell's shoulder. "i am doing my best," said nell, her eyes dancing through wistful lashes, as she embraced in earnest the duchess's graceful figure and held it close. "do you find it hopeless?" asked portsmouth, returning the embrace. "until you trust me," replied nell, sadly. she shook her curls, then fondly pleaded: "give me the secrets of your brain and heart, and then i'll know you love me." the hostess smiled and withdrew from the embrace. nell stood the picture of forlorn and hopeless love. "nay," laughed portsmouth, consolingly, "they would sink a ship." "one would not," still pleaded nell, determined at all odds to have the packet. "one!" the duchess's eyes fell unconsciously upon the papers which she had bewitched from the king and which lay so near her heart. she started first with fear; and then her countenance assumed a thoughtful cast. there was no time now for delay. the papers must be sent immediately. the king might return and retract. many a battle, she knew, had been lost after it had been won. that night, at the rainbow tavern, well out of reach of the town, of court spies and gossips, louis would have a trusted one in waiting. his commission was to receive news from various points and transmit it secretly to france. it was a ride of but a few hours to him. she had purposed to send the packet by her messenger in waiting; but he had rendered her suspicious by his speech and action in the late afternoon, and she questioned whether she would be wise in trusting him. nor was she willing to risk her triumph in the hands of buckingham's courier. it was too dear to her. indeed, she was clever enough to know that state-secrets are often safer in the custody of a disinterested stranger than in the hands of a friend, especially if the stranger be truly a stranger to the court. she glanced quickly in the direction of nell, who looked the ideal of daring youth, innocent, honest and true to the death. "why not?" she thought quickly, as she reflected again upon rochet's words, "to be trusted." "of irish descent, no love for the king, young, brave, no court ties; none will suspect or stay him." her woman's intuition said "yes." she turned upon nell and asked, not without agitation in her voice: "can i trust you?" nell's sword was out in an instant, glistening in the light, and so promptly that the duchess started. nell saluted, fell upon one knee and said, with all the exuberance of audacious, loving youth: "my sword and life are yours." portsmouth looked deeply into nell's honest eyes. she was convinced. "this little packet," said she, in subdued tones, summoning nell to her side, "a family matter merely, must reach the rainbow tavern, on the canterbury road, by sunrise, where one is waiting. you'll find his description on the packet." nell sheathed her sword. "i know the place and road," she said, earnestly, as she took the papers from the duchess's hand and placed them carefully in her doublet. a rustle of the curtains indicated that some one had returned and was listening by the arras. "hush!" cautioned portsmouth. "be true, and you will win my love." nell did not reply, save to the glance that accompanied the words. snatching her hat from a chair on which she had tossed it, she started eagerly in the direction of the great stairs that led to the hallway below, where, an hour since, she had been at first refused admission to the palace. could she but pass again the guards, all would be well; and surely there was now no cause for her detention. yet her heart beat tumultuously--faster even than when she presented herself with rochet's letter written by herself. as she was hastening by the arras, her quick eye, however, recognized the king's long plume behind it; and she halted in her course. she was alert with a thousand maddening thoughts crowding her brain, all in an instant. "the king returned--an eavesdropper!" she reflected. "jealous of portsmouth; his eyes follow her. where are his vows to nell? i'll defame nell's name, drag her fair honour in the mire; so, charles, we'll test your manliness and love." she recrossed the room quickly to portsmouth. "madame," she exclaimed, in crisp, nervous tones, loud enough for the king's ear, "i have been deceiving, lying to you. i stood here, praising, honouring eleanor gwyn--an apple rotten to the core!" "how now?" ejaculated charles, in an undertone. his carelessness vanished upon the instant. where he had waited for the single ear of portsmouth, he became at once an earnest listener. nell paused not. "i had a friend who told me he loved nell. i loved that friend. god knows i loved him." "yes, yes!" urged portsmouth, with eagerness. "a man of noble name and princely mien," continued nell, so standing that the words went, like arrows, straight to the king's ear and heart, "a man of honour, who would have died fighting for nell's honour--" "misled youth," muttered portsmouth. nell seemed not to hear the words. "who, had he heard a murmur of disapproval, a shadow cast upon her name, would have sealed in death the presumptuous lips which uttered it." "she betrayed his confidence?" asked portsmouth, breathlessly. "betrayed--and worse!" gesticulated nell, with the visage of a madman. "a woman base, without a spark of kindliness--an adventuress! this is the picture of that eleanor gwyn! where is a champion to take up the gauntlet for such a nell?" as quick as light, the king threw back the arras and came between them. the duchess saw him and cried out in surprise. nell did not turn--only caught a chair-top to save herself from falling. "here, thou defamer!" he called, his voice husky with passion. "thou base purveyor of lies, answer me--me, for those words! i am nell's champion! i'll force you to own your slander a lie." the king was terribly in earnest. "the guard! the guard!" called portsmouth, faintly, almost overcome by the scene. in her passion that the king so revealed his love for nell, she quite forgot that adair was the bearer of her packet. "i want no guard," commanded the king. "an insult to nell gwyn is my cause alone." nell was in an elysium of ecstasy. she realized nothing, saw nothing. "he loves me! he loves me!" her trembling lips breathed only. "he'll fight for nell." "come; draw and defend yourself," angrily cried the king. portsmouth screamed and fell upon his arm. it is doubtful what the result would otherwise have been. true, nell ofttimes had fenced with the king and knew his wrist, but she was no swordswoman now. though she took up in her delirium the king's challenge with a wild cry, "aye, draw and defend yourself!" she realized nothing but his confession of love for nell. the scene was like a great blur before her eyes. she rushed upon the king and by him, she scarce knew how. their swords harmlessly clashed; that was all. the cries had been taken up without. "the guard! the guard!" "treason!" "treason!" the air was alive with voices. nell ran up the steps leading to a french window, which opened upon a tiny railed balcony. below, one story only, lay a soft carpet of greensward, shimmering in the moonlight. with her sword, she struck the frail sash, which instantly yielded. meantime, the room had filled with courtiers, guards and gallants, who had rushed in, sword and spear in hand, to guard the king. as the glass shivered and flew wide, under the point of nell's blade, all eyes turned toward her and all blades quivered threateningly in the air. buckingham was first to ascend the steps in pursuit. he was disarmed--more through the superiority of nell's position than through the dexterity of her wrist. then for the first time, she realized her danger. her eyes staring from their sockets, she drew back from her murderous pursuers, and, in startled accents, she knew not why, screamed in supplication, with hands uplifted: "gentlemen! gentlemen!" the storm was stayed. all paused to hear what the stranger-youth would say. would he apologize or would he surrender? the suspense was for but a second, though it seemed an eternity to nell. the open window was behind. with a parting glance at the trembling blades, she turned quickly and with reckless daring leaped the balcony. "t' hell with ye!" was wafted back in a rich brogue defiantly by the night. astonishment and consternation filled the room; but the bird had flown. some said that the wicked farewell-speech had been adair's, and some said not. how it all happened, no one could tell, unless it was a miracle. chapter xv _i come, my love; i come._ one lonely candle, or to speak more strictly a bit of one, sputtered in its silver socket in the cosy drawing-room; and a single moonbeam found its way in through the draperies of the window leading to the terrace and to st. james's park. moll lay upon a couch asleep; but it was a restless sleep. the voice of a town-crier resounded faintly across the park: "midnight; and all is well." she started up and rubbed her eyes in a bewildered way. "the midnight crier!" she thought; and there was a troubled expression in her face. "i have been asleep and the candle's nearly out." she jumped to her feet and hastily lighted two or three of its more substantial mates, of which there was an abundance in the rich candelabra about the room. a cricket in a crevice startled her. she ran to the window and looked anxiously out upon the park, then hastened to the door, with equal anxiety, lest it might be unlocked. every shadow was to her feverish fancy a spirit of evil or of death. "i wish nell would come," she thought. "the ghosts and skeletons fairly swarm in this old house at midnight; and i am all alone to-night. it's different when nell's about. the goblins are afraid of her merry laugh. boo! i am cold all over. i am afraid to stand still, and i am afraid to move." she ran again to the window and this time pulled it open. the moonlight instantly flooded the room, dimming the candles which she had lighted. she saw her shadow, and started back in horror. "some one glided behind the old oak in the park," she cried aloud, for the company of her voice. "oh, oh! nell will be murdered! i begged her not to go to portsmouth's ball. she said she just wanted to peep in and pay her respects to the hostess. moll! you better pray." she fell upon her knees and reverently lifted her hands and eyes in prayer. something fell in the room with a heavy thud. she shut her eyes tight and prayed harder. the object of her fear was a long gray boot, which had been thrown in at the window and had fallen harmlessly by her side. it was followed in an instant by its mate, equally harmless yet equally dreadful. a jaunty figure, assisted by a friendly shoulder, then bounded over the balustrade and rested with a sigh of relief just within the window-opening. it was nell, returning from the wars; she was pale, almost death-like. the evening's excitement, her daring escapade and more especially its exciting finish had taken hold of her in earnest. her dainty little self was paying the penalty. she was all of a tremble. "safe home at last!" she cried wearily. "heaven reward you, strings." from below the terrace, without the window, responded the fiddler, in sympathetic, loving tones: "good night, mistress nell; and good sleep." "good night, comrade," answered nell, as she almost fell into the room, calling faintly: "moll! moll! what are you doing, moll?" moll closed her eyes tighter and prayed still more fervently. "praying for nell," her trembling lips mechanically replied. "humph!" cried nell, half fainting, throwing herself upon the couch. "there's no spirit in this flesh worth praying for. some wine, some wine; and the blessing after." the command brought moll to her senses and she realized that it was really nell who had entered thus unceremoniously. she rushed to her for safety, like a frightened deer to the lake. "nell, dear nell!" she cried. "you are ill." "wine, wine, i say," again fell in peremptory tones from the half-reclining nell. moll glanced in dismay at her bootless mistress: her garments all awry; her sword ill sheathed; her cloak uncaught from the shoulder and half used, petticoat-like, as a covering for her trembling-limbs; her hair dishevelled; her cheeks pale; her wild eyes, excitement-strained, staring from their sockets. "you are wounded; you are going to die," she cried. "moll will be all alone in the world again." her hands shook more than nell's as she filled a glass half full of wine and passed it to her mistress. "to the brim, girl, to the brim," commanded nell, reviving at the prospect of the draught. "there!" she tossed off the drink in gallant fashion: "i tell you, sweetheart, we men need lots of stimulating." "you are all of a tremble," continued moll. "little wonder!" sighed nell. "these braveries are a trifle chilly, sweet mouse. boo!" she laughed hysterically, while moll closed the window. "you see, i never was a man before, and i had all that lost time to make up--acres of oats to scatter in one little night. open my throat; i cannot breathe. take off my sword. the wars are done, i hope." she startled moll, who was encasing her mistress's pretty feet in a pair of dainty shoes, with another wild, hilarious laugh. "moll," she continued, "i was the gayest mad-cap there. the sex were wild for me. i knew their weak points of attack, lass. if i had been seeking a mate, i could have made my market of them all and started a harem." she seemed to forget all her dangers past in the recollection. "wicked girl," said moll, pouting reprovingly. "oh, i am a jolly roisterer, little one," laughed nell, in reply, as with cavalier-strides she crossed the room. she threw herself upon the table and proceeded to boast of her doings for moll's benefit, swinging her feet meanwhile. "i ran the gamut. i had all the paces of the truest cavalier. i could tread a measure, swear like one from the wars, crook my elbow, lie, gamble, fight--fight? did i say fight?" she hid her curly head in her hands and sobbed spasmodically. "you have been in danger!" exclaimed moll, fearfully. "danger!" repeated nell, breaking out afresh. "i taught the king a lesson he will dream about, my sweet, though it near cost me my life. he loves me, d'ye hear; he loves me, pretty one! dance, moll, dance--dance, i say! i could fly for very joy!" with the tears still wet upon her cheeks, she seized moll by both hands and whirled the astonished girl wildly about the room, until she herself reeled for want of breath. then, catching at a great carved oaken chair, she fell into it and cried and laughed alternately. "nell, nell," gasped moll, as she too struggled for breath; "one minute you laugh and then you cry. have you lost your wits?" "i only know," exulted nell, "i made him swear his love for nell to portsmouth's face. i made him draw his sword for nell." "great heavens!" exclaimed moll, aghast. "you did not draw yourself? a sword against the king is treason." "ods-bodikins, i know not!" answered nell. "i know not what i did or said. i was mad, mad! all i remember is: there was a big noise--a million spears and blunderbusses turned upon poor me! gad! i made a pretty target, girl." "a million spears and blunderbusses!" echoed moll, her eyes like saucers. "an army, child, an army!" continued nell, in half-frantic accents. "i did not stop to count them. then, next i knew, i was in my coach, with dear old strings beside me. the horses flew. we alighted at the chapel, tiptoed about several corners to break the scent; then i took off my shoes and stole up the back way like a good and faithful husband. oh, i did the whole thing in cavalier-style, sweetheart. but,'twixt us, moll," and she spoke with a mysterious, confidential air,"--i wouldn't have it go further for worlds--adair is a coward, a monstrous coward! he ran!" as if to prove the truth of her words, at a sudden, sharp, shrill sound from the direction of the park, the sad remnant of adair clutched moll frantically; and both girls huddled together with startled faces and bated breaths. "hark! what is that?" whispered nell. "the men, perchance, i told you of," answered moll; "they've spied about the house for weeks." "nonsense, you little goose," remonstrated nell, though none too bravely; "some of your ex-lovers nailing their bleeding hearts to the trees." "no, no; listen!" exclaimed moll, frantically, as the noise grew louder. "they're in the entry." "in the entry!" stammered nell; and she almost collapsed at the thought of more adventures. "i wish we were in bed, with our heads under the sheet." "here is your sword," said moll, as she brought nell the sharp weapon, held well at arm's length for fear of it. "oh, yes, my sword!" exclaimed nell, perking up--for an instant only. "i never thought of my sword; and this is one of the bravest swords i ever drew. i am as weak as a woman, moll." "take heart," said moll, encouraging her from the rear, as nell brandished the glittering blade in the direction of the door. "you know you faced an army to-night." "true," replied nell, her courage oozing out at her finger-tips, "but then i was a man, and had to seem brave, whether i was or no. who's there?" she called faintly. "who's there? support me, moll. beau adair is on his last legs." both stood listening intently and trembling from top to toe. a score of rich voices, singing harmoniously, broke upon the night. the startled expression on nell's face changed instantly to one of fearless, roguish merriment. she was her old self again. she tossed the sword contemptuously upon the floor, laughing in derision now at her companion's fear. "a serenade! a serenade!" she cried. "moll--why, moll, what feared ye, lass? come!" she ran gaily to the window and peeped out. "oh, ho, masqueraders from the moon. some merry crew, i'll be bound. i am generous. i'll give thee all but one, sweet mouse. the tall knight in white for me! i know he's gallant, though his vizor's down. marry, he is their captain, i trow; and none but a captain of men shall be captain of my little heart." "it is satan and his imps," cried moll, attempting to draw nell from the window. "tush, little one," laughed nell, reprovingly. "satan is my warmest friend. besides, they cannot cross the moat. the ramparts are ours. the draw-bridge is up." in a merry mood, she threw a piece of drapery, mantle-like, about adair's shoulders, quite hiding them, and, decapitating a grim old suit of armour, placed the helmet on her head. thus garbed, she threw the window quickly open and stepped boldly upon the ledge, within full view of the band beneath. as the moonlight gleamed upon her helmet, one might have fancied her a goodly knight of yore; and, indeed, she looked quite formidable. "nell, what are you doing?" called moll, wildly, from a point of safety. "they can see and shoot you." "tilly-vally, girl," replied nell, undaunted now that she could see that there was no danger, "we'll parley with the enemy in true feudal style. we'll teach them we have a man about the house. ho, there, strangers of the night--breakers of the king's peace and the slumbers of the righteous! brawlers, knaves; would ye raise honest men from their beds at such an hour? what means this jargon of tipsy voices? what want ye?" a chorus of throats without demanded, in muffled accents: "drink!" "drink!" "sack!" "rhenish!" [illustration: "i was that boy!"] "do ye think this a tavern, knaves?" responded nell, in a husky, mannish voice. "do ye think this a vintner's? there are no topers here. jackanapes, revellers; away with you, or we'll rouse the citadel and train the guns." her retort was met with boisterous laughter and mocking cries of "down with the doors!" "break in the windows!" this was a move nell had not anticipated. she jumped from the ledge, or rather tumbled into the room, nervously dropping her disguise upon the floor. "heaven preserve us," she said to moll, with quite another complexion in her tone, "they are coming in! oh, moll, moll, i did not think they would dare." moll closed the sashes and bolted them, then hugged nell close. "ho, there, within!" came, in a guttural voice, now from without the door. "yes?" nell tried to say; but the word scarce went beyond her lips. again in guttural tones came a second summons--"nell! nell!" nell turned to moll for support and courage, whispering: "some arrant knave calls nell at this hour." then, assuming an attitude of bravery, with fluttering heart, she answered, as best she could, in a forced voice: "nell's in bed!" "yes, nell's in bed," echoed the constant moll. "everybody's in bed. call to-morrow!" "no trifling, wench!" commanded the voice without, angrily. "down with the door!" "stand close, moll," entreated nell, as she answered the would-be intruder with the question: "who are ye? who are ye?" "old rowley himself!" replied the guttural voice. this was followed by hoarse laughter from many throats. "the king--as i thought!" whispered nell. "good lack; what shall i do with adair? plague on't, he'll be mad if i keep him waiting, and madder if i let him in. where are your wits, moll? run for my gown; fly--fly!" moll hastened to do the bidding. nell rushed to the entry-door, in frantic agitation. "the bolt sticks, sire," she called, pretending to struggle with the door, hoping so to stay his majesty until she should have time to dispose of poor adair. "how can i get out of these braveries?" she then asked herself, tugging awkwardly at one part of the male attire and then at another. "i don't know which end of me to begin on first." moll re-entered the room with a bundle of pink in her arms, which turned out to be a flowing, silken robe, trimmed with lace. "here is the first i found," she said breathlessly. nell motioned to her nervously to put it upon the couch. "help me out of this coat," she pleaded woefully. moll took off the coat and then assisted nell to circumscribe with the gown, from heels to head, her stunning figure, neatly encased in adair's habit, which now consisted only of a jaunty shirt of white, gray breeches, shoes and stockings. "marry, i would i were a fairy with a magic wand; i could befuddle men's eyes easier," nell lamented. the king knocked again upon the door sharply. "patience, my liege," entreated nell, drawing her gown close about her and muttering with personal satisfaction: "there, there; that hides a multitude of sins. the girdle, the girdle! adair will not escape from this--if we can but keep him quiet; the rogue has a woman's tongue, and it will out, i fear." she snatched up a mirror and arranged her hair as best she could in the dim light, with the cries without resounding in her ears and with moll dancing anxiously about her. "down with the door," threatened the king, impatiently. "the ram; the battering ram." "i come, my love; i come," cried nell, in agitation, fairly running to the door to open it, but stopping aghast as her eye caught over her shoulder the sad, telltale condition of the room. "'sdeath," she called in a stage-whisper to moll; "under the couch with adair's coat! patience, sire," she besought in turn the king. "help me, moll. how this lock has rusted--in the last few minutes. my sword!" she continued breathlessly to moll. "my boots! my hat! my cloak!" moll, in her efforts to make the room presentable, was rushing hither and thither, first throwing adair's coat beneath the couch as nell commanded and firing the other evidences of his guilty presence, one behind one door and another behind another. it was done. nell slipped the bolt and calmly took a stand in the centre of the room, drawing her flowing gown close about adair's person. she was quite exhausted from the nervous strain, but her actress's art taught her the way to hide it. moll, panting for breath, across the room, feigned composure as best she could. the door opened and in strode the king and his followers. "welcome, royal comrades, welcome all!" said nell, bowing graciously to her untimely visitors. chapter xvi _ods-pitikins, my own reflection!_ upon the fine face of the king, as he entered nell's drawing-room, was an expression of nervous bantering, not wholly unmixed with anxiety. the slanderous adair and his almost miraculous escape had not long weighed upon his majesty's careless nature. as he had not met adair until that night or even heard of him, his heart had told him that the irish roisterer could scarcely be a serious obstacle in the way of nell's perfect faith, if, indeed, he had met nell at all, which he doubted. his command to the guard to follow and overtake the youth had been more the command of the ruler than of the man. despite himself, there had been something about the dainty peacock he could not help but like; and the bold dash for the window, the disarming of the purse-proud buckingham, who for many reasons displeased him, and the leap to the sward below, with the accompanying farewell, had especially delighted both his manhood and his sense of humour. he had, therefore, dismissed adair from his mind, except as a possible subject to banter nell withal, or as a culprit to punish, if overtaken. his restless spirit had chafed under the duchess's lavish entertainment--for the best entertainment is dull to the lover whose sweetheart is absent--and he had turned instinctively from the ball to nell's terrace, regardless of the hour and scarce noticing his constant attendants. the night was so beautiful that their souls had found vent in song. this serenade, however, had brought to nell's window a wide-awake fellow, who had revealed himself in saucy talk; and the delighted cavaliers, in hope of fun, had charged jeeringly that they had outwitted the guard and had found adair. it was this that had brought the anxious look to the king's face; and, though his better judgment was still unchanged, the sight of the knave at the window, together with the suggestions of his merry followers, had cast a shadow of doubt for the moment upon his soul, and he had reflected that there was much that the irish youth had said that could not be reconciled with that better judgment. with a careless shrug, he had, therefore, taken up the jest of his lawless crew, which coincided with his own intended purpose, and had sworn that he would turn the household out of bed without regard to pretty protests or formality of warrant. he would raise the question forthwith, in jest and earnest, and worry nell about the boaster. "scurvy entertainment," he began, with frowning brow. "yea, my liege," explained nell, winsomely; "you see--i did not expect the king so late, and so was unpresentable." "it is the one you do not expect," replied charles, dryly, "who always causes the trouble, nell." "we were in bed, sire," threw in moll, thinking to come to the rescue of her mistress. "marry, truly," said nell, catching at the cue, "--asleep, sire, sound asleep; and our prayers said." "tilly-vally," exclaimed the king, "we might credit thy tongue, wench, but for the prayers. no digressions, spider nell. my sword is in a fighting mood. 'sdeath, call forth the knight-errant who holds thy errant heart secure for one short hour!" "the knight of my heart!" cried nell. "ah, sire, you know his name." she looked at his majesty with eyes of unfailing love; but the king was true to his jest. "yea, marry, i do," laughed charles, tauntingly, with a wink at his companions; "a pretty piece of heraldry, a bold escutcheon, a dainty poniard--pale as a lily, and how he did sigh and drop his lids and smirk and smirk and dance your latest galliard to surpass de grammont. ask brother james how he did dance." "nay, sire," hastily interceded the ever-gallant rochester, "his highness of york has suffered enough." york frowned at the reference; for he had been robbed of his lady at the dance by adair. he could not forget that. heedless of his royalty, bestowed by man, she, like the others, had followed in the train of the irish spark, who was royal only by nature. "hang the coxcomb!" he snarled. "'slife, i will," replied charles, slyly, "an you overtake him, brother." "his back was shapely, sire," observed rochester, with quaint humour. "yea, and his heels!" cried the king, reflectively. "he had such dainty heels--mercury's wings attached, to waft him on his way." "this is moonshine madness!" exclaimed nell, with the blandest of bland smiles. "there's none such here. by my troth, i would there were. nay, ask moll." moll did not wait to be asked. "not one visitor to-night," she asserted promptly. "odso!" cried charles, in a mocking tone. "whence came the jack at the window--the brave young challenger--'would ye raise honest men from their beds at such an hour?'" a burst of laughter followed the king's grave imitation of the window-boaster. "sire!" sighed rochester, in like spirit. "'do you think this a vintner's? there are no topers here.'" another burst of merry laughter greeted the speaker, as he punctuated his words by catching up the wine-cups from the table and clinking them gaily. nell's face was as solemn as a funeral. "to your knees, minx," commanded james, grimly, "and crave mercy of your prince." "faith and troth," pleaded nell, seriously, "'t was i myself with helmet and mantle on. you see, sire, my menials were guests at portsmouth's ball--to lend respectability." "saucy wag," cried the merry monarch. "a ball?--a battle--which would have killed thee straight!" "it had liked to," reflected nell, as she tartly replied: "a war of the sex without me? it was stupid, then. the duchess missed me, i trow." "never fear," answered charles, with difficulty suppressing his mirth; "you were bravely championed." "i am sure of that," said nell, slyly; "my king was there." "and a bantam cock," ejaculated charles, sarcastically, "upon whose lips 'nell' hung familiarly." "some strange gallant," cried nell, in ecstasy, "took my part before them all? who was he, sire? don't tantalize me so." she smiled, half serious, half humorous, as she pleaded in her charming way. "a chip from the blarney stone," observed the king at length, ironically, "surnamed adair!" "adair! adair!" cried nell, to the astonishment of all. "we spent our youth together. i see him in my mind's eye, sire, throw down the gauntlet in nell's name and defy the world for her. fill the cups. we'll drink to my new-found hero! fill! fill! to beau adair, as you love me, gallants! long life to adair!" the cups were filled to overflowing and trembled on eager lips in response to the hostess's merry toast. "stay!" commanded the king, in peremptory tones. "not a drop to a coward!" "a coward!" cried nell, aghast. "adair a coward? i'll never credit it, sire!" she turned away, lest she reveal her merriment, as she bethought her: "he is trembling in my boots now. i can feel him shake." "our pledge is nell, nell only!" exclaimed the king, his cup high in air. with one accord, the gallants eagerly took up the royal pledge. "aye, aye, nell!" "nell!" "we'll drink to nell!" "you do me honour, royal gentlemen," bowed nell, well pleased at the king's toast. she had scarce touched the cup to her lips, however, with a mental chuckle, "poor adair! here's a health to the inner man!" when her eye fell upon one of adair's gray boots, which moll had failed to hide, in her excitement, now revealing itself quite plainly in the light of the many candles. she caught it adroitly on the tip of her toe and sent it whizzing through the air in the direction of poor moll, who, fortunately, caught it in midair and hid it quickly beneath her apron. the king turned at the sound; but nell's face was as woefully unconcerned as a church-warden's at his hundredth burial. the wine added further zest to the merry-making and the desire for sport. "now, fair huswife," continued charles, his thoughts reverting to adair, "set forth the dish, that we may carve it to our liking. 'tis a dainty bit,--lace, velvet and ruffles." "heyday, sire," responded nell, evasively, "the larder's empty." "devil on't," cried charles, ferociously; "no mincing, wench. in the confusion of the ball, the bird escaped my guard by magic. we know whither the flight." the king assumed a knowing look. "escaped the guard?" gasped nell, in great surprise. "alas, i trow some petticoat has hid him then." "i'll stake my life upon't," observed james, who had not been heard from in some time but who had been observing the scene with decorous dignity. "sire, you would not injure adair," pleaded nell, now alert, with all her arts of fascination. "you are too generous. blue eyes of heaven, and such a smile! did you mark that young irishman's smile, sire?" her impudence was so bewitching that the king scarce knew whether it were jest or earnest. he sprang to his feet from the couch, where he had thrown himself after the toast to nell, and, with some forcefulness, exclaimed: "odsfish, this to my teeth, rogue! guard the doors, gallants; we'd gaze upon this paragon." "and set him pirouetting, sire," sardonically suggested james. "yea, to the tune of these fiddle-sticks," laughed charles, as he unsheathed his rapier. "search from tile to rafter." "aye, aye," echoed the omnipresent rochester, "from cellar to garret." before, however, the command could be obeyed, even in resolution, nell moved uneasily to a curtain which hung in the corner of the room and placed herself before it, as if to shield a hidden man. "sire," she pleaded fearfully, "spare him, sire; for my sake, sire. he is not to blame for loving me. he cannot help it. you know that, sire!" "can he really be here?" muttered charles, with clouding visage. "saucy wench! hey! my blood is charging full-tilt through my veins. odsfish, we'll try his mettle once again." "prythee, sire," begged nell, "he is too noble and brave and handsome to die. i love his very image." "oh, ho!" cried charles. "a silken blind for the silken bird! hey, st. george for merry england! come forth, thou picture of cowardice, thou vile slanderer." he grasped nell by the wrist and fairly dragged her across the room. then, rushing to the curtain, he seized its silken folds and tore it completely from its hangings--only to face himself in a large mirror. "ods-pitikins, my own reflection!" he exclaimed, with menacing tone, though there was relief as well in his voice. he bent the point of his blade against the floor, gazed at himself in the pier-glass and looked over his shoulder at nell, who stood in the midst of his courtiers, splitting her sides with laughter, undignified but honest. "rogue, rogue," he cried, "i should turn the point on thee for this trick; but england would be worse than a puritan funeral with no nell. thou shalt suffer anon." "i defy thee, sire, and all thy imps of satan," laughed the vixen, as she watched the king sheathe his jewelled sword. "cast nell in the blackest dungeon, adair is her fellow-prisoner; outlaw nell, adair is her brother outlaw; off with nell's head, off rolls adair's. who else can boast so true a love!" "thou shalt be banished the realm," decided the king, jestingly; for he was now convinced that her adair was but a jest to tease him--a roland for his oliver. "banished!" cried nell, with bated breath. "aye; beyond sea, witch!" answered the king, with pompous austerity. "virginia shall be thy home." "good, good!" laughed nell, gaily. "sire, the men grow handsome in virginia, and dauntless; and they tell me there are a dearth of women there. oh, banish me at once to--what's the name?" "jamestown," suggested york, recalling the one name because of its familiar sound. "yea, brother james," said nell, fearlessly mimicking his brusque accent, "jamestown." "savages, wild men, cannibals," scowled charles. "cannibals!" cried nell. "marry, i should love to be a cannibal. are there cannibals in jamestown, brother james? banish me, sire; banish me to jamestown of all places. up with the sails, my merry men; give me the helm! adair will sail in the same good ship, i trow." "adair! i trow thou wert best at home, cannibal nelly," determined the king. "then set all the men in britain to watch me, sire," said nell; "for, from now on, i'll need it." the king shook his finger warningly at her, then leaned carelessly against the window. "ho there!" he cried out suddenly. "a night disturbance, a drunken brawl, beneath our very ears! fellow-saints, what mean my subjects from their beds this hour of night? their sovereign does the revelling for the realm. james, rochester and all, see to 't!" chapter xvii _the day will be so happy; for i've seen you at the dawn._ the room was quickly cleared, the king's courtiers jostling one another in their efforts to carry out the royal bidding. charles turned with a merry laugh and seized nell in his arms almost fiercely. "a subterfuge!" he cried eagerly. "nell, quick; one kiss!" "nay; you question my constancy to-night," said nell, sadly, as she looked into his eyes, with the look of perfect love. "you do not trust me." "i do, sweet nell," protested the king, earnestly. "you bring me portsmouth's lips," said nell, with sad reproof. "i left her dance for you," replied the king, drawing her closer to him. "at near sunrise, sire," sighed nell, reprovingly, as she drew back the curtain and revealed the first gray streaks of the breaking light of day. "nay, do not tantalize me, nell," besought the king, throwing himself upon the couch. "i am sad to-night." the woman's forgiving heart was touched with sympathy. her eyes sought his sadly beautiful face. she ran to him, fell upon her knees and kissed his hand tenderly. "tantalize my king!" she cried. "the day will be so happy; for i've seen you at the dawn." there was all the emotional fervour and pathetic tenderness which the great composer has compressed into the love-music of "tristan and isolde" in her voice. "my crown is heavy, nell," he continued. "heaven gives us crowns, but not the eye to see the ending of our deeds." "god sees them," said nell. "ah, sire, i thank the maker of the world for giving a crown to one whom i respect and love." "and i curse it," cried the king, with earnest eyes; "for 'tis the only barrier to our united love. it is the sparkling spider in the centre of a great web of intrigue and infamy." "you make me bold to speak. cut the web, sire, which binds thy crown to france. there is the only danger." "thou art wrong, nelly, wrong!" he spoke in deep, firm accents. "i have decided otherwise." he rose abruptly, his brow clouded with thought. she took his hand tenderly. "then, change your mind, sire," she pleaded; "for i can prove--" "what, girl?" he asked eagerly, his curiosity awakened by her manner. nell did not respond. to continue would reveal adair, and she could not think of that. "what, i say?" again asked charles, impatiently. "to-morrow, sire," laughed nell, evasively. "aye, to-morrow and to-morrow!" petulantly repeated the king. he was about to demand a direct reply but was stayed by the sound of a struggle without. it befell in the nick of time for nell, as all things, indeed, in life seemed to befall in the nick of time for her. the impious huswives shook their heads and attributed it to the evil influence; the pious huswives asserted it was providential; nell herself laughingly declared it was her lucky star. "ho, without there!" charles cried, impatiently--almost angrily--at the interruption. "whence comes this noisy riot?" james, rochester and the others unceremoniously re-entered. "pardon, sire," explained the duke of york; "the guard caught but now an armed ruffian prowling by the house. they report they stayed him on suspicion of his looks and insolence." "adair! adair! my life upon't!" laughed the king, ever ready for sport. "set him before us." an officer of the guard departed quickly to bring in the offender. the courtiers took up the king's cry most readily; and there was a general cackle of "adair!" "adair!" "a trial!" "sire!" "bring in the coward!" nell stood in the midst of the scene, the picture of demure innocence. "they've caught adair!" she whispered to moll, mischievously. "aye, gallants," cried the merry monarch, approvingly, "we'll form a court of inquiry. this table shall be our bench, on which we'll hem and haw and puff and look judicial. odsfish, we will teach radamanthus and judge jeffreys ways of terrorizing." he sprang upon the table, which creaked somewhat beneath the royal burden, and assumed the austere, frowning brow of worldly justice. "_oyer, oyer_, all ye who have grievances--" cried the garrulous rochester in the husky tones of the crier, who most generally assumes that he is the whole court and oftentimes should be. "mistress nell," commanded the royal judge, summoning nell to the bar, "thou shalt be counsel for the prisoner; adair's life hangs upon thy skill to outwit the law." "or bribe the judge, sire?" suggested nell, demurely. "not with thy traitor lips," retorted charles, with the injured dignity of a petty justice about to commit a flash of true wit for contempt of court. "traitor lips?" cried nell, sadly. "by my troth, i never kissed adair. i confess, i tried, your majesty; but i could not." "have a care," replied the king, in a tone which indicated that the fires of suspicion still smouldered in his breast; "i am growing jealous." nell fell upon one knee and stretched forth her arms suppliantly. "adair is in such a tight place, sire, he can scarcely breathe," she pleaded, with the zeal of a barrister hard-working for his first fee in her voice, "much less speak for himself. mercy!" "we will have justice; not mercy," replied the court, with a sly wink at rochester. "guilty or not guilty, wench?" "not guilty, sire! did you ever see the man who was?" the king laughed despite himself, followed by his ever-aping courtiers. "i'll plead for the crown," asserted the grim james, with great vehemence, "to rid the realm of this dancing-jack." "thou hast cause, brother," laughed the king. "rochester, thou shalt sit by us here." rochester sprang, with a contented chuckle, into a chair on the opposite side of the table to that upon which his majesty was holding his mock-court and seated himself upon its high back, so poised as not to fall. from this lofty bench, with a queer gurgle, to say nothing of a swelling of the chest, and with an approving glance from his majesty, he added his mite to the all-inspiring dignity of the revellers' court. "judge rochester!" continued the king, slapping him with his glove, across the table. "judge--of good ale. we'll confer with the cups, imbibe the statutes and drink in the law. set the rascal before us." in obedience to the command, a man well muffled with a cloak was forced into the room, a guard at either arm. behind them, taking advantage of the open door to appease their curiosity, crowded many hangers-on of courtdom, among whom was strings, who had met the revellers some distance from the house and had returned with them. "hold off your hands, knaves," commanded the prisoner, who was none other than hart, the player, indignant at the detention. "silence, rogue!" commanded the king. "thy name?" "sire!" cried hart, throwing off his mantle and glancing for the first time at the judge's face. he sank immediately upon one knee, bowing respectfully. "jack hart!" cried one and all, craning their necks in surprise and expectation. "'slife, a spy upon our merry-making!" exclaimed the displeased monarch. "what means this prowling, sir?" "pardon, pardon, my reply, your majesty," humbly importuned the player. "blinded by passion, i might say that i should regret." "your strange behaviour and stranger looks have meaning, sir," cried the king, impatiently. "out with it! these are too dangerous times to withhold your thoughts from your king." "no need for commands, sire," entreated hart. "the words are trembling on my lips and will out themselves in spite of me. at portsmouth's ball, an hour past, i o'erheard that fop adair boast to-night a midnight rendezvous here with nell." nell placed her hands upon her heart. "this--my old friend," she reflected sadly. "our jest turned earnest," cried charles. "well? well?" he questioned, in peremptory tones. "i could not believe my ears, sire," the prisoner continued, faltering. "i watched to refute the lie--" "yes--yes--" exhorted the king, in expectation. "i cannot go on." "knave, i command!" "i saw adair enter this abode at midnight." hart's head fell, full of shame, upon his breast. "'sblood," muttered the king, scarce mindful that his words might be audible to those about him, "my heart stands still as if't were knifed. my pretty golden-head, my bonnie nell!" he turned sharply toward the player. "your words are false, false, sir! kind heaven, they must be." "pardon, sire," pleaded hart; "i know not what i do or say. only love for nell led me to this spot." "love!" cried nell, with the irony of sadness. "oh, inhuman, to spy out my ways, resort to mean device, involve my honour, and call the motive love!" "you are cruel, cruel, nell," sobbed hart; and he turned away his eyes. he could not look at her. "love!" continued nell, bitterly. "true love would come alone, filled with gentle admonition. i pity you, friend hart, that god has made you thus!" "no more, no more!" hart quite broke beneath the strain. "dost hear, dost hear?" cried charles, in ecstasy, deeply affected by nell's exposition of true love. "sir, you are the second to-night to belie the dearest name in england. you shall answer well to me." "ask the lady, sire," pleaded hart, in desperation. "i'll stake my life upon her reply." "nell?--nell?" questioned the king; for he could scarce refuse to accept her word when a player had placed unquestioned faith in it. nell hid her face in her silken kerchief and burst into seeming spasmodic sobs of grief. "sire!" was all the response the king could hear. he trembled violently and his face grew white. he did not know that nell's tears were merry laughs. "her tears convict her," exclaimed hart, triumphantly. "i'll not believe it," cried the king. nell became more hysterical. she sobbed and sobbed, as though her heart would break, her face buried in her hands and her flying curls falling over and hiding all. "adair's sides are aching," she chuckled, in apparent convulsions of sorrow. "he's laughing through nell's tears." meanwhile, moll had been standing by the window; and, though she was watching eagerly the exciting scene within the room, she could not fail to note the sound of galloping horses and the rattling of a heavy coach on the roadway without. "a coach and six at break-neck speed," she cried, "have landed at the door. a cavalier alights." "time some one arrived," thought nell, as she glanced at herself in the mirror, to see that adair was well hidden, and to arrange her curls, to bewitch the new arrivals, whosoever they might be. as the cavalier dashed up the path, in the moonlight, moll recognized the duke of buckingham, and at once announced his name. "ods-pitikins!" exclaimed charles, angrily. "no leisure for buckingham now. we have other business." he had scarce spoken, however, when buckingham, unceremoniously and almost breathless, entered the room. "how now?" cried the king, fiercely, as the duke fell on his knee before him; for his temper had been wrought to a high pitch. "pardon, your majesty," besought his lordship, in nervous accents. "my mission will excuse my haste and interruption. your ear i crave one moment. sire, i am told nell has to-night secreted in this house a lover!" "another one!" whispered nell to moll. "'tis hearsay," cried the king, now at fever-heat, "the give-and-take of gossips! i'll none of it." "my witness, sire!" answered buckingham. he turned toward the door; and there, to the astonishment of all, stood the duchess of portsmouth, who had followed him from the coach, a lace mantilla, caught up in her excitement, protecting her shapely shoulders and head. as the assembled courtiers looked upon the beautiful rivals, standing, as they did, face to face before the king, and realized the situation, their faces grew grave, indeed. the suspense became intense. "the day of reckoning's come," thought nell, as she met with burning glances the duchess's eyes. "speak, your grace," exhorted buckingham. "the king attends you." "nay, before all, my lord?" protested portsmouth, with pretended delicacy. "i could not do madame gwyn so much injustice." "if your speech concerns me," observed nell, mildly, "out with it boldly. my friends will consider the source." "speak, and quickly!" commanded charles. "i would rather lose my tongue," still protested the duchess, "than speak such words of any one; but my duty to your majesty--" "no preludes," interrupted the king; and he meant it, too. he was done with trifling, and the duchess saw it. "my servants," she said, with a virtuous look, "passing this abode by chance, this very night, saw at a questionable hour a strange cavalier entering the boudoir of madame gwyn!" "she would make my honour the price of her revenge," thought nell, her eyes flashing. "she shall rue those words, or adair's head and mine are one for naught." "what say you to this, nell?" asked the king, the words choking in his throat. "sire,--i--i--" answered nell, evasively. "there's some mistake or knavery!" "she hesitates," interpolated the duchess, eagerly. "you change colour, wench," cried charles, his heart, indeed, again upon the rack. "ho, without there! search the house." an officer entered quickly to obey the mandate. "stay, sire," exclaimed nell, raising herself to her full height, her hot, trembling lips compressed, her cheeks aflame. "my oath, i have not seen adair's face this night." her words fell upon the assemblage like thunder from a june-day sky. the king's face brightened. the duchess's countenance grew pale as death. "_mon dieu!_ adair!" she gasped in startled accents to lord buckingham, attendant at her side. "could it be he my servants saw? the packet! fool! why did i give it him?" buckingham trembled violently. he was even more startled than portsmouth; for he had more to lose. england was his home and france was hers. "the scales are turning against us," he whispered. "throw in this ring for safety. nell's gift to adair; you understand." he slipped, unobserved, upon the duchess's finger the jewelled ring the king had given to almahyde among the roses at the performance of "granada." "yes! yes! 'tis my only chance," she answered, catching at his meaning; for her wits were of the sharpest in intrigue and cunning, and she possessed the boldness too to execute her plans. she approached the king, with the confident air possessed by great women who have been bred at court. "your majesty recognizes this ring?" she asked in mildest accents. "the one i gave to nell!" answered the astonished king. "the one adair this night gave to me," said portsmouth, calmly. "'tis false!" cried nell, who could restrain her tongue no longer. "i gave that ring to dear old strings." "a rare jewel to bestow upon a fiddler," said the duchess, sarcastically. "it is true," said strings, who had wormed his way through the group at mention of his name and now stood the meek central figure at the strange hearing. "my little ones were starving, sire; and nell gave me the ring--all she had. they could not eat the gold; so i sold it to the duke of buckingham!" "we are lost," whispered buckingham to portsmouth, scarce audibly. "coward!" sneered the duchess, contemptuously. "i am not ready to sail for france so soon." the king stood irresolute. events had transpired so quickly that he scarce knew what it was best to do. his troubled spirit longed for a further hearing, while his heart demanded the ending of the scene with a peremptory word. before he could decide upon his course, the duchess had swept across the room, with queenly grace. "our hostess will pardon my eyes for wandering," she said, undaunted; "but her abode is filled with pleasant surprises. sire, here is a piece of handiwork." she knelt by the couch, and drew from under it a coat of gray, one sleeve of which had caught her eye. nell looked at moll with reproving glances. "marry, 'tis strings's, of course," continued portsmouth, dangling the coat before the wondering eyes of all. "the lace, the ruffle, becomes his complexion. he fits everything here so beautifully." as she turned the garment slowly about, she caught sight of a package of papers protruding from its inner pocket, sealed with her own seal. for the first time, the significance of the colour of the coat came home to her. "_mon dieu_," she cried, "adair's coat.--the packet!" her fingers sought the papers eagerly; but nell's eye and hand were too quick for her. "not so fast, dear duchess," said nell, sweetly, passing the little packet to his majesty. "our king must read these papers--and between the lines as well." "enough of this!" commanded charles. "what is it?" "some papers, sire," said nell, pointedly, "given for a kiss and taken with a kiss. i have not had time to read them." "some family papers, sire," asserted the duchess, with assumed indifference, "stolen from my house." she would have taken them from his majesty, so great, indeed, was her boldness; but nell again stayed her. "aye, stolen," said nell, sharply; "but by the hostess herself--from her unsuspecting, royal guest. there, sire, stands the only thief!" she pointed accusingly at portsmouth. "my signature!" cried charles, as he ran his eye down a parchment. "the treaties! no more parliaments for england. i agreed to that." "i agree to that myself," said nell, roguishly. "england's king is too great to need parliaments. the king should have a confidential adviser, however--not french," and she cast a defiant glance at portsmouth, "but english. read on; read on." she placed her pretty cheek as near as possible to the king's as she followed the letters over his shoulder. "a note to bouillon!" he said, perusing the parchments further. "charles consents to the fall of luxembourg. i did not sign all this. i see it all: louis's ambition to rule the world, england's king debased by promises won and royal contracts made with a clever woman--forgery mixed with truth. sweet heaven, what have i done!" "the papers have not gone, sire," blandly remarked nell. "thanks to you, my nell," said charles. he addressed portsmouth sharply: "madame, your coach awaits you." "but, sire," replied the duchess, who was brave to the last, "madame gwyn has yet adair to answer for!" "adair will answer for himself!" cried nell, triumphantly. she threw aside the pink gown and stood as adair before the astonished eyes of all. "at your service," she said, bowing sweetly to the duchess. "a player's trick!" cried portsmouth, haughtily, as a parting shot of contempt. "yes, portsmouth," replied nell, still in sweetest accents, "to show where lies the true and where the false." "you are a witch," hissed portsmouth. [illustration: "once more you have saved me."] "you are the king's true love," exclaimed the merry monarch. "to my arms, nell, to my arms; for you first taught me the meaning of true love! buckingham, you forget your courtesy. her grace wishes to be escorted to her coach." "_bon voyage_, madame," said nell, demurely, as the duchess took buckingham's arm and departed. the king's eyes fell upon the player, hart, who was still in custody. "away with this wretch!" he cried, incensed at his conduct. "i am not done with him." "forgive him, sire," interceded nell. "he took his cue from heaven, and good has come of it." "true, nell," said the king, mercifully. then he turned to hart: "you are free; but henceforth act the knave only on the stage." hart bowed with shame and withdrew. "sire, sire," exclaimed strings, forgetting his decorum in his eagerness. "well, strings?" inquired the king, good-humouredly; for there was now no cloud in his sky. "let me play the exit for the villains?" he pleaded unctuously. "the old fiddle is just bursting with tunes." "you shall, strings," replied his majesty, "and on a cremona. from to-day, you lead the royal orchestra." "odsbud," cried strings, gleefully, "i can offer jack hart an engagement." "just retribution, strings," laughed nell, happily. "can you do as much for nell, and forgive her, sire?" "it is i who should ask your pardon, nell," exclaimed the king, ecstatically, throwing both arms passionately about her. "you are charles's queen; you should be england's." _so the story ends, as all good stories should, in a perfect, unbroken dream of love._ epilogue spoken by miss crosman for the first time in new york at the bijou theatre on the evening of october 9, 1900: _good friends, before we end the play, i beg you all a moment stay: i warn my sex, by nell's affair, against a rascal called adair!_ _if lovers' hearts you'd truly scan, odsfish, perk up, and be a man!_ grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that are making theatrical history. madame x. by alexandre bisson and j. w. mcconaughy. illustrated with scenes from the play. a beautiful parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not forgive an error of her youth. her love for her son is the great final influence in her career. a tremendous dramatic success. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. an unconventional english woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and love in an oasis of the sahara. staged this season with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. the prince of india. by lew. wallace. a glowing romance of the byzantine empire, presenting with extraordinary power the siege of constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the warm underglow of an oriental romance. as a play it is a great dramatic spectacle. tess of the storm country. by grace miller white. illust. by howard chandler christy. a girl from the dregs of society, loves a young cornell university student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of those about her. the dramatic version is one of the sensations of the season. young wallingford. by george randolph chester. illust. by f. r. gruger and henry raleigh. a series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of which is just on the safe side of a state's prison offense. as "get-rich-quick wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of money manipulation ever seen on the stage. the intrusion of jimmy. by p. g. wodehouse. illustrations by will grefe. social and club life in london and new york, an amateur burglary adventure and a love story. dramatized under the title of "a gentleman of leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers. grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels the kind that are making theatrical history may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list within the law. by bayard veiller & marvin dana illustrated by wm. charles cooke. this is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for two years in new york and chicago. the plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent. what happened to mary. by robert carlton brown. illustrated with scenes from the play. this is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly thrown into the very heart of new york, "the land of her dreams," where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers. the story of mary is being told in moving pictures and played in theatres all over the world. the return of peter grimm. by david belasco, illustrated by john rae. this is a novelization of the popular play in which david war, field, as old peter grimm, scored such a remarkable success. the story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful, both as a book and as a play. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. this novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness. it is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. the play has been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. ben hur. a tale of the christ. by general lew wallace. the whole world has placed this famous religious-historical romance on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. the clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. a tremendous dramatic success. bought and paid for. by george broadhurst and arthur hornblow. illustrated with scenes from the play. a stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. the scenes are laid in new york, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor. the interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which show the young wife the price she has paid. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york titles selected from grosset & dunlap's list re-issues of the great literary successes of the time may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list ben hur. a tale of the christ. by general lew wallace this famous religious-historical romance with its mighty story, brilliant pageantry, thrilling action and deep religious reverence, hardly requires an outline. the whole world has placed "ben-hur" on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. the clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. the prince of india. by general lew wallace a glowing romance of the byzantine empire, showing, with vivid imagination, the possible forces behind the internal decay of the empire that hastened the fall of constantinople. the foreground figure is the person known to all as the wandering jew, at this time appearing as the prince of india, with vast stores of wealth, and is supposed to have instigated many wars and fomented the crusades. mohammed's love for the princess irene is beautifully wrought into the story, and the book as a whole is a marvelous work both historically and romantically. the fair god. by general lew wallace. a tale of the conquest of mexico. with eight illustrations by eric pape. all the annals of conquest have nothing more brilliantly daring and dramatic than the drama played in mexico by cortes. as a dazzling picture of mexico and the montezumas it leaves nothing to be desired. the artist has caught with rare enthusiasm the spirit of the spanish conquerors of mexico, its beauty and glory and romance. tarry thou till i come or, salathiel, the wandering jew. by george croly. with twenty illustrations by t. de thulstrup a historical novel, dealing with the momentous events that occurred, chiefly in palestine, from the time of the crucifixion to the, destruction of jerusalem. the book, as a story, is replete with oriental charm and richness and the character drawing is marvelous. no other novel ever written has portrayed with such vividness the events that convulsed rome and destroyed jerusalem in the early days of christanity. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york stories of western life may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list riders of the purple sage, by zane grey. illustrated by douglas duer. in this picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago, we are permitted to see the unscrupulous methods employed by the invisible hand of the mormon church to break the will of those refusing to conform to its rule. friar tuck, by robert alexander wason. illustrated by stanley l. wood. happy hawkins tells us, in his humorous way, how friar tuck lived among the cowboys, how he adjusted their quarrels and love affairs and how he fought with them and for them when occasion required. the sky pilot, by ralph connor. illustrated by louis rhead. there is no novel, dealing with the rough existence of cowboys, so charming in the telling, abounding as it does with the freshest and the truest pathos. the emigrant trail, by geraldine bonner. colored frontispiece by john rae. the book relates the adventures of a party on its overland pilgrimage, and the birth and growth of the absorbing love of two strong men for a charming heroine. the boss of wind river, by a. m. chisholm. illustrated by frank tenney johnson. this is a strong, virile novel with the lumber industry for its central theme and a love story full of interest as a sort of subplot. a prairie courtship, by harold bindloss. a story of canadian prairies in which the hero is stirred, through the influence of his love for a woman, to settle down to the heroic business of pioneer farming. joyce of the north woods, by harriet t. comstock. illustrated by john cassel. a story of the deep woods that shows the power of love at work among its primitive dwellers. it is a tensely moving study of the human heart and its aspirations that unfolds itself through thrilling situations and dramatic developments. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york the novels of stewart edward white the rules of the game. illustrated by lajaren a. killer the romance of the son of "the riverman." the young college hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft" and comes into the romance of his life. arizona nights. illus. and cover inlay by n. c. wyeth. a series of spirited tales emphasizing some phases of the life of the ranch, plains and desert. a masterpiece. the blazed trail. with illustrations by thomas fogarty. a wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the michigan pines. the claim jumpers. a romance. the tenderfoot manager of a mine in a lonesome gulch of the black hills has a hard time of it, but "wins out" in more ways than one. conjuror's house. illustrated theatrical edition. dramatized under the title of "the call of the north." conjuror's house is a hudson bay trading post where the head factor is the absolute lord. a young fellow risked his life and won a bride on this forbidden land. the magic forest. a modern fairy tale. illustrated. the sympathetic way in which the children of the wild and their life is treated could only belong to one who is in love with the forest and open air. based on fact. the riverman. illus. by n. c. wyeth and c. underwood. the story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the other. the silent places. illustrations by philip r. goodwin. the wonders of the northern forests, the heights of feminine devotion, and masculine power, the intelligence of the caucasian and the instinct of the indian, are all finely drawn in this story. the westerners. a story of the black hills that is justly placed among the best american novels. it portrays the life of the new west as no other book has done in recent years. the mystery. in collaboration with samuel hopkins adams grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. the trail of the lonesome pine. illustrated by f. c. yohn. [illustration] the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the _foot-prints of a girl_. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." the little shepherd of kingdom come illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. a knight of the cumberland. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners' fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. the harvester illustrated by w. l. jacobs [illustration] "the harvester," david langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of mother nature herself. if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man, with his sure grip on life, his superb optimism, and his almost miraculous knowledge of nature secrets, it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," and the harvester's whole sound, healthy, large outdoor being realizes that this is the highest point of life which has come to him--there begins a romance, troubled and interrupted, yet of the rarest idyllic quality. freckles. decorations by e. stetson crawford freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment, a girl of the limberlost illustrated by wladyslaw t. brenda. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. it is an inspiring story of a life worth while and the rich beauties of the out-of-doors are strewn through all its pages. at the foot of the rainbow. illustrations in colors by oliver kemp. design and decorations by ralph fletcher seymour. the scene of this charming, idyllic love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love; the friendship that gives freely without return, and the love that seeks first the happiness of the object. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york charming books for girls may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list when patty went to college, by jean webster. illustrated by c. d. williams. one of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been written. it is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable and thoroughly human. just patty, by jean webster. illustrated by c. m. relyea. patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows. the poor little rich girl, by eleanor gates. with four full page illustrations. this story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. a charming play as dramatized by the author. rebecca of sunnybrook farm, by kate douglas wiggin. one of the most beautiful studies of childhood--rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of austere new englanders. the stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record. new chronicles of rebecca, by kate douglas wiggin. illustrated by f. c. yohn. additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that carry rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. rebecca mary, by annie hamilton donnell. illustrated by elizabeth shippen green. this author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing. emmy lou: her book and heart, by george madden martin, illustrated by charles louis hinton. emmy lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. she is; just a bewitchingly innocent, hugable little maid. the book is wonderfully human. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york the novels of clara louise burnham may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. jewel: a chapter in her life. illustrated by maude and genevieve cowles. a sweet, dainty story, breathing the doctrine of love and patience; and sweet nature and cheerfulness. jewel's story book. illustrated by albert schmitt. a sequel to "jewel" and equally enjoyable. clever betsy. illustrated by rose o'neill. the "clever betsy" was a boat--named for the unyielding spinster whom the captain hoped to marry. through the two betsys a clever group of people are introduced to the reader. sweet clover: a romance of the white city. a story of chicago at the time of the world's fair. a sweet human story that touches the heart. the opened shutters. frontispiece by harrison fisher. a summer haunt on an island in casco bay is the background for this romance. a beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside vanity and self love. a delicately humorous work with a lofty motive underlying it all. the right princess. an amusing story, opening at a fashionable long island resort, where a stately englishwoman employs a forcible new england housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. how types so widely apart react on each other's lives, all to ultimate good, makes a story both humorous and rich in sentiment. the leaven of love. frontispiece by harrison fisher. at a southern california resort a world-weary woman, young and beautiful but disillusioned, meets a girl who has learned the art of living--of tasting life in all its richness, opulence and joy. the story hinges upon the change wrought in the soul of the blasè woman by this glimpse into a cheery life. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york louis tracy's captivating and exhilarating romances may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list cynthia's chauffeur. illustrated by howard chandler christy. a pretty american girl in london is touring in a car with a chauffeur whose identity puzzles her. an amusing mystery. the stowaway girl. illustrated by nesbitt benson. a shipwreck, a lovely girl stowaway, a rascally captain, a fascinating officer, and thrilling adventures in south seas. the captain of the kansas. love and the salt sea, a helpless ship whirled into the hands of cannibals, desperate fighting and a tender romance. the message. illustrated by joseph cummings chase. a bit of parchment found in the figurehead of an old vessel tells of a buried treasure. a thrilling mystery develops. the pillar of light. the pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author tells with exciting detail the terrible dilemma of its cut-off inhabitants. the wheel o'fortune. with illustrations by james montgomery flagg. the story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing the particulars of some of the treasures of the queen of sheba. a son of the immortals. illustrated by howard chandler christy. a young american is proclaimed king of a little balkan kingdom, and a pretty parisian art student is the power behind the throne. the wings of the morning. a sort of robinson crusoe _redivivus_ with modern setting and a very pretty love story added. the hero and heroine are the only survivors of a wreck, and have many thrilling adventures en their desert island. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york b. m. bower's novels thrilling western romances large 12 mos. handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated chip, of the flying u a breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of chip and della whitman are charmingly and humorously told. chip's jealousy of dr. cecil grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. a clever, realistic story of the american cow-puncher. the happy family a lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted montana cowboys. foremost amongst them, we find ananias green, known as andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. her prairie knight a realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of easterners who exchange a cottage at newport for the rough homeliness of a montana ranch-house. the merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating beatrice, and the effusive sir redmond, become living, breathing personalities. the range dwellers here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page. the lure of dim trails a vivid portrayal of the experience of an eastern author, among the cowboys of the west, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "bud" thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. the lonesome trail "weary" davidson leaves the ranch for portland, where conventional city life palls on him. a little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. a wholesome love story. the long shadow a vigorous western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life a mountain ranch. its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. it is a fine love story from start to finish. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york novels of southern life by thomas dixon, jr. may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list the leopard's spots: a story of the white man's burden, 1865-1900. with illustrations by c. d. williams. a tale of the south about the dramatic events of destruction, reconstruction and upbuilding. the work is able and eloquent and the verifiable events of history are followed closely in the development of a story full of struggle. the clansman. with illustrations by arthur i. keller. while not connected with it in any way, this is a companion volume to the author's "epoch-making" story _the leopard's spots_. it is a novel with a great deal to it, and which very properly is going to interest many thousands of readers. * * * it is, first of all, a forceful, dramatic, absorbing love story, with a sequence of events so surprising that one is prepared for the fact that much of it is founded on actual happenings; but mr. dixon has, as before, a deeper purpose--he has aimed to show that the original formers of the ku klux klan were modern knights errant taking the only means at hand to right intolerable wrongs. the traitor. a story of the fall of the invisible empire. illustrations by c. d. williams. the third and last book in this remarkable trilogy of novels relating to southern reconstruction. it is a thrilling story of love, adventure, treason, and the united states secret service dealing with the decline and fall of the ku klux klan. comrades. illustrations by c. d. williams. a novel dealing with the establishment of a socialistic colony upon a deserted island off the coast of california. the way of disillusionment is the course over which mr. dixon conducts the reader. the one woman. a story of modern utopia. a love story and character study of three strong men and two fascinating women. in swift, unified, and dramatic action, we see socialism a deadly force, in the hour of the eclipse of faith, destroying the home life and weakening the fiber of anglo saxon manhood. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, 526 west 26th st., new york note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see 21116-h.htm or 21116-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/1/1/21116/21116-h/21116-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/1/1/1/21116/21116-h.zip) the easiest way a story of metropolitan life by eugene walter and arthur hornblow illustrations by archie gunn and joseph byron [illustration: picking up a hat, laura looked at herself in the mirror. _frontispiece. page 251._] w. dillingham company publishers new york copyright, 1911, by g. w. dillingham company _the easiest way_. a foreword in presenting this story of a _déclassée_ who attempts to redeem her scarlet past by a disinterested, honest attachment only to meet with dire, miserable failure, the authors wish to make it plain that their heroine and her associates are in no way to be identified with the dramatic profession. laura murdock represents the type of woman of easy virtue who is sometimes seen behind the footlights and helps to give the theatre a bad name. although destitute of the slightest histrionic talent, she styles herself an "actress" in order to better conceal her true vocation. as a class, the earnest, hardworking men and women who devote their lives to the dramatic art are entitled to the highest regard and respect. no profession counts in its ranks more virtuous women, more honorable men than the artists who give lustre to the american stage. if such women as laura murdock succeed in gaining a foothold on the boards it must be looked upon merely as an unfortunate accident. the better element in the theatre shuns them and their theatrical aspirations are not encouraged by reputable managers. illustrations page picking up a hat, laura looked at herself in the mirror _frontispiece_ 251 "i've bought a house for you on riverside drive" 86 she began to sew a rip in her skirt 162 she sank down on her knees beside him 273 laura commenced to pack the trunk 307 john stood looking at her in silence 337 she crouched down motionless on the trunk 344 the easiest way chapter i. the hour was late and the theatres were emptying. the crowds, coming from every direction at once, were soon a confused, bewildered mass of elbowing humanity. in the proximity of broadway and forty-second street, a mob of smartly-dressed people pushed unceremoniously this way and that. they swept the sidewalks like a resistless torrent, recklessly attempting to force a path across the carriage blocked road, darting in and out under restive horses' heads, barely rescued by stalwart traffic policemen from the murderous wheels of onrushing automobiles. they scrambled into taxicabs, trains and trolleys, all impelled by a furious, yet not unreasonable, desire to reach home with the least possible delay. these were the wise ones. others lingered, struggling feebly in the whirling vortex. not yet surfeited with the evening's amusement, they now craved recherché gastronomical joys. with appetites keen for the succulent, if always indigestible, dainties of after-theatre suppers, they sought the hospitable portals of gotham's splendidly appointed lobster palaces which, scattered in amazing profusion along the great white way, their pretentious facades flamboyantly ablaze with light, seemed so many oases of luxurious comfort set down in the nocturnal desert of closed shops. "move on there!" thundered an irate policeman. "what the h--ll are you blocking the way for? i've half a mind to lock you fellows up!" this to two grasping jehus, who, while quarrelling over a prospective fare, had so well succeeded in interlocking their respective wheels that a quarter-of-a-mile-long block resulted instantly. the officer, exasperated beyond endurance, was apoplectic in the face from the too sudden strain upon his temper. starting angrily forward he seemed as if about to carry out his threat, and the effect of this was magic. the offending cabbies quickly disentangled themselves, and once more the long string of vehicles began to move. women screamed shrilly, as with their escorts they dodged the horses' hoofs, the trolleys clanged their gongs, electric-signs blinked their pictorial designs, noisy boys yelled hoarsely "final extras!" the din was nerve racking. one had to shout to be heard, yet no one seemed to object. everybody was happy. new york was merely enjoying itself. the rush was at its height, when two young men, perhaps weary of being buffeted by the throngs that still pushed up broadway, turned sharply to the right and entered a fashionable all-night café. halting for a moment in the richly-carpeted and mirrored vestibule to divest themselves of their outer garments, they pocketed the brass checks handed out by a dapper page and passing on into the restaurant, quietly took seats in an out-of-the-way corner. the place was already well filled. nearly all of the small, round tables, crowded too close for comfort, were taken, and the loud chatter of men and women, the handling of dishes, the going and coming of waiters, the more or less labored efforts of a _tzigane_ orchestra--all this made a hubbub as loud as that in the busy street without. the people eating and drinking were of the kind usually to be found in broadway's pleasure resorts--rich men-about-town spending their money freely, hard-faced, square-jawed gamblers touting for business, callow youths having their first fling in metropolitan vice, motor-car parties taking in the sights, old roués seeking new sensations, faultlessly dressed wine agents promoting the sale of their particular brands, a few actors, a sprinkling of actresses of secondary importance, a bevy of chorus girls of the "broiler" type, a number of self-styled "grass widows" living quietly, but luxuriously on the generosity of discreet male admirers, and others still prettier, who made no secret of their calling, but insolently boasted of their profession being the most ancient in the world. sartorially at least, the company was eminently respectable. the men, for the most part, wore evening dress and the women were visions of feminine loveliness, in the latest creations of paris modistes--gowns a duchess might envy, hats that would tempt the virtue of a saint. all were talking loudly, and laughing hilariously as they ate and drank, while pale-faced, perspiring waiters ran here and there with steaming chafing dishes and silver buckets of frozen "wine." here champagne was king! the frothy, golden, bubbling, hissing stuff seemed to be the only beverage called for. no one counted the cost. supplied with fat purses, all flung themselves into a reckless orgy of high living and ordered without reckoning. it was the gay rendezvous of the girls and the johnnies, the sporting men and the roués--in a word, the nightly bacchanal of new york _qui s'amuse_. in the atmosphere, heavily charged with tobacco smoke, floated a strange, indefinable perfume--an odor in which the vulgar smell of cooking struggled for the mastery with the subtle essences used by voluptuous women. instantly, animalism was aroused, the passions were inflamed. the mouth watered for luscious _mets_ concocted by expensive _chefs_, the eye was dazzled by snowy linen, glistening crystal and the significant smiles of red-lipped wantons, the ear was entranced by the dulcet strains of sensuous music. in short, a dangerous resort for any man, young or old. it was the flesh market, the public mart, to which the frail sisterhood came in droves to sell their beauty. the sirens of manhattan, lineal descendants of the legendary sisters who, with their songs, lured the ancient mariners to their doom, were there by the hundred, decked out in all the expensive finery that individual taste could suggest and their purses pay for. they were of all types--blonde and brunette, tall and petite, stout and slender--to meet every demand. mostly young they were; some still in their teens. that was the tragedy of it. older women had no place there. fresh arrivals poured in from the broadway entrance. everybody appeared to be acquainted with everyone else; familiar greetings were exchanged right and left. "hello, jack!" "howdy, may!" "sit down here, grace!" the waiters rushed away to fill orders for more wine, the orchestra struck up another lively air, the whole establishment vibrated with bustle and excitement. the two young men watched the animated scene. to one of them at least, it was all novel and strange, a phase of life to which, heretofore, he had been a stranger. john madison had seen little of gilded vice in the big cities. although he had knocked about the world a great deal and taken active part in many a stirring scene he had always been a clean man. born and bred on a dakota farm, he was still the typical country boy, big and vigorous in physique, with a sane, wholesome outlook on things. when his mother--a penniless widow--died he was adopted by a tyrannical uncle, a miserly farmer, who made him do chores around the homestead in return for his keep. but the boy detested farming. his young soul yearned for a glimpse of the great outside world, of which he had read and knew nothing, and his desperation grew, until one day he summoned up enough courage to run away. on foot, with nothing to eat, and only an occasional hitch behind a friendly teamster's wagon, he bravely made his way to bismarck, fifty miles distant where, after nearly starving to death, he enlisted the sympathies of a kindly grocer, who gave him two dollars a week and his board to run errands. this was not much better than what he had escaped from, but john did not care. at least it was the dawn of independence. industrious and faithful, he was rewarded in due time by promotion and eventually he might have become a partner and married the grocer's daughter, but unfortunately, or fortunately, as may be, his restless spirit made this programme impossible of realization. twenty years of age, and six feet tall in his stockings, he had muscles like steel and nerves of iron. a tall, finely-built type of western manhood, he had a frank, open face, with clean-cut features, a strong mouth, and alert, flashing eyes, that denoted a quick, nervous energy. in repose his face was serious; when he smiled, revealing fine strong teeth, it was prepossessing. he wore his hair rather long, and with his loose corduroy jacket, top boots, and cowboy hat, suggested the western ranchman. the girls of bismarck were all in love with him, and his mere presence doubled the business of the store, but the young man resisted all feminine blandishments. he was ambitious, dissatisfied and restless, a voice within him told him that nature intended him for something better than selling potatoes; so, taking affectionate leave of the grocer, he went away. ten years passed. he prospered and saw a good deal of the world. he traveled east and west, north and south. he was in canada and down in mexico; he visited london, berlin, paris, new york and san francisco. his money all gone, he drifted for a time, trying his versatile hand at everything that offered itself. he went to sea and sailed around the horn before the mast, he enlisted in the army and saw active service in the philippines. he was cowboy for a western cattle king, and there he learned to break wild bronchos without a saddle and split apples with a revolver bullet at a hundred yards. he was among the pioneers in the gold rush to alaska and played faro in all the tough mining towns. sworn in as sheriff, he one day apprehended single-handed, a gang of desperate outlaws, who attempted to hold up a train. it was a rough and dangerous life. he was thrown in with all sorts of men, most of them with criminal records. he loved the excitement, yet he never allowed his tough associates to drag him down to their own level. he drank with them, gambled with them, but he never made a beast of himself, as did some of the others. he always managed to keep his own hands clean, he never lost his own self regard. he was quick on the trigger and in time of overheated argument could go some distance with his fists. utterly fearless, powerful in physique, he was at all times able to command respect. above all, he was a respecter of women. he never forgot what his mother once said to him. he was only a lad at the time, but her words had never faded from his memory: "sonny," she said, "never forget that your mother was a woman." and he never had. in all his relations with women in later life, he had remembered the injunction of the mother he loved. when other men spoke lightly of women in his presence he showed disapproval, if their character was attacked he championed their cause, if confronted with proofs, he flatly refused to consider them. yet he was neither a prig nor a prude. he enjoyed a joke as well as any one, but at the same time he did not let his mind run in only one channel, as some men do. he pitied rather than blamed the wretched females who frequented the miners' camps. more sinned against than sinning, was his humane judgment of these unhappy outcasts, and when he could, he helped them. many a besotted creature had him to thank when the end came and short shrift little better then that accorded a dead dog awaited her--that at least she got a decent burial. the boys knew his attitude on the woman question, and it was a tribute to the regard in which they held him that, in his hearing at least, they were decent. meantime, john madison was educating himself. there was no limit to his ambition. with the one idea of studying law and going into politics, he attended night schools and lectures and burned the midnight oil devouring good books. he sent to an enterprising journal of denver a vividly written account of his exploit with the train robbers. with the newspaper's cheque came an offer to join its staff. that was how john madison became a reporter, and incidentally explained why, on this particular evening, he happened to be in new york. sent east in connection with a big political story, he had run across an old acquaintance, glenn warner, a young new york lawyer, and accepted his invitation to theatre and supper. "i'll take you to a swell joint," he laughed. "it'll amuse you. it's the swiftest place in town." in personal appearance, the young attorney presented a sharp contrast to his stalwart companion. slight in physique, with sandy hair scrupulously parted in the middle and nattily dressed, he was of the conventional type of men colloquially described as "well groomed." that the restaurant, and its people, were an old story to him, was apparent by the nods he exchanged and the familiar greeting he gave the waiter. after he had decided on the order, he proceeded to give john thumb-nail biographies of some of the most conspicuous of those present. "see that fat, coarse-looking hog over there? look--he's flashing a bank roll thick enough to choke a horse. that's berny bernheim, the bookmaker. his gambling house on west forty-fourth street is one of the show places of the town. it's raided from time to time, but he always manages to get off scot free. he has a pull with the police." pointing in another direction, where a stately blonde in a big gainsborough hat, trimmed with white plumes, sat languidly sipping champagne in company of a gray-haired man old enough to be her grandfather, he went on: "that girl with the white feathers is lucy graves. don't you remember--five years ago--a lucy graves shot and killed a man, and then hypnotised the jury into acquitting her. that's the girl. since then she's been on the stage--a vaudeville act--$1,000 a week they say. a month ago she was again in trouble with the police--caught playing the badger game. i don't know who the old chap is--a new 'sucker' i imagine." there was a slight commotion at the main entrance as a fat, bald-headed, red-faced man entered, followed by several women, all beautifully gowned. warner, who had caught sight of the party, whispered _sotto voce_: "that's sam solomon, the famous criminal lawyer. he's just been indicted by the grand jury. only a miracle can save him from a long prison term. he's had a box party at the theatre. he usually has a string of women after him. that's where his money goes--women and wine. the girls call him a good thing." madison looked amused. "where are the respectable folk?" he laughed. "have all the people here got a police record?" "most all," was the laconic rejoinder. "hello, elfie--when did you come in?" this last exclamation was addressed to a tall, attractive brunette, who was just pushing past their table in a crowd. she was young and vivacious looking, and her voluptuous figure was set off to advantage in an expensive gown. evidently she knew the lawyer well, for she greeted him familiarly: "hello, glenn--i didn't see you." "alone?" he asked quickly. "yes--for a while," she answered airily. he made a place for her on the bench. "sit down here and have something." "i don't mind if i do," she smiled amiably. slipping past the two men into the seat she looked inquiringly at madison. the lawyer made introductions. "this is a friend of mine--john madison--miss elfie st. clair." jocularly he added: "well known on the metropolitan stage." madison smiled and nodded. the girl eyed him with interest. he was a type of man not often seen in the gay resorts of manhattan. impulsively she burst out: "say, glenn--your friend's a good looker, do you know it? better take care, or he'll cut you out with the girls." turning to madison, she demanded: "from the west?" he nodded. "yes--denver." "seeing new york, eh? great fun, ain't it?" he shrugged his massive shoulders and made no reply, finding more amusement in watching the crowd than in gratifying the curiosity of this chatterbox. she turned to warner. "got a grouch, ain't he?" warner laughed. "oh--that's his manner. don't mind him." turning the conversation, he demanded: "what's new?" the girl glanced all around the restaurant, as she answered: "oh, the same old thing! in feather one week--broke the next. you know how it is." "i thought you were playing." "so i was, but the show busted. it was a bully part, and i spent $150 on dresses. all i got was two weeks' salary. when the dresses will be paid for, the lord only knows." elfie st. clair was a typical tenderloin grafter. a woman absolutely devoid of moral conscience, she styled herself an actress, yet was one only by courtesy. by dint of pulling all kinds of wires she contrived from time to time to get a part to play, but her stage activities were really only a blind to conceal her true vocation. a cold-blooded courtesan of the most brazen and unscrupulous type, she was, notwithstanding, one of the most popular women in the upper tenderloin. she dressed with more taste than most women of her class, and her naturally happy disposition, her robust spirits and spontaneous gaiety had won her many friends. for all that she was an unscrupulous grafter, the kind of woman who deliberately sets out to lure men to destruction. she knew she was bad, yet found plenty of excuses for herself. she often declared that she hated and despised men for the wrong they had done her. imposed upon, deceived, mistreated in her early girlhood by the type of men who prey on women, at last she turned the tables, and armed only with her dangerous charm and beauty, started out to make the same slaughter of the other sex as she herself had suffered, together with many of her sisters. while still in her teens she came to broadway and entering the chorus of one of the local theatres, soon became famous for her beauty. on every hand, stage-door vultures were ready to give her anything that a woman's heart can desire, from fine clothes to horses, carriages, jewels, money, and what not. but at that time there was still some decency left in her, the final sparks of sentiment and honest attachment were not yet altogether extinguished. she fell in love with an actor connected with the company, and during all the time that she might have profited and become a rich woman by the attention of outside admirers, she remained true to her love, until finally her fame as the premier beauty of the city had begun to wane. the years told on her, there were others coming up as young as she had been, and as good to look at, and she soon found that, through her faithfulness to her lover, the automobile of the millionaire, which once waited at the stage door for her, was now there for some one else. yet she was contented and happy in her day dream, until one day the actor jilted her, and left her alone. that was the end of her virtuous resolves. from then on, she steeled her heart against all men. what she had lost of her beauty had been replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature. she determined to give herself up entirely to a life of gain, and she went about it coldly, methodically. she knew just how much champagne could be drunk without injuring the health; she knew just what physical exercise was necessary to preserve what remained of her beauty. there was no trick of the hairdresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any one of the legion of queer people who devote their talents to aiding the outward fascinations of women, with which she was not familiar. she knew exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation, and all this she determined to devote to profit. she had no self delusions. she knew that as an actress she had no future; that the time of a woman's beauty is limited. conscious that she had already lost the youthful litheness of figure which had made her so fascinating in the past, she laid aside every decent sentiment and chose for her companion the man who had the biggest bank roll. his age, his position in life, whether she liked or disliked him, did not enter into her calculations at all. she figured out that she had been made a fool of by men, and that there was only one revenge, the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for all. she had, of course, certain likes and dislikes, and in a measure, she indulged them. there were men whose company she preferred to that of others, but in the case of these, their association was practically sexless, and had come down to a point of mere good fellowship. "seen laura lately?" asked the lawyer suddenly, after elfie had given the waiter her order. "no--not for some days." warner looked surprised. "i thought you and she were inseparable. you haven't quarreled, have you?" the girl laughed. "quarreled--no. laura's too sweet a girl to quarrel with. only you know how it is. we're both so busy, with our eye on the main chance, that there isn't much time for anything else. besides, she's been playing more or less ever since the season opened. i didn't see her in that last piece, but they say she was fine. of course, it was brockton's influence that got her the part. i expect to see her here to-night." "so she's still stuck on willard brockton, eh?" with a light laugh, she replied quickly: "laura's not the kind of girl to be 'stuck' on anybody--at least i hope she isn't. she used to be inclined to get sentimental at times--she thought she was in love and all that sort of thing. i soon knocked that nonsense out of her head. 'laura' i said--'you've no time to fool. you won't be fresh and pretty all your life. make hay while the sun shines. it's time to fall in love when you get old and faded and wrinkled. business before pleasure every time.' you know, brockton has been very good to her. she was lucky to find such a steady. she has money to burn, a luxurious apartment, automobiles, influence with the managers. what more could she want? she'd be a fool to give up all that." raising her glass to her lips, she looked with a smile towards madison. "here's how!" she said with mock courtesy. but the big westerner was paying no attention to them. silent, engrossed, he was intent watching the gay crowd around him, studying with deep interest the faces of these painted courtesans, who brazenly came to this place to offer themselves. he wondered what their childhood had been, to what disastrous home influences they had been subjected to bring them to such degradation as this. most of them were coarse and vulgar-looking wantons, with rouged cheeks and pencilled eyebrows, but others seemed to be modest girls, refined and well bred. these were plainly in their novitiate. surely, he pondered, such a shameless calling must be revolting to them; the better instincts of their womanhood must rebel at the very shame of it. he believed that here and there, behind the rouge and forced hilarity, he could detect signs of an aching heart, a woman secretly filled with anguish. it gave him a sickening feeling of repulsion. others saw only the outward gaiety of the scene; but he saw still deeper. he realized its tragic significance and it filled him with disgust and horror. suddenly his attention was attracted to a young girl who had just entered the restaurant. she was gowned magnificently enough even to be conspicuous among that crowd of well-dressed women, and she wore a large picture hat, crowned by expensive plumes. close behind was her escort, a middle-aged, stockily built man, with iron-gray hair, also immaculately dressed. as the couple passed, the people at the tables turned and whispered. when the newcomer drew nearer, madison could see that she was very young, and he was struck by her laughing, dimpled beauty. she appeared little more than a child, and the manner in which she was dressed--girlish fashion, with her wealth of blonde hair caught back by a ribbon band--carried out the illusion completely. her complexion was so fair and fresh, her sensitive lips so red and full, and delicately chiseled, such a look of childish innocence was in her light blue eyes, that he wondered what she could be doing among such questionable company. he concluded that the couple had wandered in by mistake, not knowing the true character of the place. turning to warner, he said in an undertone. "look at that young girl--the blonde with white plumes--coming this way escorted by the man with the smooth face and gray hair! surely she is not an habitué of this joint!" the lawyer laughed as he quickly drew elfie's attention to the new arrivals. "really, old chap--you're so green you're funny! don't you know who she is? why--that's laura murdock--the cleverest of them all!" chapter ii. if laura murdock was not quite so young as she looked, she was far from appearing her real age, which was twenty-five. a casual observer at most, would have accorded her twenty. in her case nature had been unusually kind. her skin was soft as a new-born infant's, her complexion fresh as the unplucked rose, her expression innocent and unsophisticated. a priest unhesitatingly would have given her absolution without confession. her baby face, her childish prettiness and air of unaffected ingenuousness, her good taste in dress, her natural refinement, and cleverness in keeping men guessing had been, indeed, the chief keystones of her success. and, most remarkable of all, perhaps, was that she had been able to retain this prettiness and girlishness after what she had gone through, for, at the time this narrative opens, laura murdock had already lived a career which would have made a wreck of most women. born in melbourne, of english parents, she came at an early age from australia to san francisco. her father was connected in a business capacity with one of the local theatrical companies, and the young girl naturally drifted to the stage. she had only a mediocre histrionic talent, but what was perhaps more important, she had uncommon good looks, and she soon found that beauty was not only a valuable asset, but a sure lever to success. the critics praised her, not because she acted well, but because she dressed exquisitely, and pleased the eye. managers and authors flattered her. soon she found, to her amazement, that she was the success of the hour. stage johnnies raved about her; sent her flowers and invited her to supper; women envied her, and said spiteful things. portraits of her in various attitudes appeared in the newspapers and magazines. in a single night she was carried high on the top wave of sensational popularity. the outcome was only logical. even a virtuous woman could not stand the strain, and laura was not virtuous. of neurotic temperament, inherently weak, if not actually vicious in character, with the spirit of the courtesan strong within her from an early age, fond of luxury and personal adornment she could not legitimately afford, it was not surprising that she listened to the flatterers and went to the devil quicker than any woman before her in the whole history of gallantry. at the end of her first season, her reputation was completely in tatters. accepting the situation philosophically, she did not pretend to be better than she was, but she was clever enough not to cheapen herself by entangling herself too promiscuously. she had lovers by the score, yet none could boast of having really won her heart. a woman of superficial emotions, she was entirely without depth, yet so long as it suited her purpose, she was able to conceal this shallowness and profess for the admirer of the moment the greatest affection and devotion. this is an art and she was an adept at it. sensually she quickly attracted men, and it was not long before she became a prime favorite in the select circles that made such resorts as "the yellow poodle" and "moreland's" famous, yet in her dissipations she was always careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her physical attractiveness, or for one moment diminish her keen sense of worldly calculation. one day, obeying a foolish impulse, she married. the venture was, of course, a failure. her selfish vacillating nature was such that she could not remain true to the poor fool who had given her his name. to provide the luxuries she incessantly demanded, he embezzled the funds of the bank where he was employed, and when exposure came, and he was confronted with a jail sentence, she was horrified to see him kill himself in front of her. there was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of remorse, followed in a few brief weeks by the peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this type of woman. gradually she became hardened and indifferent. she began to view life as a hunting field, in which the trophy went to the hardest rider. deceived herself by men, she finally arrived at that stage of life known in theatrical circles as "wised up." coming to new york, she attracted the attention of a prominent theatrical manager, and was given a part, in which she happened to make a hit. this was enough to immediately establish her reputation on the metropolitan stage. the fact that before reaching the age of womanhood, she had had more escapades than most women have in their entire lives, was not generally known in manhattan, nor was there a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism to betray it. she was soft voiced, very pretty, very girlish, yet she was no fool. her success did not turn her head or blind her to her shortcomings as an actress. she realized that in order to maintain her position she must have some influence outside of her own ability, so she laid plans to entangle in her net a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly soubrette-proof theatre manager. he fell victim to her charms, and in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. still not satisfied, she played two ends against the middle, and finding a young man of wealth and position, who could give her in his youth an exuberance of joy utterly apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she allowed him to shower her with presents. when his money was gone, she cast him aside and demurely resumed her relations with the unsuspecting theatre manager. the jilted lover became crazed, and one night at a restaurant, attempted to murder them both. from that time on, her career was a succession of brilliant coups in gaining the confidence and love, not to say the money, of men of all ages, and all walks of life. her powers of fascination were as potent as her professions of reform were insincere. she never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, she never tried to do the square thing. yet, like other women of her type, she found all sorts of excuses for her wrongdoing. she pretended that she was persecuted, a victim of circumstances, and was ever ready to explain away the viciousness of character, which was really responsible for her troubles. in spite of her success on the stage, she was an indifferent actress. her lack of true feeling, her abuse of the dramatic temperament in her private affairs, had been such as to make it impossible for her sincerely to impress audiences with genuine emotional power, and therefore, despite the influences which she always had at hand, she remained a mediocre artist. her meeting with willard brockton was, from her point of view, the best possible thing that could have happened. brockton was a new york stock broker, and like many men of his tastes and means, was a good deal of a sensualist. of morals he frankly confessed he had none, yet he was an honest sensualist for he played the game fair. he never forgot that he was a gentleman. he was perfectly candid about his _amours_ and never expected more from a woman than he could give to her. he was honest in this, that he detested any man who sought to take advantage of a pure woman. he abhorred any man who deceived a woman. the same in love as in business, he believed that there was only one way to go through life, and that was to be straight with those with whom one deals. a master hand in stock manipulation and other questionable practices of wall street, he realized that he had to pit his cunning against the craft of others. he was not at all in sympathy with present-day business methods, but he did not see any particular reason why he should constitute himself a reformer. although still in the prime of life, he cared nothing for society and held aloof from it. if he went to the trouble to keep in touch at all with people of his own set, it was simply for business reasons. what he seemed to delight in most was the life of bohemia, with its easy _camaraderie_, its lax moral code, its contempt for the conventions. he enjoyed the company of women of facile virtue, the gay little supper parties after the theatre, and the glass that inebriates and cheers, in a word, he enjoyed going the pace that kills. he was a man of many _liasons_, but none were as serious or had lasted so long as his present pact with laura murdock. no woman before had been clever enough to hold him. he appeared very fond of her, and completely under her influence. his friends shook their heads, looked wise, and took and gave odds that he would be so foolish as to marry her. the couple took seats at a table, the cynosure of all eyes. every head turned in their direction, conversations were temporarily suspended and there was much whispering and craning of necks, to get a glimpse of the young woman whose reputation, or lack of it, was already so notorious. far from being embarrassed at this display of public interest, laura seemed to enjoy the attention she excited. languidly sinking into her seat, she said to her escort with a smile: "don't they stare? you'd think they had never seen a woman before." brockton laughed as he lit a fresh cigar. "how do you know they're staring at you? i'm not such a bad looker myself." laura ran over the menu to see what there was to tempt her appetite. "bring me some lobster," she said to the waiter. "and a bottle of wine--moet and chandon white seal," broke in brockton, "_frappé_--you understand, and make it a rush order. i have to get away in a few minutes." laura pursed her delicately chiseled lips together in a pout. she liked to do that on every possible occasion, because, having practiced it at home before the mirror, she thought it looked cunning. "you're surely going to give yourself time to eat a bite, aren't you?" she cried in affected dismay. the broker looked at his watch. "i must be in boston early to-morrow morning. the express leaves the grand central at 12:15. i've just time to drink a glass of wine and sprint for the train. that's why i kept the taxi waiting outside. i hate to go. i assure you i'd much rather sit here with you. but go i must." as far as his _amours_ were concerned, women of the laura murdock and elfie st. clair type appealed strongly to the broker. not only did he enjoy their bohemianism and careless good-fellowship, but he entered fully into the spirit of their way of living. he professed to understand them and in a measure to sympathize with them. entirely without humbug or cant, he recognized that they had their own place in the social game. they were outcasts, if you will, but interesting and amusing outcasts. he rather liked the looseness of living which does not quite reach the disreputable. behind all this, however, was a high sense of honor. he detested and despised the average stage-door johnny, and he loathed the type of man who seeks to take young girls out of theatrical companies for their ruin. otherwise he had no objection to his women friends being as wise as himself. when they entered into an agreement with him there was no deception. in the first place, he wanted to like them; in the second place he wanted them to like him. his iron-gray hair, contrasting with their youth, not only made him look like their father, but his manner towards them was distinctly paternal. he insisted also on their financial arrangements, being kept on a strictly business basis. the amount of the living expenses was fixed at a definite figure and he expected them to limit themselves to it. he made them distinctly understand that he reserved the right at any time to withdraw his support, or transfer it to some other _inamorata_, and he gave them the same privilege. while he consulted only his own selfish pleasures, brockton was not an uncharitable man. he was always ready to help anyone who was unfortunate, and at heart he sometimes felt sorry for these women who had to barter their self respect to indulge their love of luxury. he hoped that some of them would one day meet the right man and settle down to respectable married life, but he insisted that such an arrangement could be possible only by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she had been and the thorough and complete understanding of her past by the man involved. he was gruff and blunt in manner, yet well liked by his intimates. they thought him a brute, almost a savage, but almost every one agreed with laura that he was "a pretty decent savage." she and the broker had been pals for two years, and she had never been happier in her life. he was most generous with his money and his close relations with several prominent theatrical managers made it possible for him to secure for her desirable engagements. there was no misunderstanding between them. he knew exactly what she was and what she had been. he any way. he always told her that whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue with him, it was her privilege to quit, and he himself reserved the same right. as far as such an irregular marital relation as this could be said to be desirable, it was an ideal arrangement. "how long will you be gone?" asked laura, as she toyed with a lobster claw and glanced around the café, to see who was there. "i've no idea," answered brockton. "i may return day after to-morrow or i may be detained there a week or longer. it's a big job, you know--in connection with floating a big issue of railroad bonds. there's a barrel of money in it. i may not get back before you go to denver." the girl looked up at him quickly, and laying down her knife and fork, leaned across the table. resting her dimpled chin on her ungloved and tapering hands, which were covered with blazing stones, she said with more genuine feeling than she had yet shown: "oh, will--it was awfully good of you to get me that engagement and let me go. a number of girls i know were after it--some with far more experience than i've had. they're all crazy to play stock at this time of year. of course, i don't need the money as much as they do, but i'm fond of acting and it's a bully way to spend some of the summer. besides, i think the air out there--the high altitude--will do me lots of good." "that's all very well," rejoined the broker with a grimace of mock despair, "but what am i going to do all alone in this dusty, thirsty town, while you're playing camille, and what not under the shady trees at denver? i'm an ass to stand for it." she laid a consoling hand on his arm. "no, you're, not. you're a darling boy. you know i had my heart set on getting that stock engagement, and you went to all kinds of trouble to make the manager let me have it. really, will--i can't say how grateful i am! i won't be so long away--only six short weeks--and if you like you can come to denver and bring me east again. it'll be awfully jolly traveling home together, won't it?" brockton looked at her and smiled indulgently. he was only joking, just to see how she would take it. of course he would let her go. he would be a selfish brute if he played the tyrant and consulted only his own convenience. "all right, kid," he said kindly. "go and enjoy yourself. never mind about me--i'll jog along somehow. i'll miss you, though. i don't mind telling you that. when you're ready to come home, just telegraph and i'll take the next train for denver. if you need any money, you know where to write me. meantime, put this in your inside pocket." he pressed his strong fingers down on her open palm, and closed her hand. opening it, she found five new crisp one hundred dollar notes. a crimson glow of pleasure spread over her face and neck. for a moment she was unable to stammer her thanks. "oh, will--you are so good!" "that's nothing," he laughed lightly, "have a good time with it. buy what things you need. you understand--that is only a little extra pin money. your regular weekly cheque will be sent to you at denver." all she could say was to repeat: "oh--will--you are so good!" he lifted his glass and looked whimsically at her through the dancing bubbles of the foaming champagne. in a low voice he said: "here's to my little girl! may she tread the stage of denver with the grace and charm of an ellen terry and return to new york covered with new laurels!" calling for the bill, and tossing a ten dollar note to the waiter, he rose hastily: "i hate to go and leave you here alone, but i must catch that train." "oh, don't mind me," she replied, smiling up at him. "i'll stay a few minutes yet." nodding towards the left, she added: "i see elfie over there. i'll sit with her. don't worry about me. i'll go home in a taxi." he took her hand. he would have liked to kiss her, but like most men, he hated to make public demonstration of his feelings. "good-bye, little one," he said fondly. "be a good girl. write me directly you get to denver. be sure to send me all the press notices----" facetiously he added: "--all the bad ones mind. i'm not interested in the others. and when you're ready to come home, just telegraph, and i'll come for you. good-bye!" "good-bye, will." the next moment he was gone. for some time after his, departure she sat quietly at the table, toying idly with the rich food in front of her. absorbed in her own thoughts she paid no attention to what was transpiring around. she was singularly depressed that evening, she knew not why. it was very foolish, for she had every reason to feel elated. things certainly continued to go her way. after all the storm and stress of her past life, she was at last settled and contented. she had plenty of money, a good friend, influence with the theatre managers, and now she had secured the very engagement she had been longing for. what could any reasonable woman possibly desire more? yet for all that she sometimes felt there was something missing in her life. she was too intelligent not to know the degradation of the kind of existence she was leading, and sometimes the realization of it made her utterly miserable. if it were not for the champagne and the hourly excitement which helped her to forget, she sometimes felt she would take her life. in her heart she knew that she did not love will brockton, and she believed him too clever a man to imagine for a moment that she had any real affection for him. they were pals, that was all. he liked her very much--she was sure of that. but it was not love. how could a woman of her character expect to inspire decent love in any man? theirs was a careless, unconventional tie, which could be broken to-morrow. a quarrel, and she would see him no more. she shivered. the mere thought of such a contingency was decidedly unpleasant. it's so easy, she mused, to become accustomed to automobiles, luxurious apartments, fine gowns and the rest, but so hard--oh, so hard!--to learn how to do without them. emptying her glass, she rose from her seat and strolled toward where elfie st. clair was still sitting with the two men. "hello, laura!" cried her friend as she came up. "we saw you from the distance. come and sit down. these gentlemen are friends of mine--mr. warner--mr. madison--miss murdock." the men bowed, while elfie made room for the newcomer. "won't you take something?" asked warner politely. "no, thank you--i've just had a bite." "why did mr. brockton run away?" demanded elfie, unable to restrain her feminine curiosity. his sudden departure was unusual enough to suggest a lover's quarrel. "he had to catch a train--important business in boston," replied laura carelessly. impulsively she burst out: "oh, elfie--what do you think? i got that stock engagement after all. i'm perfectly daffy about it. i play leads in 'camille,' 'mrs. dane's defense,' and such plays as that." "where is it?" demanded elfie. "in denver. don't you remember? i told you i was after it?" "denver? why that's where mr. madison comes from." both girls turned and looked at the big westerner. laura regarded him with more attention. if this man was from denver, he might be useful to her. she was not the kind to neglect anything that was likely to promote her interests. looking him well over, she noted his big, muscular frame, his steel-gray eyes, and determined, prognathous jaw. it was a type of manhood that was new to her. he was decidedly worth cultivating. "you live in denver?" she said, trying on him the effect of her dimpled smile, which was irresistible to most men. he nodded carelessly. "yes--i'm with one of the newspapers there." "oh!" she was glad now that she had come over to elfie's table. decidedly this man would be very useful. it is always a good thing to know journalists. it suggested favorable paragraphs and good notices in the papers. she remembered what a philosophical chorus girl once told her: "rather a good press agent than great talent." forthwith laura exerted herself to be very amiable. she laughed and chatted and when madison, in his turn, ordered a bottle of wine, she graciously allowed him to drink to her success. "but you must help me!" she said coquettishly. "sure!" he answered gayly, half in jest. she inquired about denver, the life there, the theatres, and their audiences. she asked his advice as to the best hotel for her to stop at, questioned him about his own life and work, and sought to flatter him by appearing to take interest in everything he said. the small hours of the morning still found them there. when at last they parted, she said in that arch, captivating way, which none better than she knew how to employ: "we will be good friends, won't we?" "you bet we will!" was his laconic, careless rejoinder. chapter iii. denver, colorado, june 15, 19--. dear will: i've made good all right. the management is delighted and already wants me to sign for next year. my notices are wonderful. they say i'm great. i enclose some of the newspaper dope. it's been awful fun. you should have seen me as the tuberculous camille, expiring to slow music in armand's arms. it was a scream. i had to bite the property bedclothes to keep from exploding outright. but the scene went fine. people sobbed all over the house. denver's a peach of a place. fancy--i found a big "welcome" arch up--no doubt in honor of my arrival--and it's been up ever since. seriously, i'm a big social success--invited everywhere--tea parties, church gatherings and other choice functions. can you imagine yours truly, demure and penitent, taking part in bazaars, solemnly presided over by elderly spinsters in spectacles? you ask why i don't write more regularly. my dear boy--if you only knew how busy i am, what with rehearsals, social duties and so forth! what nonsense to imagine for a moment that it was because my time was taken up by some other man. you must think i'm foolish. no, no, dear--not quite so dippy as that. no other charmer for mine while my will is good to me. write soon to your own laura. p.s.--how's dear old broadway these days? if you see elfie, tell her to write. colorado, land of enchantment, possesses at least one distinct advantage over other states of the union. apart from the rugged grandeur of its scenery, its lofty, awe-inspiring peaks and stupendous cañons, the climate is perhaps without its equal in the world. denver, particularly, is richly favored in this respect. situated near the foothills of the rockies, on a high, broad plateau, sheltered by the majestic mountains from the fierce storms and blizzards that sweep the plains, the winters are delightfully mild and salubrious. owing to the great altitude the atmosphere is pure and dry and in the hot months the breezes which blow almost continuously from the snow-capped heights of pike's peak, make the air deliciously cool, with a temperature rarely rising above the eighties. for this reason denver is almost as popular a summer resort with those who live in the middle west, as colorado springs, manitou, and other fashionable places. nor does this picturesque mountain capital with its 200,000 population, lack in up-to-date comforts and amusements. it has beautiful homes, fine hotels, good theatres. its people are cultured and discriminating. they hear the best music and see the latest comedies. in the winter, paderewski plays for them; sembrich sings for them; mrs. fiske and maude adams act for them. in the summer they applaud at an open air theatre pleasantly set among the shady trees, the latest broadway successes performed by a stock company especially engaged in new york. it was as leading lady of this organization that laura murdock made her début in denver. as already intimated, mr. brockton's protégée was not a good actress; she was not even a competent actress. deficient in mentality, lacking any real culture, she failed utterly to rise to the opportunity offered by the rôles with which she was entrusted. fortunately for her, summer audiences are not highly critical. her youth and beauty pleased, and the local reviewers, susceptible like ordinary mortals to the charms of a pretty woman, were unusually indulgent. some of them paid doubtful compliments, but what they said of her acting sounded good to laura, who eagerly cut out the notices and mailed them to brockton. so far her summer season had been a decided success. she liked denver and denver liked her. this she considered most fortunate, for it suited her purpose to make such a hit of this engagement that the echo of it would reach as far east as broadway. it would give her better standing with the theatre managers in new york and put a quietus for good on comment in unfriendly quarters. a clever tactician with an eye always open to the main chance, she exerted herself to the utmost to make friends and neglected no opportunity to advance her interests. she attended church regularly and made liberal donations to the local charities. when entertainments were organized on behalf of the poor, she volunteered her services, which were gratefully accepted. thus her local popularity grew and was firmly and quickly established. the papers spoke eulogistically of her goodness of heart, interviewed her on every possible pretext and published portraits of her by the score. society soon followed suit. the best people of the town took her up and the women gushed over her. she was such a young little thing, they said, so ingenuous and interesting, so refined, so different from most actresses. sorry that she should be all alone in a strange place, exposed to the temptations of a big city, they took her under their wing, and invited her to their homes. one lady, particularly, was most cordial in her invitation. her name was mrs. williams, and laura met her at a church picnic. the wife of a millionaire cattle king, she owned a handsome house in denver and a beautiful country home near colorado springs. mrs. williams took a great fancy to the demure young actress and declined to say good-bye in denver until laura had promised to go and spend a week with her at her country ranch. "it's a lovely spot, dear," she said. "i'm sure you'll enjoy yourself. my house is perched up on the side of ute pass, and overlooks the whole colorado canon, two thousand feet below. it is a wonderful spectacle. you must come. i won't take a refusal." laura promised, willing enough. she would be glad of the rest after her weeks of hard work. of john madison she had seen a great deal. following her old tactics, she had started out to fascinate the tall newspaper man, expecting to find him an easy victim. for once, however, she found that she had met her match. directly she arrived in denver she sent him her card, and he called at the hotel, his manner courteous, but distinctly cold. he had not forgotten, however, the promise made in new york, and he offered to give her such help as he could. aware of his close connection with the local newspapers, she was glad to accept his offer to act as her press representative. she even offered to pay him, but he flatly declined, and the covert smile that accompanied the refusal made her angry. "why do you refuse?" she demanded. "are you so rich?" "i'm dead broke," he answered dryly. "but you see, i'm a queer fellow--there are certain things i can't do--one of them is to take money from a woman." on another occasion, when she went a little out of her way to show him attention he said, with brutal candor: "don't waste your time on me. i'm only a poor devil of a newspaper man. there are plenty of fatter fowl to pluck. denver's full of softheads with money to burn." she hated him for that speech. his careless words and disdainful attitude cut her sensitive nature to the quick. evidently he despised her. yet for all that, he did not neglect her interests. for two weeks after her arrival and previous to her début, she was the most written about person in town. the papers were full of her. it was invaluable advertising and she tried to show her appreciation in other ways, inviting him to dinner, and sending him little presents. but still he held aloof, letting her understand plainly that he knew her record and was not to be hoodwinked or inveigled. the truth was, that women of her class did not interest him. indeed, they filled him with aversion, yet he pitied rather than condemned them. "one never knows," he used to say when the question came up with his men friends, "what kind of a life they were up against, or to what temptations they were subjected. the most virtuous woman alive could not swear exactly what she would do if confronted with certain conditions." this was a pet theory of his, and it made him more charitable than others. meantime, he was studying laura at close range. he found that she was weak rather than really vicious. there was much of the spoiled child in her make-up. her bringing up had been bad. in different environments she might have been entirely different. there was much in her that attracted him. he liked her merry disposition, her girlish ingenuousness. such a naïve nature, he argued, could not be wholly depraved. he frankly enjoyed her society, and it was not long before he let down the barriers of his reserve. laura was quick to notice the change, and she would have belied her sex if it had not given her pleasure. madison interested her; he was refreshingly different from all the men she had ever met. she wondered what his life was. at every opportunity she encouraged him to speak of himself. "do you like this newspaper work?" she demanded, one day. he shook his head. "no; there is nothing in it," he answered. "when a big story breaks loose--a strike or a murder, or a bank robbery--one likes the excitement, but when things quiet down the dull routine palls on you. i won't stay in it." "then what will you do?" "hike it up to the northwest--and dig for gold," he replied. confidentially he went on: "i have the chance of a quarter interest in a mine up there. if i strike luck, i'll be richer than croesus." "and then?" she smiled. "then i'll come back and marry you!" he said laughingly. it was said lightly, but like many words uttered in jest, it sounded as if there might be some truth back of it. both grew silent and the subject was quickly changed. while mortified at her discomfiture, laura thought more of the big fellow for his attitude of utter indifference. she had been so pampered and courted all her life that it was a novelty to find that she made absolutely no impression on this one man. her respect for him grew in consequence. gradually, he, too, seemed to take more pleasure in her society. he called more frequently and became more friendly. he was still on his guard, as if he still distrusted her--or perhaps himself--but he did not avoid her any longer. the theatre naturally took up most of her time. when not acting, she was rehearsing new rôles. it was interesting work, and she felt it was valuable experience. madison declared she had improved wonderfully, and, in his enthusiasm, wrote eulogistic articles about her in the papers that were copied far and wide. indeed, she could thank him for all the success she had had. he was at the theatre every night, watching her from the front, taking the liveliest interest in her success, and promoting it in every possible way. a critic who ventured to find fault he threatened to horsewhip; he put her portrait in the papers and printed interesting stories concerning her that had only his imagination for foundation. he transacted business for her with the local manager, and acted in her behalf in all the necessary negotiations with the church bazaar committees. before very long they were the best of friends. laura found him not only useful, but a delightful companion. what time could be spent from rehearsals, she spent with him. in the familiar, intimate, theatrical style, they already called each other by their first names. they went out horseback riding together, and he took her for long automobile trips, showing her many of the wonderful places with which colorado abounds. they played golf at broadmoor, and fished black-spotted trout in south platte river. they drank health-giving waters at great spirit springs, and viewed the reconstructed ruins of the prehistoric cliff-dwellers at manitou. they traveled on the cog railroad to the dizzy summit of pike's peak, and visited the busy gold-mining camp at cripple creek. here madison was on familiar ground. he showed his companion the manner in which man wrests the coveted treasure from nature, the whole process of mining, the powerful electric drills, the ponderous machinery, the ore deposits in the hard granite. he pointed out the miners' cabins on the mountainsides, replicas of the rough log huts in alaska in which he, himself, had lived. it was all very interesting and so novel that for the first time in her life laura felt the delightful sensation of seeing something new. time had no longer any significance to her. the days and weeks sped by so pleasantly that she gave no thought to returning east. sometimes she even forgot to write her weekly letter to mr. brockton. she marveled herself that she could be so happy and contented far away from the alluring glitter of the great white way. then all at once the truth dawned upon her, and the revelation came with the suddenness and force of an unexpected blow. she was in love with this man. all these weeks, unknown to herself, quite unconsciously, she had been slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love. the man she left behind in new york, the man to whom she owed everything, did not exist any more. john madison was the man she loved. at first she tried to laugh it off as being too absurd. she, laura murdock, with her ripe experience of the world and many adventures with men--to fall in love like a silly, sentimental schoolgirl! it was too ridiculous. how the rialto would laugh if they knew. of course, they never would know, for there was nothing in it. the westerner probably did not care two straws for her. he liked her, of course, or he would not bother to waste his time with her, but, no doubt, he thought of her only as a friend, a lively companion who kept him amused. no doubt, too, he knew her record and secretly despised her. even if he did not care for her and told her so--even if he were willing to marry her, what then? she would be a fool to listen to him. what kind of a life could he, a penniless scribbler, give her compared with the comforts and gifts which willard brockton was able to shower upon her? above all else, laura had sought to be practical in life. she often declared that it was one of the secrets of her success. it was late in the day, therefore, to make a mistake of which only an unsophisticated beginner could be guilty. yet, much as she tried to laugh it off and reassure herself, the matter worried her. when, mentally, she compared the two men, the advantage invariably remained with the younger. john was nearer her own age, they had in common many tastes and interests which the broker cared nothing about, and she felt more exuberant, more youthful, in the newspaper man's society. brockton, she could not help remembering, was more than double her age. it would be unnatural if she had not found the younger man more congenial. in her heart she felt that brockton, with all his money, had no real hold upon her, and that if john really did care for her and asked her to marry him, she would be face to face with the hardest question for which she had ever had to find an answer. chapter iv. early one morning john came to the hotel to take laura for a prearranged excursion. temporarily out of the bill at the theatre, and a long holiday being hers to enjoy, she had suggested a little trip to manitou to see the far-famed garden of the gods, a place of scenic marvels, where, by a strange freak of nature, great rocks and boulders, fantastic in shape and coloring, are thrown together in all kinds of curious formations. the plan was to go by train as far as colorado springs, and then finish the journey by automobile. they started gleefully, by rail, and were soon spinning across the verdant plains in the direction of pike's peak, the snow-capped peak of which rose majestically in the distance. the day was beautiful, and both being in good spirits, they enjoyed to the full the fresh, invigorating air. on reaching colorado springs, they partook of an appetizing luncheon, served merrily under the trees. she laughed and chattered and discussed plans for the future, while john, strangely silent, just looked at her, quietly enjoying her spontaneous gayety, surprised himself at the keen interest he was taking in her society. and the more he watched her laughing eyes and dimpled smiles, the more he realized the loneliness, the solitude of his own empty, aimless life. the summer would soon be at an end. the past few weeks had sped by all too quickly for him, and in the interval this girl, with her vivacious manner and laughing eyes, had strangely grown upon him. what would he do when she was gone? when the meal was finished, he went in search of a machine. an expert chauffeur himself, they could manage the car without aid, and soon they were running smoothly and rapidly along the mountain roads. laura chatted continuously while john kept a watchful eye in front. as they flew along under the murmuring pines, he pointed out the various places of interest. the machine was running fast, with the going none too smooth, when, all at once, while making a sharp turn, the wheels skidded, and they were almost ditched. laura gave a little scream, and, instinctively, grasped her companion's arm. he laughed to reassure her, and, giving the wheel a vigorous twist, the car was again under control and once more on its way. laura had always felt nervous in automobiles, even in new york, where she was accustomed to go at a much slower pace. but to-day, in spite of the mishap they had just escaped, she had no fear. she knew that john was a splendid driver, watchful, resourceful, careful. with his immense strength and skill, the machine seemed but a toy in his hands. she watched him furtively, admiring him. this was no city roué, his constitution undermined by dissipation. he was good to look at, wholesome, frank, virile. perhaps if she had met him earlier, her life might have been very different. she might have been a respectable woman. she could have loved such a man as this. she did love him--she was sure of it now. there was no mistaking the feeling he inspired in her. once, he chanced to glance down, and caught her looking intently at him. "what's the matter?" he smiled. "nothing," she answered gravely. soon they reached their destination. the automobile came to a stop, and, getting down, she took his arm, and together they approached the imposing gateway of the far-famed garden of the gods. when she passed through the red perpendicular portals of the place, laura was filled with awe. it was the first time she had beheld this unique and beautiful demonstration of nature, and she could not repress her enthusiasm. in the wildest flights of her imagination, she had never pictured such a scene as the one now presented to her eyes. it was as if she had been suddenly transported to fairyland, and was treading among the colossal habitations of giants. on all sides were stupendous masses of rock, huge boulders of all colors--white, yellow and red--most fantastically shaped. there were lofty towers, strange, wind-wrought obelisks, pointed pinnacles, bizarre in shape as one sees in nightmares. it reminded her of the settings of wagner's music dramas and the weird pictures of gustave doré. she admired the graces, lofty fragments of strata shaped like obelisks. then there was the cradle, a huge rock so nicely balanced that it seemed as if a child's touch could send it crashing from its pedestal, yet probably it had stood there since creation day. other rocks, strangely colored, were standing on end in all kinds of extravagant postures. some were shaped like fierce animals; others resembled faces, houses, men. it seemed like a vision of another world, a glimpse of some vanished people, a race of titanic beings who had suddenly been petrified into stone. the place was deserted. there was no one there but themselves. a sepulchral silence hung heavy over everything. it was as mournful and awe-inspiring as a city of the dead. by the time they had seen all the wonders of the garden the sun was low on the horizon. a glorious crimson glow shot up out of the west, and, flooding the heavens, tinged each surrounding object with rich color. tired after the day's adventures, they sat on a bench at the base of a tall stone pillar, which, in the growing dark, seemed like a colossal sentinel standing guard in a camp of giants. madison was very silent. deep in his own thoughts, he paid little attention to his companion. "how quiet it is!" murmured laura, almost to herself, as she contrasted the heavy stillness of the place with the roar and excitement of broadway. "how lonely!" added madison. bitterly he exclaimed: "it reminds me of my own life." quickly she looked up at him. it was unusual for him to speak of himself. "are you lonely?" she demanded. he nodded. "often." she looked puzzled, not understanding. "why are you lonely? you are young and strong and clever. the world is before you----" he remained silent for a moment, without replying. in the uncertain light of the late afternoon, she could see that his eyes were fixed steadily on her. in them was a look that every woman understands, be she pure or impure. then slowly, his deep, bass voice beautifully modulated, he said gravely: "i am lonely because i am alone. all these years, ever since i was a boy, i have spent my life alone. i have had many so-called friends--yes; but even friends do not satisfy the longing to have some one still nearer and dearer, some one to whom you can turn in trouble, some one who will be always there to share in your joys. work--yes, i can work, but why should i strive and toil? for myself? bah--i'm sick of it all. to live alone, as i do, is not worth the effort it costs. sometimes i think i'd just as soon blow out my brains as not. what's the use of straining every nerve and sweating blood to make a success in life if there's no one to share success with when it comes?" she understood. a thrill ran through her entire being. her heart throbbed violently and her lips trembled as she said gently: "why don't you marry? any girl would consider herself fortunate if she could go through life with such a man as you." suddenly she winced. his big, muscular hand had caught hers and was holding it firmly in an steel-like grip. bending over so close that she felt his warm breath on her cheek, he said hoarsely: "do you mean that? would you give up all that you have now--to marry me?" something rose up in her throat and choked her. her heart beat furiously as though it would burst. what she had foreseen and dreaded was upon her. "i?" she gasped in unaffected surprise. "yes, you," he said fiercely. "you must have seen what has been in my heart for days--that i care for you. the first moment i set eyes on you i knew that you were just the kind of girl i wanted for a wife. at first i was afraid of you. i had heard things about you--gossip and all that. you came here. we were thrown together. i still mistrusted you, but i watched you, and saw you weren't as bad as i'd been led to believe. i guess people have lied about you. what do i care what they say? you're good enough for me. i soon found out that i loved you. i'm a man of very few words. i'm not an adept at pretty speeches. tell me--will you marry me?" she made no reply. it was now almost dark, and he could not see her face plainly. hoarsely he repeated: "did you hear me? i want you to marry me." she shook her head. "it's impossible," she murmured. "it's impossible." "you don't care for me--i've made a fool of myself. is that it?" she laid her gloved hand gently on his hand. "i do care for you." "then why is it impossible?" he demanded fiercely. he put his arm around her and tried to draw her to him. quietly, but firmly, she disengaged herself, and it was with some show of dignity that she replied: "because i care for you--just because of that." "you are not free?" he demanded. she hesitated. "it is not that--there is another reason." "what is it?" at first she was tempted to deceive him and keep up for his benefit her masterful assumption of innocence. but what was the good? he would soon know her real record, if he did not already know it. kind friends would soon enlighten him, and then he would despise her the more. a man of such broad experience was not to be hoodwinked so easily. no, it was folly to beat about the bush. at one time she might have seized the happiness he held out to her, but now it was too late. "what is it?" he persisted. "do you mean that man brockton? is he the obstacle?" "he is one of them," she answered firmly. she was astonished at her own self-possession, but there was a quiver in her voice as she went on: "my life has been different to what you perhaps think. i am not altogether to blame, although i have no excuses to offer. you understand now?" she half expected an explosion of wrath, but none came. instead, he said calmly: "i know all about your past life. i've known everything from the first: how you went to san francisco as a kid and got into the show business, and how you went wrong, and then how you married--still a kid--and how your husband didn't treat you exactly right, and then how, in a fit of frenzied drunkenness he came home and shot himself." the girl leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. a low moan escaped her lips. madison touched her gently on the shoulder. "but that's all past now," he went on. "we can forget that. i know how you were up against it, after that; how hard it was for you to get along. then, finally, how you've lived, and--and that you and that man brockton have been--well--never mind. i know all this, and still i ask you to marry me. what is past makes no difference. i don't care what you have been but only what you are. if you think you care enough for me to leave this man and begin life anew with me, i'll marry you. i may not be able to give you all the luxuries his money provided, but at least, as my wife, you'll be able to lift your head up in the world. i don't profess to be a saint myself. i'm no better and no worse than the next man, and i'm not unreasonable enough to expect too much in a woman who has had to make her own way in the world--especially on the stage. there's some good in you, yet, laura; i believe in you. something tells me that you'll make good if only given half a chance, and that chance i hold out to you now. break away from this rotten life you've been leading. it can end only in one way. you're young now, and you're beautiful, and it doesn't seem to matter, but some day your youth and beauty will be gone, and what then? quit now, while there's still time. be my wife. i'll work hard for you, and, with god's help and you to inspire me, i'll get there!" she listened in silence. his melodious, earnest voice sounded like sacred music in her ears. it was a glimpse of heaven that he gave her, a promise of redemption and regeneration, yet her heart told her that it was impossible. if she consented, what would the outcome be? one day, sooner or later, he would regret having married her and would taunt her with her past. they would not be able to take a step in new york but some one would point derisively at her. "it's impossible," she murmured weakly. "why?" he persisted. "give me time to consider," she pleaded. "i'll give you until to-morrow." with that, he released her, and went to light the lamps of the automobile. it was now quite dark, and it required skilful manoeuvring to find the right road. the return home was silent; each was engrossed in thought. at the door of the hotel he merely pressed her hand. "to-morrow," he whispered. all night long she tossed feverishly. sleep was out of the question. in a few hours she must decide what her future life would be--the petted, pampered mistress of willard brockton, wealthy member of the new york stock exchange, or the wife of john madison, an interesting but impecunious newspaper reporter. if she married this man, it meant that she must relinquish immediately everything she loved--her sumptuous apartment on riverside drive, her automobile, her beautiful gowns, and gay little midnight champagne suppers in good company. her life henceforth would be dreadfully prosaic and commonplace. she would be comparatively poor, perhaps in actual want. even if she remained on the stage, she could not hope to secure good parts. probably she would not be able to dress even decently; no one would look at her; she would have to darn stockings and be content with one hat a season--all this was a picture depressing and discouraging enough to one who had been accustomed to all the luxuries money can buy. on the other hand there would be compensatory advantages not to be ignored. as john madison's legitimate wife, she could once more take her place in the world as a virtuous woman. she could again lift up her head and look decent people honestly in the face. she would be the lawful wife, entitled to regard, not the despised paramour, a plaything to be discarded and thrown aside at a man's whim. once more she would be able to feel respect for herself. at heart laura was not a bad girl. she was weak and luxury loving, and, when tempted, had been unable to resist entering into a style of living which suited her own peculiar tastes. she had paid the price with a light heart, but as she grew older she was becoming wiser. she realized what an awful price she was paying for her fun. she knew that, with the sacrifice of her chastity, she had surrendered everything a self-respecting woman holds dear, all for what--a few glittering trinkets! in what was she better than a common wanton? and what would her end be, but the end of all women of her kind? when her youth had passed and her beauty had faded, her admirers would grow cold and indifferent. abandoned by all, friendless and homeless, she would go unwept to an early grave. the thought was one to fill her with horror. why not try to save herself now, while there was yet time? she still had a chance. a drowning man will grasp even at a straw. she was not irretrievably lost. the devil might still be cheated of a victim. this man believed in her; he offered to make her his honored wife. he forgave the past and held out a generous hand to save her. a revulsion of feeling suddenly shook the girl to the innermost recesses of her being. burying her face in her pillow, she burst into a flood of tears. for the first time in her life, her better instincts were awakened. she would show the world that it had misjudged her, that she was not as bad as she seemed. her future life, her future conduct should redeem all that had gone before. perhaps the almighty would be merciful and hold out a forgiving hand. she might still be a happy, decent woman. with a prayer on her lips, she dropped down on her knees. the following-day this telegram flashed over the wires to new york: "theatre closes next saturday night. you needn't come for me. am invited to spend a week with a lady at colorado spring's. will return to new york alone. laura." a few hours later this message was received in reply: "am compelled to go to kansas city on business, so will pick you up anyhow. leave address at denver hotel. will." chapter v. mrs. williams' ranch house at colorado springs was universally admitted to be a show place even among the many magnificent summer residences with which this fashionable resort is dotted. perched high on the side of the famous ute pass, a wildly picturesque spot, so called because the ute indians used it as a favorite trail across the mountains, and commanding an unobstructed view of the beautiful valley below, it was a conspicuous land-mark for miles. the house, unusually pretentious for a country home, and built of reddish rough stone in the greek style of architecture, was two stories high, with a square turret on one side and a low, broad roof overhanging a stone terrace. massive stone benches, also of greek design, and strewn with cushions, were placed here and there, while over the western terrace, shading it from the afternoon sun, was suspended a canopy made from a navajo blanket. the well-kept grounds, with trailing vines around the balustrades, groups of marble statuary, a fountain of a marble venus gracefully splashing water into a wide basin in which floated large, white lilies, privet hedges, artistically clipped to represent all kinds of fantastic figures, rattan lounging chairs, and tables with the leading papers and magazines--all suggested a home of culture and wealth. so close was the house to the edge of the declivity that at one end the terrace actually overlooked the cañon, a sheer drop of 2,000 feet, while across the yawning chasm, one could see the rolling foothills and lofty heights of the rockies, with pike's peak in the distance, snow-capped and colossal. for more than a week laura had been mrs. williams' guest. the rich society woman had taken a great liking to the young actress, and would not hear of her departure. an inveterate bridge player, she insisted on laura staying, if only to learn the game. so, partly because she was unwilling to give offense, partly because she was comfortable and happy there, and at the same time near the man she loved, she had consented to remain a little longer. but only for a few days, she insisted. autumn was already at hand. there was no time to lose. she realized that if she wanted to find a good engagement for the coming season she must return to new york at once, for, from now on, there would be no influence to aid her. to secure future engagements she must rely on her own efforts alone. she did not regret the step she had taken. on the contrary, for the first time in her life, she felt perfectly happy and carefree. when, the day following their excursion to the garden of the gods, he had come to the hotel for her answer, there was very little said. her eyes spoke to him, and he understood. "very well, john," she said simply. he turned very pale, and, drawing her to him, kissed her solemnly. "it's until death, little one!" "until death!" she repeated gravely. then they both sat down together and enthusiastically began to make plans for the future. it was not without due premeditation that madison had entered into this affair. he was not the kind of man to undertake anything lightly. everything he had done in his life had been long and well thought out. he liked this girl and he wanted her for his wife. both her beauty and her personality pleased him. he knew that she was not the kind of woman to whom men usually give their names, but he had never been conventional. he ridiculed and scoffed at the conventions. he made his own social laws and cared not a rap for the good or bad opinion of the world. if there had been opportunities to meet decent women, of good social standing, he had always thrown them aside with the exclamation that such women bored him to death, and in all his relations with the opposite sex there had never entered into his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until now. he fell, for a moment only, under the spell of laura's fascination, and then, drawing aloof, with cold logic he analyzed her and found out that while outwardly she had every sign of girlhood ingenuousness, sweetness of character and possibility of affection, spiritually and mentally she was nothing more than a moral wreck. at the beginning of their acquaintance he had watched with covert amusement her efforts to win him, and he had likewise noted her disappointment at her failure--not, he believed, that she cared so much for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity not to be successful with this big, good-natured, penniless bohemian, when men of wealth and position she made kneel at her feet. from afar he had watched her slowly changing point of view, how from an artificial ingenuousness she became serious, womanly, sincere. he knew that he had awakened in her her first decent affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him his first desire to accomplish things and be big and worth while. so, together, these two began to drift toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent thought and decent love, until at last they had both found themselves, acknowledged all the badness of what had been, and planned for all the goodness of what was to be. laura's immediate task, and assuredly it was both a difficult and unpleasant one, was to acquaint will brockton with her determination. that the news would astonish him, was certain. she also thought that he would be sorry. in his indifferent, selfish way, she believed that he cared for her--perhaps more than for any of the other women he had known. she knew him too well to believe that he would make a scene. he was too much the gentleman and man of the world for that. he would accept the situation philosophically. besides, any opposition on his part would be in direct violation of their agreement, that it was her privilege to quit whensoever she might choose. she was considerably put out at first when she received his telegram telling her that he was coming to denver to fetch her back, and her first impulse was to send a wire to stop him. she thought she would prefer to wait and tell him in new york. but, on consideration, she did nothing of the kind. perhaps it were better to have it over with at once. why make a mystery of it? there was nothing to conceal. the sooner every one knew it the better. he had reached denver that morning, and, finding she had already left colorado springs, followed here there post haste. he arrived at mr. williams' villa, _débonnair_ and immaculate, as usual, and in the kindly paternal manner characteristic of him, he saluted laura with a chaste kiss. "why, kid, how well you look!" he exclaimed heartily. laura was looking her best that morning. she had not expected brockton so soon. indeed, she had dressed to please john, who came to see her every afternoon. her gown, made of summery, filmy stuff, was simple, girlish and attractive. her hair, arranged in the simplest fashion, was parted in the center. there was about her that sweetness and girlishness of demeanor which had been her greatest asset through life. embarrassed, and temporarily at a loss how to account to her hostess for the broker's presence and evident intimacy, the young girl introduced him as--her uncle. it was not the first white fib she had told in her life, and it was one of the least harmful. with ready tact, she quickly added that mr. brockton was a skilful bridge player. this was enough to insure his welcome. mrs. williams, impressed with the visitor's talents and aristocratic appearance insisted on his staying to dinner, which cordial invitation he politely accepted. diplomatically, he burst into extravagant raptures over the beauty of the view. "what a magnificent panorama! this is worth coming a thousand miles to see." visibly pleased, mrs. williams smiled: "i hope you will afford me the privilege of entertaining you a few days. we could show you views still more beautiful." brockton bowed. "you are very kind, madame. i regret exceedingly that business calls me immediately back to new york." "but not before you've shown us your skill at bridge," she laughed. "we're having a game inside now. i'll be pleased to have you join us." "i shall be delighted," he bowed. the old lady reentered the house to join her friends, and he turned quickly to laura: "when can you get ready?" she made no answer. apparently she had not heard. sitting at the end of the terrace, she leaned over the balustrade of the porch, looking intently into the cañon below, as if expecting to see some one, her eyes shielded with her hands from the hot afternoon sun. approaching her, brockton repeated the question. "when can you get ready?" she started as if suddenly surprised in some secret reverie. "ready? what for?" "why--to go back to new york, of course." "new york?" she echoed. "yes," he said mockingly, "new york. why, laura, what's the matter? you seem dazed. didn't you ever hear of a little old place called new york?" she laughed nervously. "don't be silly." passing her hand over her forehead, she said: "i'm a little stupid to-day--i think it's the sun." at that moment a maid servant approached the broker. "mrs. williams wishes me to show you to your room, sir," she said. "all right," replied brockton, turning to follow her. to laura, he said: "i'll go and brush up. wait for me here. i'll be back in a minute." laura sat motionless, watching the winding road, which, like a long, undulating ribbon, led up the declivity out of the valley. straining her eyes, she tried to make out the little cloud of dust that would warn her of john's approach. she wondered what detained him. he said he would come at four o'clock, and now it was nearly five. yet, perhaps, it was just as well. it would hardly do for the men to meet until she had had her talk with will. the critical moment had come. she must tell brockton everything. nothing must be held back. he must be told that she had finished with him forever. in a few minutes brockton reappeared, smoking a cigar. clean-shaven and comfortable in a tuxedo coat, he had the air of a man at peace with himself and the whole world. laura was still sitting where he had left her. with her head resting on one hand in a meditative manner, she was so intently watching the road that she did not look up as he approached. he watched her for a moment without speaking. then slowly removing his cigar from his mouth, he asked laconically: "blue?" she shook her head. "no." "what's up?" "nothing." "a little preoccupied?" "perhaps." still she did not turn her head, yet her heart was beating fast. this was her opportunity. he looked in the same direction she was looking. "what's up that way?" he demanded. "which way?" "the way you are looking." "that's the road from manitou springs. they call it the trail out here." brockton nodded. "i know that. i've done a lot of business west of the missouri." the girl gave a half-yawn of indifference. "i didn't know it," she said. "oh, yes," he went on; "south of here, in the san juan country. spent a couple of years there once." "that's interesting," replied laura, with another yawn, and still not turning her head. with a chuckle of self-satisfaction, he went on: "it was then that i made some money there. it's always interesting when you make money. still----" "still what?" she asked absent-mindedly. he looked at her, as if surprised at her manner. somewhat impatiently he said: "i can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road. some one coming?" "yes." "one of mrs. williams' friends, eh?" crossing to the other side of the terrace, he seated himself in one of the comfortable lounging chairs. "yes," answered the girl. "yours, too?" he asked dryly. "yes." "man?" "yes, a _real_ man." there was no mistaking the significance of these last words, which she uttered with strong emphasis, as if they came right from the heart. the broker sat up with a start. at first he was too surprised to speak, but quickly he regained his composure, and gave vent to a long, low whistle, which was inaudible to his companion. carelessly throwing his cigar over the balustrade, he rose from his seat, and stood leaning on another chair a short distance away. laura, meantime, had not moved, except to place her left hand on a cushion and lean her head wearily against it. she still sat motionless, her gaze steadfastly fixed on the road in the pass. brockton broke the rather awkward silence. "a _real_ man?" he echoed. "by that you mean----" "just that," she said testily, "a real man." he gave an imperceptible shrug with his shoulders, and his tone was tinged with irony as he inquired with forced mildness: "any different--from the _many_ you have known?" "yes," she retorted; "from _all_ i have known." he laughed derisively. "so that's why you didn't come into denver to meet me to-day, but left word for me to come out here?" "yes." "i thought i was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half-way across the continent in order to keep you company on your way back to new york, and welcome you to our home, but maybe i had the wrong idea." she nodded, and almost mockingly replied: "yes, i think you had the wrong idea." "in love, eh?" he chuckled. "yes," she answered firmly. "just that--in love." he smiled grimly. "a new sensation?" "no," she retorted quick as a flash, "the first conviction." he left the seat on which he was leaning, and approached nearer to where she still sat crouched. "you have had that idea before," he said ironically. "every woman's love is the real one when it comes. do you make a distinction in this case, young lady?" "yes," she answered. "for instance, what?" she rose to her feet, and, going to a chair, sat carelessly on one of the arms, drawing imaginary lines on the ground with her parasol. he could see that she was highly nervous and trying hard to control herself. quickly she said: "this man is poor--absolutely broke. he hasn't even got a good job. you know, will--all the rest, including yourself, generally had some material inducement----" the broker gave a snort of impatience, and, going to the table, picked up a magazine, and made a pretense of becoming deeply interested in its contents. but his fit of sulks did not last long. looking up, he growled: "what's his business?" "he's a newspaper man." "h'm-m! romance, eh?" "yes, if you want to call it that--romance." "do i know him?" she shook her head and smiled. "i hardly think so. he has been to new york only once or twice in his life, and he's not the kind of man one usually finds in your set." brockton sat looking at her with an amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression on his face. in contrast with his big, bluff physical personality, his iron-gray hair and bull-dog expression laura appeared more youthful and girlish than ever. a stranger catching a glimpse of the terrace might have taken them for father and daughter engaged in an intimate chat. "how old is he?" he demanded. "thirty." instantly she added: "you are forty-five." "no," he corrected dryly; "forty-six." laura laughed. she saw that his good-humor had returned. at least there was no immediate danger of his doing anything desperate. the nervous tension was over for the time being. rising and going near to him, she asked archly: "shall i tell you about him, eh?" the broker looked serious. "that depends." "on what?" "yourself." "in what way?" she demanded. he hesitated and looked at her for a moment in silence before he replied: "if it will interfere with the plans i have made for you and myself." the girl turned her head. coldly, she said: "have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you?" lighting another cigar, he said with assumed nonchalance: "why, yes. i have given up the lease of your apartment on west end avenue and bought a house on riverside drive. i thought you would like it better. everything will be quiet and nice. it'll be more comfortable for you. there's a stable nearby. your horses and car can be kept there. i'm going to put the house in your name. that way you'll be your own mistress. besides, i've fixed you up for a new part." [illustration: "i've bought a house for you on riverside drive." _page 86._] chapter vi. laura gasped, and opened wide her eyes. a house of her own on riverside drive! she had always wished for that; it had been the dream of her life. why--it meant that independence, wealth were already hers! she need have no more gnawing anxiety about the future. the price? well, had she not paid it already? perhaps she had been foolish. the world is hard--one never gets the credit for trying to be decent. who would care? yes--one would. she saw a pair of honest gray eyes seeking hers and questioning her, demanding if she had been true to their oath--"until death!" "a new part!" she faltered. "what kind of a part?" a covert smile played about the broker's lips. he had noted her hesitation, and well he knew the weight of his words. he had not studied women all these years for nothing. carelessly he went on: "one of charlie burgess's shows, translated from some french fellow. it's been running over in paris, berlin, vienna, and all those places for a year or more, and appears to be a tremendous hit. it's a big production, and it's going to cost a lot of money to do it here. i told charlie he could put me down for a half-interest and i'd give all the money, provided that you got an important rôle. great part, i'm told--just the kind of thing you've been looking for. looks as if it might stay in new york all season. that's the change of plan. how does it strike you?" laura averted her face and made no reply. going to the edge of the terrace, she leaned against the balustrade, and gazed once more into the depths below. the sun had already begun to set behind the distant mountain-tops, and the cañon was beautiful in its tints of purple and amber. "how does it strike you?" he repeated. "i don't know," she replied without turning her head. he rose from his seat and strolled towards her. the good-humor had faded out of his face. the lines about his mouth were more tightly drawn. it was evident that his patience was exhausted and that he was becoming angry. but brockton never made a scene. no matter how incensed he might be, he never lost his _sang froid_ or forgot his manners. quietly he asked: "feel like quitting?" "i can't tell," she replied in the same indifferent tone. "so it's the newspaper man, eh?" "that would be the only reason." turning quickly, he placed himself in a position so that he faced her. looking her steadily in the eyes, he said slowly: "you've been on the square with me this summer, haven't you?" she instantly noted the change in his tone. her face grew a shade paler, but she looked up at him without flinching. quickly she said: "what do you mean by 'on the square'?" "don't evade," he exclaimed, slightly raising his voice. "there's only one meaning when i say that--and you know it. i'm pretty liberal, laura, but you understand where i draw the line----" sternly and more slowly he added: "you've not jumped that, have you?" the girl tossed her head haughtily. there are some questions no one may ask or answer. she looked him straight in the face. he could read nothing there. quietly she said: "this has been such a wonderful summer, such a wonderfully different summer." it was her turn to be ironical when she added: "can you understand what i mean by that, when i say 'a wonderfully different summer'?" the broker smiled in spite of himself. "so--he's thirty and 'broke,' and you're twenty-five and pretty. he evidently, being a newspaper man, has that peculiar gift of gab that we call romantic expression. so i guess i'm not blind. you both think you've fallen in love. that it?" "yes," replied the girl gravely. "i think that's about it, only i don't agree with the 'gift of gab' and the 'romantic' end of it. he's a man and i'm a woman, and we've both had our adventures. his are more respectable than mine, that's all." musingly, as if to herself, she added: "i don't think, will, that there can be much of that element which some folk describe as hallucination. we know what we're about." picking up from the table a box of candies which the broker had brought her, she selected one of the sugared delicacies and popped it in her mouth. brockton walked up and down with long, nervous strides. the girl's calmness disconcerted him. with all his experience, he was at a loss how to handle her. perhaps he might try a final shot. "then the riverside drive proposition and burgess's show offer are off, eh?" he said sharply. hesitatingly she answered: "i don't say that." "and if you go back on the overland limited day after to-morrow," he went on bitterly, "you'd just as soon i'd go to-morrow or wait until the day after you leave!" "i didn't say that, either," she replied, replacing the candy box on the table. he stopped short. "what's the game?" he demanded impatiently. "i can't tell you now." "waiting for him to come?" "exactly." "think he's serious, eh?" "i know he is." "marriage?" "possibly." he laughed ironically. "you've tried that once," he said, "and taken the wrong end. are you going to play the same game again?" "yes--but with a different card," she answered. "what's his name?" "madison--john madison." picking up a magazine, she slowly turned the pages. "and his job?" "i told you--a reporter." the broker gave a low and expressive whistle. sarcastically he inquired: "what are you going to live on--extra editions?" "no, we're young, there's plenty of time," she answered calmly. "i can work in the meantime and so can he. with his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible." brockton chuckled to himself. "sounds well--a year off." irritated at his facetious tone and bantering manner, the girl plainly showed her resentment. her face flushed, and, throwing down the magazine, she went towards the door of the house. petulantly she cried: "if i had thought you were going to make fun of me, will, i wouldn't have talked to you at all." quickly he made a step forward and intercepted her. "i don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't exactly pleasant to be dumped with so little ceremony. maybe you have never given me any credit for possessing the slightest feeling, but even i can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market." she stopped and looked at him kindly. her voice was softened as she said: "it isn't easy for me to do this, will. you've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when i went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. you reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little--maybe a lot--but i should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts." the broker turned away, visibly moved. striding up to the edge of the terrace, he stood looking down into the cañon. laura remained where he had left her, looking after him. there followed a long silence, which at length he broke. "i'm not hedging, laura. if that's the way you want it to be, i'll stand by just exactly what i said." turning and looking at her, he went on: "but i'm fond of you, a damned sight fonder than i thought i was, now that i find you slipping away; but if this young fellow is on the square----" she approached him and slipped her hand in his. he went on: "if he's on the square, and has youth and ability, and you've been on the square with him, why, all right. your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, have a good husband, and maybe some day good children, why--i'm not going to stand in the way. only, i don't want you to make any of those mistakes that you made before." "i know," she smiled sadly, "but somehow i feel that this time the real thing has come and with it the real man. i can't tell you, will, how much different it is, but everything i felt before seemed so sort of earthy--and somehow the love that i have for this man is so different. for the first time in my life it's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble. the only other thing i ever had that i cared the least bit about, now that i look back, was your friendship." impulsively throwing her arms around him, she added: "we have been good pals, haven't we?" he smiled as he fondled her. "yes; it's been a mighty good two years for me. i was always proud to take you around, because i think you are one of the prettiest things in new york." playfully, her good spirits once more in the ascendant, she jumped into the armchair with a little girlish laugh. he went on: "you're always jolly and you never complained. you spent a lot of money, but it was a pleasure to see you spend it, and what's more, you never offended me. most women offend men by coming around looking untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow you always knew the value of your beauty and you always dressed up. i always thought that maybe some day the fellow would come along, grab you, and make you happy in a nice way, but i thought that he'd have to have a lot of money. you know, you've lived a rather extravagant life for five years, laura. it won't be an easy job to come down to cases and suffer for the little dainty necessities you've been used to." she sat leaning forward, her chin resting on her hands, a serious, far-away expression on her face. slowly she said: "i've thought all about that, and i think i understand." "you know how it is," he went on. "if you were working without anybody's help, you might have a hard time getting an engagement. as an actress, you're only fair." laura toyed impatiently with her parasol. "you needn't remind me of that," she said testily. "that part of my life is my own. i don't want you to start now and make it harder for me to do the right thing. it isn't fair; it isn't square, and it isn't right. you've got to let me go my own way." putting her hand on the broker's shoulder, she went on: "i'm sorry to leave you, will, in a way, but i want you to know that if i go with john it changes the spelling of the word 'comradeship' into 'love,' and the word 'mistress' into 'wife.' now, please don't talk any more." "just a word," he interrupted. "is it absolutely settled?" "i told you i didn't know exactly what our plans are," she answered impatiently. "i shall know to-day--that's what i'm waiting for. i can't understand why he doesn't come." the broker, whose gaze had been idly sweeping the cañon, suddenly sat up and pointed up the pass. "is that the fellow, coming up here?" he exclaimed. laura rose quickly from her seat, and, running to the balustrade, peered over. "where?" she asked. "up the road there," said brockton, pointing. "don't you see the man on that yellow horse?" she looked a moment, straining her eyes. "yes--that's john!" waving her handkerchief and putting one hand to her mouth, she cried out: "hello!" from the distance came the sound of a man's voice: "hello yourself!" "hurry up, you're late!" cried laura, her face now flushed from pleasure and excitement. "better late than never," came the rejoinder. "hurry up," she repeated. "not with this horse," was the answer. laura turned to brockton, her face beaming. enthusiastically she exclaimed: "now, will, does he look like a yellow reporter?" the broker's face broke into a rather uncomfortable smile. "he _is_ a good-looking chap." the girl leaned far over the balustrade to watch her lover's progress. "oh, he's just simply more than that!" turning quickly to the broker, she asked: "where's mrs. williams?" he pointed indoors. "she was in there playing bridge when i came out." going hurriedly to the door leading into the house, laura called out: "mrs. williams! oh, mrs. williams!" "what is it, my dear?" replied her hostess from within. "mr. madison is coming up the path." "that's good," came the reply. "he's just in time for dinner." "won't you come out and see him?" "no, my child. i'm up to my neck in bridge. i'm six dollars and twenty cents out now, and up against an awful streak of luck." "shall i invite him to dinner?" "yes, do, dear; and tell him to cross his fingers when he thinks of me." the girl ran back to brockton, who was still standing at the edge of the terrace, watching the rider's progress. slipping her hand involuntarily through the broker's arm and looking eagerly with him over the balustrade, she asked with girlish enthusiasm: "do you like him?" "i don't know him," replied brockton with an amused smile. "well, do you think you'll like him?" she persisted. "i hope i'll like him," he answered reservedly. "well, if you hope you'll like him, you ought to think you'll like him. he'll turn the corner of that rock in just a minute, and then you can see him. do you want to see him?" "why, yes--do you?" he replied, amused at her girlish enthusiasm. "do i?" she echoed. "why, i haven't seen him since last night. there he is!" waving her hand wildly, she cried out: "hello, john!" the rider was now close at hand, for madison's voice was heard in all the fullness of its rich, deep tones: "hello, girlie! how's everything?" "fine!" she called back. "do hurry." "tell that to this horse, will you? the word 'hurry' is not in his dictionary." "i'm coming down to meet you," she called again. "all right!" came the answer. turning quickly to brockton, like a spoilt child, pleading for a favor, she said demurely: "you don't care. you'll wait, won't you?" "sure," replied the broker laconically. the girl ran nimbly down the stairs of the terrace, and disappeared among the cactus bushes. chapter vii. brockton leaned over the balustrade trying, through the increasing dusk, to catch a glimpse of the girl's slender form, as in her light summer gown she flitted among the trees. the autumn afternoon was now far advanced. the shadows of approaching night were already falling across the pass. the golden glow that tinged the distant snow-clad peaks grew deeper in color. the lights were rapidly fading to beautiful opalescent hues. it was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that the broker had retained his composure. what the girl had just told him was a staggering and unexpected blow. underneath the man's stolid, business-like manner, there was a big heart. he was selfish and comfort-loving, like most men of his class and opportunities, but he was far from being as callous and blasé as he pretended. he had grown to be very fond of laura. he knew that up to this time and during her whole career he was the first man who had had any real influence over her. since the day when they first became pals, he had always dominated, and while his moral teaching left much to be desired, he had always endeavored to keep her semi-respectable in the bohemian, unconventional kind of life she had elected to lead. his coming all the way from new york to denver to accompany her home--for the business at kansas city was, of course, only a pleasant fiction--was proof of his keen interest in the girl. and what a disappointment awaited him! he had come after her, only to find that she had drifted away from him. what perhaps made matters worse, he could not in the least object to the manner of her going. she had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement with him. if this new love affair really meant new life to her, respectability, happiness, he would be worse than a cad to stand in her way. nor could he, logically, bear any malice towards the man who was taking her from him. presently he heard voices and footsteps on the walk below, and the next moment laura reappeared, dragging john madison after her. the big fellow's clothes were dusty after the long ride. his corduroy trousers were encased in leggings, and on his boots were brass spurs, such as are worn in the army. in his hand he held rather awkwardly a gray cowboy hat. as the two men faced one another, there was a dramatic pause. each looked at the other interrogatively, with ill-disguised hostility. one felt it needed but a spark to bring about an explosion. physically, they were both fine-looking men, although the contrast was most marked. brockton was tall and well-built, and many considered him a handsome man, but by the side of the big westerner, he suffered by comparison. the broker was the conventional type of eastern business man, the style of man one meets in clubs and drawing-rooms, well dressed, well groomed; john madison, in his six feet of muscular manhood, careless and picturesque in attire, suggested the free, open life on the plains, where men face danger as a matter of course, and are prepared to defend their lives at an instant's notice. each man took the other's measure in silence, neither flinching a muscle. the smile faded from madison's face, and his mouth dropped into an expression of fierce determination. for a moment, laura almost lost her self composure. nervous, frightened, now that she had brought them together, her voice trembled slightly from apprehension: "oh, i beg your pardon! mr. madison--this is mr. brockton, a friend of mine from new york. you've often heard me speak of him. he came out here to keep me company when i go home." madison advanced with hand outstretched. looking the broker straight in the eye, he said: "i am very glad to know you, mr. brockton." "thank you," returned the new yorker with forced cordiality. the newspaper man shuffled uneasily on his feet, as if he realized the false position in which both of them were placed, but was ready enough, if only for convenience sake, to avoid hostilities. indeed, the broker's easy and friendly manner entirely disarmed the antagonism that madison had long been nursing. with a side glance, at laura, he went on: "i've heard a great deal about you and your kindness to miss murdock. anything that you have done for her in a spirit of friendliness, i am sure all her friends must deeply appreciate, and i count myself in as one." brockton smiled amiably, as he replied: "then we have a great deal in common, mr. madison, for i also count miss murdock a friend, and when two friends of a friend have the pleasure of meeting, i daresay that's a pretty good foundation for them to become friends, too." the big fellow nodded and showed his white teeth. with a determined effort not to show himself behind his rival in cordiality, he said: "whatever my opinion may have been of you, mr. brockton, before you arrived, now i have seen you--and i'm a man who forms his conclusions right off the bat--i don't mind saying you've agreeably surprised me. that's just a first impression, but they run kind o' strong with me." brockton carelessly flecked the ash from his cigar as he answered in the same tone: "well, young man, i size up a fellow in pretty short order, and all things being equal, i think you'll do." laura, radiant at this totally unexpected result of the encounter, looked from one man to the other in delighted amazement. she was afraid they would fly at each other's throats, and here they were, apparently, the best of friends. making a move towards the house she said: "shall i get the tea?" "tea?" exclaimed madison in mock dismay. the girl shook her finger in his face. "yes, tea. you know it must be tea--nothing stronger." madison looked comically at the broker: "how strong are you for that tea, mr. brockton?" "i'll pass," rejoined the broker, entering into the spirit of the fun, "it's your deal, mr. madison." "mine?" echoed the westerner, laughing. "no, deal me out this hand." putting on her favorite little pout, laura pretended to be angry. "i don't think you're at all pleasant, but i'll tell you one thing--it's tea this deal or no game." throwing herself into a seat, she picked up a magazine, and made a pretense of becoming interested in the illustrations. brockton moved towards the entrance to the house. "no game then," he said laughingly. "i'm going in to help mrs. williams. maybe she's lost seven dollars by this time. i may be able to get it back for her." he disappeared in the house. directly he was gone laura sprang from her seat, and running up to madison, flung her arms unrestrainedly about his neck. "john!" she exclaimed. "well, dear?" "are you going to be cross with me?" "why?" "because he came?" "because who came?" he demanded, "brockton?" "yes." "you didn't know, did you?" "yes, i did." "that he was coming?" "he wired me when he reached kansas city." "does he know?" "about us?" "yes." "i've told him." "when?" "to-day." "here?" "yes." madison looked at her closely for a moment. then slowly, he asked: "what was the result?" "i think it hurt him." "naturally." thoughtfully, almost pensively, she added: "more than i had any idea it would." madison shrugged his big, square shoulders, and sinking into a chair, said laconically: "i'm sorry." "he cautioned me to be very careful, and to be sure i knew my way." "that's right," nodded madison approvingly. laura took a couple of cushions from a sofa near one of the windows, and returning to where he was sitting, threw them on the ground near his chair. from the interior of the house floated the soulful strains of a chopin nocturne. sitting down quietly at his feet, she said softly: "john." "what, dear?" "we've been very happy all summer." "very." "this thing has gradually been growing on us." "that's true," he assented. musingly she went on: "i little thought when i came out here to denver to play in a little stock company, that it was going to bring me all this happiness; but it has, hasn't it?" he smiled indulgently and caressed her golden hair. changing her position, she got up and sat on his knee, her arms around his neck. after a moment's silence she said: "now the season's over, there's nothing to keep me in colorado. i've got to go back to new york and work." "i know," he replied gloomily. "i've been awake all night thinking about it." "well?" she asked anxiously. "well?" he repeated, without satisfying her curiosity. "what are we going to do?" she inquired. he remained silent for a moment; then he said: "why, you've got to go, i suppose." "is it good-bye?" he nodded gloomily. "for a while, i suppose--it's good-bye." turning his face round so she could see it, she looked searchingly at him. "what do you mean by 'a while'?" "until i get money enough together, and am making enough to support you. then i'll come and take you out of the show business and make you mrs. madison." she tightened her arm around his neck and placed her cheek lovingly against his. in one fond, pure caress she showed him all the affection of which a woman is capable. fondling up against him she seemed like a dainty little kitten purring close to its master. her every thought and desire seemed to be centered on this man, who had taught her for the first time the meaning of the word "love." tenderly she said: "john, that is what i want above everything else." he smiled fondly at her. gravely he said: "but, laura, dear, we must come to some distinct understanding before we start to make our plans. we're not children." "no, we're not," she assented positively. rising from his knee, she went to the side of the porch and, leaning her elbows on the balustrade, gazed meditatively out into the valley. "now, in the first place," he continued, "we'll discuss you, and in the second place we'll discuss me. we'll keep nothing from each other, and we'll start out on this campaign of decency and honor, fully understanding its responsibilities, without a chance of a come-back on either side." laura turned and looked at him. her face was pale and serious. yes, plain words must be spoken between them and the proper time was now--so he might yet draw back, if he found he could not take her as she was. "you mean," she said in a tone so low that he hardly caught it, "that we should tell each other all about each other so, no matter what is said about us by other people, _we'll_ know it first." madison rose and paced the porch nervously: "that's precisely what i'm trying to get at," he said. the girl was silent for a moment; then hesitatingly she said: "well, john, there are so many things i don't want to speak of--even to you. it isn't easy for a woman to go back and dig up a lot of ugly memories and try to excuse them----" he interrupted her: "i don't ask that. i know your life, as i told you. that makes no difference now. the past is past. i love you as i know you, as you are to-day. it's only the future we want to worry about. laura, the habit of life is a hard thing to get away from. you've lived in this way for a long time. as my affianced wife you'll have to give it up. you'll have to go back to new york and struggle along on your own hook, until i get enough together to come for you. i don't know how long that will be." determinedly, almost fiercely, he added: "but it _will_ be. do you love me enough to stick out for the right thing?" the girl said nothing. her bosom heaved and her mouth quivered. she appeared deeply moved. then, suddenly, going quickly up to her companion, she threw her arms affectionately around his neck. earnestly she said: "yes, john. i think this is my one great chance. i do love you, and i want to do just what you say." the big fellow's face beamed with content and happiness as fondly he caressed her hair. "i think you will, little girl," he said. "and i'm going to make the same promise. i've been no angel myself. ever since i've been able to earn my own living, i've abused every natural gift god gave me. this restlessness and love of adventure has kept me where i am. my life hasn't been exactly loose, but it's been all in pieces. i've frittered my time and opportunities away just for the fun of it. but, laura, dear--when i met you and began to know you i realized for the first time that i was making an awful waste of myself. now it's all different. give me time--only a few months--and i'll show you what i can do." "john!" it was all she could say, but he understood, and clasping her passionately, his head dropped lower over her face, until his warm lips met her unresisting mouth. when, after a blissful interval, she looked up, he saw that there were tears in her eyes. tenderly he said: "some lovers place a woman on a pedestal and say: 'she never has made a mistake.' well, we don't need any pedestals. i know you will never make a mistake again." gravely she placed both her hands on his square shoulders. looking him straight in the eyes, she said: "john, i will never make you take those words back." "that goes double," he rejoined laughingly. "you're going to cut out the cafés and the lobster suppers, and i'm going to cut out my shiftlessness and indolence. you're going to be somebody, and if my hunch is worth the powder to blow it up, we'll show folks things they never thought were in us. we'll begin right now. you're ready, ain't you, dear?" "yes, i'm ready." pointing towards the house, he said: "then call him." "brockton?" "yes, tell him you go back to new york without any traveling companion." she hesitated and looked perplexed. she was hardly prepared to act so quickly as this. "now?" she demanded. "now," he said firmly. she clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. timidly she said: "you want to hear me tell him?" he smiled. "we're partners, aren't we? i ought to be in on any important transaction like that, but it's just as you say." the girl nodded. hesitatingly she said: "i think it would be right you should. i'll call him now." "all right." he strolled carelessly in the direction of the stairway, while laura moved towards the house. it was dark now outside, and the interior of the bungalow was already lighted up. halting just outside the front door, she called: "mr. brockton! oh, mr. brockton!" "yes?" answered the broker's voice from inside. "can you spare a moment to come out here?" "i'll be there presently." "no--now," she insisted. "you must come now." "all right, i'm coming." she waited for him until he appeared. chapter viii. there were few things that brockton enjoyed more than a game of bridge. so long as the cards went his way, he was dead to the world. having routed his opponents and carried everything before him for the last half hour, he was feeling in particularly good humor, and it was only with a mock grimace that he protested at being disturbed. "say, laura, it's a shame to lure me away from that mad speculation in there. i thought i might make my fare back to new york, if i played until next summer." dropping his jesting tone, he inquired interrogatively: "what's up?" "mr. madison wants to talk to you, or rather i do, and i want him to listen." the broker gave her one keen look. she did not have to explain what the talk was to be about. he understood instinctively. instantly, his manner changed. the easy jocularity vanished. once more he was the shrewd, hard, calculating business man. coldly he said: "very well--what is it about?" descending the steps, he came down the terrace to where laura and madison were seated. the girl began: "say, will----" "yes," he answered icily. "i'm going home day after to-morrow, on the overland limited." he nodded. "i know." awkwardly and glancing nervously at madison, as if to gain courage, she went on: "it was awfully kind of you to come out here and offer to escort me back to new york, but--under the circumstances--i'd rather you'd take an earlier--or a later train." the broker looked from one to the other. coolly he asked: "may i ask what circumstances you refer to?" timidly she went on: "mr. madison and i are going to be married." she paused for a moment, as if in a dilemma how best to put it. finally she said: "he knows of your former friendship for me, and he thinks it must end." the broker gave a grunt. he was raging within, but what was the use of being unpleasant over it? he could not alter matters. trying to appear unconcerned, he said: "hum! then the riverside drive proposition, with burgess's show thrown in, is off, eh?" "yes," she replied firmly, "everything is absolutely declared off." brockton shrugged his shoulders. with an inward chuckle he said ironically: "can't even be friends any more, eh?" madison, who had listened without interfering, now rose and stepped forward. fixing the broker with a cold stare, he said: "you could hardly expect miss murdock to be friendly with you--under the circumstances." assisting laura to put a scarf across her shoulders, he added: "you could hardly expect me to sanction any such friendship." brockton gave a careless nod. patronizingly he said: "i think i understand your position, young man, and i agree with you perfectly, that is--if your plans turn out successful." "thank you," said madison stiffly. going up to the broker, laura held out her hand. with a smile she said: "then everything is settled, just the way it ought to be--frankly and above board?" brockton took her hand, and held it in his for a minute. with a visible effort to conceal his feelings, he said: "why, i guess so. if i was perfectly confident that this new arrangement was going to result happily for you both, i think it would be great, only i'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become serious and then fail, i know how hard these things hit, having been hit once myself." madison looked at him as if trying to gauge his full meaning. then quietly he said: "so you think we're making a wrong move, and there isn't a chance of success, eh?" "no, i don't make any such gloomy prophecy. if you make laura a good husband, and she makes you a good wife, and together you win out, i'll be mighty glad. as far as i am concerned, i shall absolutely forget every thought of laura's friendship for me." the girl looked grateful. "i thought you'd be just that way," she said. the broker rose and advancing, took both her hands. there was more than a suspicion of emotion in his voice as he said: "good-bye, girlie--be happy." turning to the newspaper man, he said: "madison, good luck." shaking him cordially by the hand he added: "i think you've got the stuff in you to succeed, if your foot don't slip." the newspaper man looked at him inquiringly. curtly he demanded: "what do you mean by my foot slipping, mr. brockton?" the broker returned his gaze steadily. "do you want me to tell you?" "i sure do." brockton turned to laura, who stood listening, rather uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. "laura," he said quietly, "run into the house and see if mrs. williams has won another quarter. madison and i are going to smoke a cigar and have a friendly chat. when we get through, i think we'll both feel better." she looked at him anxiously. fearfully she asked: "you are sure that everything will be all right?" "sure," he said smilingly. she looked at madison, as if for reassurance. he nodded and she went towards the house. when she had disappeared, brockton held out a handsomely engraved gold cigar case. "have a cigar?" he said cordially, as if to make things as amicable as possible. "no--i'll smoke my own," replied madison coldly. the men sat down and there was a short silence, during which they lit and puffed at their cigars. it was now pitch dark outside, and the brilliant illuminations in the interior of the house only served to intensify the almost opaque blackness of the grounds. nothing could be seen but the glow of each man's cigar, as he puffed it silently. the broker broke the long pause. "what's your business?" he demanded curtly. "what's yours?" retorted the westerner quickly. "i'm a broker." "i'm a reporter." "what kind?" inquired brockton. "general utility--dog fights, and dramatic criticisms." "pay you well?" asked brockton carelessly. the journalist started and looked up sharply at his interlocutor. "that's a pretty fresh question!" he exclaimed. "what's the idea?" "i'm interested--that's all," replied brockton coolly. knocking the ash off his cigar, he continued: "i'm a plain man, mr. madison, and i do business in a plain way. now, if i ask you a few questions and discuss this matter with you in a frank way, don't get it in your head that i'm jealous or sore, but simply i don't want either of you people to make a move that's going to cost you a lot of pain and trouble. if you want me to talk sense to you, all right. if you don't we'll drop it now. what's the answer?" madison listened attentively until he stopped speaking. then he looked up, his manner defiant and aggressive. "i'll take a chance," he said contemptuously, "but before you start i want to tell you that the class of people you belong to, i have no use for--they don't speak my language. you are what they call a manipulator of stocks. that means that you are living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your daily bread--yes--and your cake and your wine, too, from the sweat and toil of others. you're a safe gambler, a 'gambler under cover.' show me a man who's dealing bank; he's free and above board. but you--you can figure the percentage against you, and then if you buck the tiger and get stung, you do it with your eyes open. with you wall street men, the game is crooked twelve months of the year. from a business point of view, i think you're a crook!" he paused, as if to see the effect of his words. then he added: "now i guess we understand each other. if you've got anything to say, why--spill it." brockton rose impatiently. his voice rising in anger, he said: "we're not talking business now, but women. how much money do you earn?" for a moment madison was taken aback by the very impudence of the question. he glared at his questioner, and half rose from his seat with a threatening gesture. but noting the cool and composed manner of the broker, he merely shrugged his shoulders. clenching his teeth, he leaned forward and said warningly: "understand, i don't think it is any of your damned business! but i'm going through with you on this proposition, just to see how the land lays. take my tip, however. be mighty careful how you speak about the girl, if you're not looking for trouble." paying no attention to the covert threat, brockton went on: "how much did you say you made?" "thirty dollars a week." the broker gave vent to a low, but expressive whistle. elevating his eyebrows, he asked: "do you know how much laura could make if she took a job just on her own merits?" madison shook his head. impatiently he replied: "as i don't intend to share in her salary, i never took the trouble to inquire." "she'd get about forty dollars." "that laps me ten," retorted the other. brockton persisted. "but how are you going to support her?" he demanded. "her cabs cost more than your salary, and she pays her week's salary for an every-day walking hat. she's always had a maid. her simplest gown flirts with a hundred dollar note. her manicurist and her hairdresser will eat up as much as you pay for your board. she never walks when it's stormy, and every afternoon there's her ride in the park. she dines in the best places in new york, and one meal costs her more than you make in a day. do you imagine for a moment that she's going to sacrifice these luxuries for any great length of time?" "i intend to give them to her," replied madison promptly. "on thirty dollars a week?" "i propose to go out and make a lot of money." "how?" "i haven't decided yet, but you can bet your sweet life that if i ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be." brockton looked skeptical. "never have made it, have you?" he said. "i have never tried," replied madison doggedly. "then how do you know you can?" "i'm honest and energetic, that's how i know!" retorted the journalist. with a sneer he added: "if you can get great wealth the way you go along, i don't see why i can't earn a little." puffing vigorously at his expensive perfecto, brockton strode leisurely up and down the terrace. he spoke calmly and dispassionately, as if he personally were not in the least concerned with the subject under discussion. from his manner one might take him for an elderly brother advising a junior of life's many pitfalls. "that's where you make a mistake," he said coolly. "money doesn't always come with brilliancy. i know a lot of fellows in new york who can paint a fine picture, write a good play, and when it comes to oratory they've got me lashed to a pole. but, somehow, they never make money. they're always in debt. they never get anything for what they do. in other words, young man, they are like a sky rocket without a stick--plenty of brilliancy, but no direction. they blow up and fizzle all over the ground." "that's in new york," interrupted madison scornfully. "i'm in colorado. i guess you know there is a difference." the broker shrugged his shoulders. "i hope you'll make your money," he said carelessly, "because, i tell you frankly, that's the only way you can hold this girl. she's full of heroics now, self sacrifice, and all the things that go to make up the third act of a play, but the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the windows and send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it from me--she'll change her tune!" suddenly confronting his rival, he went on: "you're in colorado writing her letters once a day with no cheques in them. that may be all right for some girl who hasn't tasted the joy of easy living, full of the good things of life, but one who for ten years has been doing very well in the way these women do, is not going to let up for any great length of time. so take my advice, if you want to hold her, get that money quick, and don't be so damned particular how you get it, either." madison started quickly to his feet, his fists clenched. savagely he exclaimed: "of course, you know you've got the best of me----" "how?" demanded brockton coolly. "we're guests. i have to control myself." "no one's listening," said the broker. "'tisn't that," snapped the other impatiently. "if it was anywhere but here, if there was any way to avoid all the nasty scandal, i'd come a-shootin' for you and you know it----" "you're a fighter, eh?" sneered brockton. "perhaps," snapped the journalist. there was a dangerous gleam in his eye, as he went on: "let me tell you this. i don't know how you make your money, but i know what you do with it. you buy yourself a small circle of sycophants; you pay them well for feeding your vanity, and then you pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation. and those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood. manhood?" he echoed contemptuously. "why, you don't know what the word means! yours is the attitude of a pup and a cur." brockton turned. his lips were compressed, his eyes flashed. starting angrily forward he exclaimed: "wait a minute, young man, or i'll----" madison gave one stride towards him, and for a moment both men stood confronting each other, their fists clenched. their primal instincts were aroused. like wild beasts, full of savage hatred, they were hungry and ready to fly at each other's throats. "you'll what?" demanded madison, raising his fist. "lose my temper and make a damned fool of myself," retorted the broker retaining his _sang froid_ only by the greatest effort. with an attempt at jocularity he went on: "that's something i've not done for--let me see--why, it must be nearly twenty years--oh, yes--fully that----" he smiled and madison, disarmed, fell back. in a sulky undertone, the westerner grumbled: "possibly it's been about that length of time since you were human, eh?" "possibly--but you see, mr. madison, after all, you're at fault----" "yes?" "yes, the very first thing you did was to lose your temper. now people who always lose their temper will never make a lot of money, and you admit that that is a great necessity--i mean now--to you----" turning on his heel, madison picked up a newspaper and slammed it down angrily on a seat. "i can't stand for the brutal way you talk!" leaning on the balustrade and looking into the dark depths below, he lapsed into a sullen silence. brockton approached him. "but you've got to stand it," he said. "the truth is never gentle. most conditions in life are unpleasant, and if you want to meet them squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. that's the only way you can fight them and win!" madison turned around. the rage was gone out of his eyes, and his voice had regained its equanimity. decisively he said: "i believe laura means what she says, in spite of all you say and the disagreeable logic of it. i think she loves me. if she should ever want to go back to the old way of getting along, i think she'd tell me so. so you see, brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop the subject." crossing to the other side of the terrace, he dropped into a chair, and lit another cigar. brockton followed him. "and if she should ever go back and come to me," said the broker slowly and impressively, "i am going to insist that she let you know all about it. it'll be hard enough to lose her, caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be double crossed----" madison laughed scornfully. "that's very kind. thanks!" "don't get sore," said brockton. "it's common sense, and it goes, does it not?" "just what goes?" demanded the journalist, turning sharply. brockton eyed him gravely for a second or two; then he said slowly: "if she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to me, i'll make her let you know just when and why----" a fierce flame again blazed out from the big fellow's eyes. he half started from his chair, and he flung his fist out threateningly. "look out!" he cried. "i said 'common sense,'" rejoined brockton quietly. "all right," replied his rival, more calmly. "agreed?" demanded the broker. "you're on," muttered madison. chapter ix. the rialto, flooded with the warm sunshine of a glorious spring morning, presented its every-day aspect of leisurely gaiety and business bustle. the theatrical season was already on the wane; each day broadway's pavements in the immediate vicinity of forty-second street became more congested with lean-looking thespians, just in from "the road." the rialto--the haven of every disheartened barnstormer, the cradle of every would-be hamlet! an important section of the big town's commercial life, yet a world apart--the world of the theatre, a shallow, artificial, unreal land, with laws and manners all its own; a region of lights and tinsel and mock emotions, its people frankly unmoral and irresponsible as a child, yet ever interesting and not unlovable; luxury-loving and extravagant, flush to-day, bankrupt to-morrow; inflated with false pretense and exaggerated self importance, yet tender-hearted and ingenuous to a fault, and not without their sphere of usefulness--theirs the mission "to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature," and in tragedy and comedy, move mankind to tears and laughter, while upholding the best traditions of a noble art. sweeping northwards from herald square as far as forty-seventh street, the rialto, on this particular morning, did full credit to the famous public mart in venice, from which it took its picturesque name. here in the heart of theatredom was the players' curb market, the theatrical rendezvous of the metropolis, where the mummer comes both to talk shop with his fellow actor, and seek a new engagement. on every side luxurious theatres reared their stately facades, box-offices open for business invited all to enter, obstreperous ticket speculators jostled passersby in their eagerness to sell their seats. street hoardings, ash barrels and sandwich men were plastered with flamboyant multi-colored show bills. the play, and nothing but the play was certainly the thing; the hapless stranger was buffetted in a maelstrom of theatrical activity. the very air reeked of calcium and grease paint. the sidewalks were crowded with actors of all ages, some smartly dressed, others seedy-looking and down at heel. they stood chatting idly in little groups, thronged the doors of managers' offices and dramatic agencies, promenaded up and down with self-conscious strut. if some were seedy, all looked sanguine and happy. actors and actresses both, they laughed and joked and patted one another on the back, as they strove to outdo each other in narrating wonderful experiences on the road. right and left one heard the younger players exclaim exuberantly: "great notices!--made the hit of my life!--am to be starred next season!--manager crazy for me to sign!" the bystanders, older than the speakers, listened politely and nodded approvingly, but did not seem otherwise impressed. old-timers these, they knew too well the symptoms of the novice. every beginner had these illusions, like the measles; then, as one got older in the "perfesh" one became immune. had they not had many such attacks themselves? they had dreamed of playing brutus, macbeth and romeo before crowded houses, and having their names spelled out in blazing electric letters over the entrance of broadway theatres, yet here they were to-day, just where they stood twenty years before, playing general utility at forty dollars a week, and only thirty-six weeks in the year! need one wonder that their eyes were tired and their faces lined? their clothes were shabby, all ambition had been ruthlessly crushed out of them, but no matter. they still stood sunning themselves on the rialto, listening good naturedly to the youngsters' prattle. now and then grim tragedy could be detected stalking behind comedy's mask. haggard faces and shabby clothes spoke eloquently of poverty's pinch. a long summer ahead and nothing saved. well--what of it? that was nothing unusual. if times were hard and engagements few, that was the price the mummer must pay. why did he go into the rotten business? by this time he painfully realized that all cannot be stars, to own automobiles and fine country houses and have the managers and the public worshipping at their feet. some must be content to belong to the humble rank and file, and these were the kind that haunted broadway. two loungers, one a young actor, the other a man considerably his senior, stood talking at the corner of forty-second street, opposite the entrance to the empire theatre. the younger man was pale and sickly looking, and his long hair, classic features, and general seedy appearance stamped him as a "legit," or a player whose theatrical activities had been confined to shakespearian and the classic dramas. why actors who specialize in the legitimate should be invariably careless in their personal appearance has yet to be explained. their fellow-artists, who play in modern comedy, usually appear on the street trig and well groomed. their clothes, cut in the latest fashion, and the way they wear them, constitute valuable factors in their success. but the benvolios, the mercutios and horatios and other heroes of the romantic and standard dramas, are, in private life, a queer and sad-looking lot. their excuse may be that for the historical dramas the manager furnishes the costumes, whereas for the modern play the player has to provide his own. this particular actor wore a faded fedora hat, his trousers were baggy at the knee, and he tapped impatiently on the pavement with a cheap little cane. his attitude was one of general discouragement, which was not surprising, seeing that after playing shakespeare in the one-night stands all season, he found himself stranded on broadway without a cent. while he confided his troubles to his old friend, jim weston, he cast envious glances at other fellow actors, more fortunate than he, who were entering a red-curtained chop house close by. as his olfactory organ caught the delicious odors of grilling steaks and juicy roasts, he winced. that morning he had breakfasted but meagerly, and when again the hunger pangs seized him there would be no chop house for him. he must slink into the little dairy round the corner and lining-up at the lunch counter, together with a dozen other thespians in like straits, shamefacedly order a glass of milk and piece of pie. "do you think it's any merrier for me?" exclaimed weston, after he had listened to the other's hard-luck story. "why, man alive, i'm ready to give up. i've tramped broadway for nine weeks, until every flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet coming. it's something fierce!" jim weston was only one of the many hundred human derelicts cast away on the theatrical strand. an advance agent of the old school, he found himself at the age of fifty outdistanced by younger and more active men. in the three decades of his life, which he had devoted to the service of the stage, he had seen the gradual evolution of the theatrical business. the old-time circus and minstrel men had been pushed aside and younger men, more up-to-date in their methods, had taken their place. jim realized that he was a back number, but he hung on just the same. he was too old now to begin learning a new trade. he had given all the energy of his youth to the service of the theatre and now he was older and not so active the theatre had gone back on him. often he had thought of ending it all, there and then, but that he mused, was the coward's way. there was the "missis" and the "kids." he wasn't going to desert them. so day after day, he kept on tramping broadway, haunting the agencies, in the hope of something turning up. his companion, absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, tapped the pavement nervously with his cane, and weston continued: "got a letter from the missis this morning. the kids got to have more clothes, there's measles in the town and mumps in the next village. i've just got to raise some money, or git some work, or the first thing you'll know, i'll be hanging around central park on a dark night with a club." "hello, jim!" hailed a feminine voice in greeting. the two men quickly looked up. an attractive, stylishly dressed young woman had halted. a smile of recognition lit up the agent's wan face, and starting forward, he shook warmly the proffered hand. the actor, touching his hat, turned to go. to weston, he said: "if you hear of anything in my line, bear me in mind, old man." "i will, ned, never fear. good-bye and good luck." the actor strolled on and the agent turned to his feminine acquaintance: "why, elfie st. clair!" he exclaimed, "i haven't seen you for an age." it was elfie st. clair, bearing, as usual, all the outward signs of prosperity. like most women of her class, she always over-dressed. from her picture hat and jeweled neck, to her silk stockings and dainty patent leather slippers, she had them all on, and more than one passerby turned to stare. extravagant clothes which, on fifth avenue would be taken as a matter of course, caused a mild sensation among the general dullness of the busy rialto. but elfie ignored the attention she attracted, and went on chatting, unconcerned. what did she care if people guessed how she made the money to dress as she did? she was too old at the business for that, too hardened, yet with all her effrontery, she had at least one redeeming virtue. in her days of prosperity she was never too proud to greet or help old friends. she had met jim weston years ago. he was press agent for the first company she joined, and she had not forgotten trifling little services he had rendered her at that precarious time. with a glance at his shabby clothes, she asked: "what are you doing now?" "same as usual--nothing!" he answered dryly. "down on your luck, eh?" she said sympathetically. "never had any luck," he grumbled. "been out long?" "only six weeks the whole season. show busted. i'm on my uppers for fair this time--eligible for the down-and-out club. no prospects, either." the girl made a motion with her pocketbook. kindly she said: "say, jim--let me loan you a ten spot--we're old pals, you and i----" he shook his head determinedly. almost savagely, he exclaimed: "no, i'll be d----d if i do! the river before that. thank god, i still have my self respect left!" quickly changing the topic, he went on: "i met an old friend of yours the other day." "who?" "laura murdock." the girl started. "laura!" she exclaimed. "why, i haven't seen her for months--only once since she went to denver and fell in love with a newspaper man. wasn't that perfectly crazy? i was always afraid she would do something of the sort. there is a sentimental streak in her, you know. i did all i could to dissuade her, but it was no use. she had made up her mind to be good, and that was the end of it. such a pity! she was getting on so fine. you know, of course, that she has cut out brockton, and the rest of the crowd. i've quite lost sight of her. where did you see her?" the agent's thin lips then tightened into a grim smile. "you'd hardly know her now," he said. the girl looked inquiringly at him. "not know her--why?" hesitatingly he went on: "wal--you know how it is when things don't seem to go just right. laura never was over strong with the managers unless she had a good pull, and now she's shifting for herself, they've gone back on her. she got a fairly good part at the beginning of the season, but she didn't make good. the critics hit her pretty hard, and the manager gave her two weeks' notice. since then she's been playing such parts as she can get, but i guess she ain't averaged fifteen dollars a week the whole blessed winter." "where is she now?" "at mrs. farley's. she has a small room there. i think she pays four dollars a week--when she pays it. you know mrs. farley's. i'm stopping there, too. it ain't exactly swell, but it's better than the park, especially on cold nights." elfie turned pale under her cosmetics. too well she knew the horrors of poverty. she was shocked to hear that one of her own sisterhood should be reduced to such straits as these. the lightning had struck uncomfortably near home. besides she had always been fond of laura. yes, she knew mrs. farley's, a shrewish irishwoman, who kept a cheap theatrical boarding house in forty ----th street. ten years ago, in the days when she was a stage beginner, struggling to make both ends meet, she had lived there and as she looked back on those days of self denial and humiliation she shuddered. "i'm awfully sorry," she said, her voice trembling from unaffected emotion. "tell laura you met me and say i had no idea of it. tell her i'll come and see her the very first opportunity. goodbye." a smile and a nod, and she disappeared, swallowed up in the vortex of humanity that swirls in eddies along the great white way. the agent stood looking after her. with a sagacious shake of his head, he murmured to himself: "i don't know but that she's the wise one, after all. what's the good of being decent? the world respects the man who can wear fine duds. nobody asks how he got 'em. one's a fool to care. every one for himself and let the devil take the hindmost." having thus unburdened himself of this philosophical reflection, jim weston proceeded on his way. continuing north up broadway as far as forty-third street, he crossed long acre square and stopping in front of a dilapidated-looking brown-stone house, climbed wearily up the steep stoop. the house was one of the few old-fashioned private residences still left standing in the business section of the city. some forty or more years ago, when long acre was practically a suburb of new york, this particular house was the home of a proud knickerbocker family. its rooms and halls and staircases rang with the laughter of richly-attired men and women--the society of new york in ante-bellum days. but in the modern relentless march uptown of commercialism, all that remained of its one-time glory had been swept away. the house fell into decay and ruin, and while waiting for it to be pulled down entirely, to make room for an up-to-date skyscraper, the present owners had rented it just to pay the taxes. and a queer collection of tenants they had secured. a quick-lunch-counter man occupied the basement: a theatrical costumer had the front parlor, with armor and wigs, and other bizarre exhibits in the window. up one fight of stairs was a private detective bureau, while on the next flight was a theatrical agency, presided over by a mr. quiller--foxy quiller, his clients nicknamed him, where actors and actresses out of employment, might or might not, hear of things to their advantage. there was no elevator and the stairs were dark and fatiguing to climb. by the time he had reached the top, jim weston was out of breath. halting a moment to get his wind, he then continued along a hall until he came to an office, the door of which was opened. he entered. in a large gloomy-looking room, scantily lighted by two windows, which looked as if they had not been washed for months, a score of men and women were sitting in solemn silence, on as many rickety chairs. that they were professionals "out of engagement" was evident at a glance. the women wore smart frocks, and the men were clean shaven, but there was an obsequious deference in their manner and a worried, expectant expression on their faces that one sees only in dependents anxious to please. in the far corner, near the window, was mr. quiller's private office, on the frosted glass door of which was the word "private." above the door, and all about the room were large cards bearing such friendly greetings as: "my time's worth money! don't waste it." "this is my busy day; be brief." "don't come till i send for you--this means you!" the other decorations consisted of a number of theatrical photographs tacked here and there on the walls and a few old playbills. at a desk near the entrance, a slovenly office boy sat reading a dime novel. he looked up as jim entered and nodded with familiar insolence. the advance man was no stranger there. each day for months past, he had climbed those dingy stairs, only to get the same discouraging answer: "nothing doing." yet he had persevered. he never let a day go by without dropping in at least once. there was always the chance of something turning up. approaching the desk he inquired: "mr. quiller in?" "busy!" growled the boy. with a gesture of his hand toward the others already waiting, he said insolently: "all them people is here before you." actors and actresses, when they are recognized as human beings at all, are only "people" in managerial offices. the ordinary courtesies of life do not extend to the humble player. the star, the public favorite, is courted and fawned upon by the cringing theatre director, but the rank and file of the profession are just "people". if the office boy was rude, he merely reflected the scornful attitude of his superiors. weston quickly took a seat and waited. the others were strangers to him. their faces were familiar from seeing them frequently in the same place, and he guessed that they had come on the same mission as himself. secretly, he felt sorry for them, especially for the women, some of whom were young and pretty. they looked thin, careworn and sad. ah, who knew better than he, how hard and disappointing a career it was! they were only beginners and already they were bitterly disillusioned, while he had gone through it all and come out--a wreck! the silence was awkward and oppressive. through the closed door of the private office was heard a man's harsh voice; then a woman's softer tones in reply. one of those waiting whispered to a neighbor and then some one laughed, which relieved the unnatural tension. all forced themselves to appear cheerful and unconcerned, each secretly ashamed to be there, humiliated at being subjected to the same treatment as menials in this intelligence office of the stage. two women were talking in an undertone and weston, sitting close by, could not help hearing what they said. one, an attractive, modest-looking girl, was almost in tears, complaining bitterly of indignities to which she had been subjected by a manager. "i wouldn't stand for it," she said, "so he gave me two weeks' notice, on the pretext that the author didn't like me in the part. he knew he was lying--my notices were fine! such a time as i had with him! i made a hit on the opening night. he came back on the stage and invited me to supper. as he talked of signing with me for five years, i didn't dare refuse. at supper he let me understand what the price would be. i instantly rose from the table and told him i wasn't that kind of a girl. then he got mad. he told me to think well before i made the mistake of my life. he said no girls got along on the stage unless they consented to these conditions, and that if i refused i would be blacklisted by every manager in town. i didn't even deign to answer. i called a cab and left him. the following day i got my walking papers. i did not care so much about leaving the company. under the circumstances i couldn't have stayed and retained my self respect. i laughed at his threat, but i've since found it was no idle one. i've been turned down everywhere." her companion, an older woman, more sophisticated and more worldly, shook her head sympathetically: "nonsense, child, that's only a coincidence. it's preposterous to imagine for a moment that reputable managers would lend themselves to anything of the kind. you happened to come across a scoundrel--that's all. broadway's full of such human vultures--more's the pity--and they're giving the stage a bad name. but a woman doesn't have to be bad unless she wants to be. maybe advancement is quicker by the easiest way, but the good girls get there just the same, if they've talent. look at the women who have succeeded on the stage and whose name not a breath of scandal has ever touched. take, for instance, maude----" before she could complete the name, the door of mr. quiller's sanctum opened, and a young woman emerged, followed to the threshold by the dramatic agent, a jaundiced little man, with ferret-like eyes, and a greasy frock coat. "next!" he exclaimed in a rasping voice. "miss durant!" called out the office boy. the woman whose warm championship of the stage had been so abruptly interrupted, rose with alacrity and disappeared behind mr. quiller's closed door, while the young actress whose interview was ended made her way to the main entrance. her face was veiled and she walked quickly, looking to neither left nor right, her eyes fixed on the floor, as if anxious to avoid observation. as she passed weston, he happened to look up. "hello, laura!" he exclaimed, as he recognized her. "so it was you in there with old skinflint all that time." it was laura murdock, but what a startling change a few months had wrought! who could have recognized in this pale, attenuated-looking young person, whose old-fashioned clothes, and out-of-style hat, suggested poverty's grim clutch, the famous beauty, whose jewelry and gowns used to be the envy of every woman in new york? where the pace is so swift, those who do not keep up with the procession soon drop far behind. the girl had had a hard time of it since she bade john madison good-bye in colorado. he had resigned his newspaper position and had gone with a companion to search for gold. he travelled east with her as far as chicago, where they said farewell. "you'll be true, little one," he cried, as he clasped her in his strong arms. "until death, john!" she said through her tears. they promised to write at least once a week and tell each other everything. the time would soon pass, and when he came back they would get married. and so they parted, he to nevada; she back to new york, once more to take up her work--not her old life. faithful to her solemn promise, she gave up her fine apartment, and took less expensive rooms. she dressed more modestly, eschewed taxicabs, after-theatre suppers, and other unnecessary luxuries and shunned her old associates. little champagne suppers, and the small hours, knew her no more. she was sincere in her determination to break off with that kind of life forever. henceforth she would live within such income as she could legitimately earn on the stage. but she soon found that it was more difficult than she supposed. managers' offices did not seem so easy of access as before. the success of her stock engagement at denver had not impressed the new york managers so favorably as she expected it would. when she called and stated she was at liberty, they were evasive and non-committal; the next time she called they were out. it was the same everywhere. no one seemed to want her at any price. she did not realize that at no time had the stage been clamoring for her services. she saw only that there was a conspiracy of silence and indifference around her now. if she were willing to go on living as before, and use the influence of such men as willard brockton, she could have all the parts she wanted to play, but that was a price she would pay no longer. the weeks went by, and no money coming in, it was not long before her slender earnings were depleted. for a time she managed to keep the wolf from the door by selling some of her old finery, dainty creations in point lace and chiffons, which she would never wear again, but when these were gone, blank destitution stared her in the face. a brief engagement she was lucky enough to secure after unheard-of exertions, helped matters for a while, but the show came to grief, and then things were as bad as ever. visits to the pawnshop became frequent and soon she was compelled to give up her rooms and seek still cheaper quarters. but in all her troubles, she never lost courage. sleeping and waking, the searching, questioning eyes of john madison were continually before her. at all times she could hear him saying: "you'll be true, little one!" and it strengthened her resolve to battle bravely on, until he came to claim her for his bride. "i didn't see you, jim," said laura, sinking wearily into a chair near him. "well, what luck to-day?" he shook his head. "bad--bad. guess you don't want to hear." "i'm sorry," she said. "where have you been?" she listened with sympathetic interest, as he told her of the day's useless trampings. when he had finished, he looked inquiringly at her. abruptly he asked: "and you--got anything yet?" she shook her head despondently. "no, jim, not yet." he made a gesture towards the private office, which she had just vacated. "you were in there such a long time, i made sure there was something doing." laura shrugged her shoulders impatiently: "quiller sent for me, and i hurried here thinking it was serious. then he had the nerve to say he'd guarantee me an engagement, if i could put up five hundred dollars. i could not help laughing. 'where would i get five hundred dollars?' i said. 'you know that better than i,' he replied. 'surely you've plenty of admirers who'd be willing to put the money up for you.' what do you think of his impudence? i felt like slapping his face." the advance man gave a dry chuckle. "up to the old game," he said. "do you think these people live on the petty commissions we pay 'em? not on your life! they gets just such gals as you to find an angel willing to put up the 'dough'. that's why there are so many near-actresses on the stage. it isn't talent they want nowadays, it's money." changing the subject, he went on: "by the way, i met an old chum of yours just now. she asked after you----" "an old chum?" echoed laura, puzzled. "yes--elfie st. clair." the girl's pale face reddened slightly. involuntarily her manner stiffened. indifferently she said: "i haven't seen her for months. what did she say?" "she seemed to know things weren't quite right with you. she's a bad lot, that girl, but she has a good heart. she asked where you lived." "you didn't tell her, i hope," exclaimed laura hurriedly. "yes, i did," answered the advance man doggedly. "why shouldn't i?" "i'm sorry," she said. "she's the last woman in the world i want to see. i never want to see her again. if she calls i won't see her." glancing at the clock, she added: "i must be going. what are you doing here?" weston smiled grimly. "wasting time, i guess. quiller said there might be something to-day. he's said the same every day for three months past." "well, i must go," she said. "good-bye, i'll probably see you at the house." "yes," he nodded. "maybe there'll be some good news to tell you, but i doubt it." the girl disappeared and jim resumed his seat, patiently awaiting his turn to see mr. quiller. chapter x. mrs. farley's establishment was situated on forty ----th street, between eighth and ninth avenues, a neighborhood at one time much in vogue, but now given up almost entirely to boarding-houses of the cheaper kind. old-fashioned brownstone residences, with high ceilings, cracked walls, dirty, paper-patched windows, and narrow little gardens choked up with weeds, they were as unattractive-looking from without as they were gloomy and destitute of comfort within. yet poverty-stricken as were the surroundings, the street itself was respectable enough. as in the case of a homely woman, its very ugliness served to keep its morals above reproach. vice required more alluring quarters than these for profitable pursuit of its red-light trade. if, therefore, a woman stood in need of a certificate of character, all that was necessary was to say that she lived there. the back room, which, for nearly six long, weary weeks laura had occupied on the second floor was characteristic of the place and the class of lodgers who lived there. for years the house had been falling into general decay, with no attempt at repairs. the ceilings were cracked; the wall-paper was old and spotted, and in places hung down brazenly in loose flaps. the cheap carpet was worn threadbare, with here and there large rents, which acted as so many dangerous pitfalls for the unwary. the furniture, of the cheapest possible description, comprised a large, old-fashioned wardrobe, for the most part full of rubbish, a dresser scattered with a few cheap toilet articles, a broken-down washstand and a three-quarter old wooden bed, which, placed against the wall right in the center of the room, monopolized most of the little space there was. at the foot of the bed, a small table, covered with a soiled and ink-stained cloth, was heaped with newspapers and magazines; on the right, facing the door, leading to the hall outside, an old-style mantelpiece surmounted a rusty fireplace. a single arm gas jet served for illuminating purposes, and in a little alcove stood a table with a small gas stove connected by rubber tubing with a gas fixture. there were two windows in the room, opening outward in the french manner on to a dilapidated balcony which overlooked the street below. this was the wretched place for which laura had given up all her former ease and magnificence--her $8,000 apartment, her crystal bathtub, her french maid, her automobile, and every other conceivable luxury. the descent from affluence to actual want had been gradual, but none the less swift and sure. it had cost her many a bitter pang, many an hour of keen humiliation, but she had made the sacrifice willingly, cheerfully, feeling in her heart that he would wish it and commend her for it. in all her troubles, john was never for a moment out of her thoughts. everywhere about the room were reminders of the man who any day might return to claim her for his wife. on the dresser stood a small photograph of him in a cheap frame; tacked over the head of the bed was a larger portrait. a small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top covered the tack, and underneath was a bunch of violets, now withered, but a silent and touching tribute to the absent one. the room showed every evidence of being occupied, and at a glance it was easy to guess the vocation and also the sex of the tenant. in the wardrobe hung a few old dresses, most of them a good deal worn and shabby, while in an open drawer at the bottom could be seen several old pairs of women's shoes. on an armchair was thrown a cheap kimona. the dresser, in keeping with the general meanness, was adorned with pictorial postcards stuck in between the mirror and the frame, and on it were all the accessories necessary to the actress--powder box and puff, a rouge box and a rabbit's paw, a hand mirror, a small alcohol curling-iron heater, and a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in color, and nearly empty. on the mantelpiece were arranged photographs of actors and actresses and pieces of cheap bric-a-brac. conspicuous in a corner was a huge theatrical trunk, plastered with the labels of hotels and theatres. had the lid been raised, a caller might have seen in the tray, among the remnants of a once elaborate wardrobe, one little token that told at once the whole miserable story--a bundle of pawntickets! another week had gone by, and laura's situation, instead of improving, grew steadily more precarious. an engagement seemed farther away than ever; it was impossible to secure one of any kind. one disappointment followed another. either the companies were all full, or the part offered was not in her line. managers consciencelessly broke their promises; mr. quiller and the other dramatic agents were blandly indifferent. meantime no money was coming in, and the girl was completely at the end of her resources. her clothes were now little better than rags; very soon she would not be able to go out at all, let alone make the round of the managers' offices. she owed three weeks rent to her landlady, a matter-of-fact, hard-as-nails type of woman, who was not to be put off much longer with mere promises. unless she could settle soon, mrs. farley would tell her to get out, and then where could she go? perhaps for the first time in her life laura realized now how utterly alone she was in the world. never had it seemed to her so big, so indifferent, so heartless. her parents were dead, and as far as she knew she had no relatives. friends--so-called friends--were at best only fair weather acquaintances. there was not one from whom she would accept assistance. one man would help her, a man to whose generosity she could appeal with the certainty of instant response--willard brockton. but she would die sooner. she would not confess defeat. the one being who really cared for her and to whom she could properly appeal was thousands of miles away, in complete ignorance of her plight. she could telegraph him for money, but he might not understand, and she was too proud to lay her actions open to misconstruction. no, she must have patience and wait. if she had to go out scrubbing she would hold out until john madison came back for her. but it was a bitter experience for a girl who had grown accustomed to every luxury, and, at times, her fortitude and patience were tried to the utmost. the constant humiliation, to say nothing of the mental and physical suffering, was sometimes more than she could bear, and there were many nights when she sobbed herself to sleep. even her good looks suffered. constant anxiety made her thin; sleepless nights drove the color from her cheeks and put dark circles round her eyes. she did not have even enough to eat. forced to economize, she went without regular meals, satisfying her hunger cravings with what little she could cook herself in her own comfortless room. but in these dark hours, there was one ray of light, and that was her serene faith in her absent lover. she was convinced now that her attachment for the journalist was no passing fancy, no mere caprice of the moment. for the first time in her life, she felt the uplifting, exalted emotion of a pure love, and it seemed to burn in her bosom like a cleansing touch, wiping out the stain in her past. with all her experiences, tragic and otherwise, laura murdock had found nothing equal to this sudden, swiftly increasing love for the young westerner. that he would come back for her sooner or later, she never for a moment doubted. of his perfect loyalty, she was convinced. he was her one thought, night and day, and there was no keener pleasure in this, her new life, than in maintaining their constant correspondence. not a day passed that did not carry a letter westwards; each morning the postman brought a letter from madison, full of what he was doing, setting enthusiastically forth his plans for the future. these letters, which were her most treasured possessions, she kept in a big, cardboard box under the bed. by actual count, there were 125 letters and 80 telegrams, tied in eight separate bundles with dainty blue ribbon. on days when she was particularly depressed and discouraged, she felt comforted if she could drag out the letter-box and reread the messages from the loved one. this is what she was doing one afternoon about a week after her fruitless visit to mr. quiller's office. the weather being stormy, she could not go out, so, after lunching abundantly on a glass of milk and a few dry crackers, she once more dragged the box from under the bed. selecting a bundle of letters, she climbed on the bed, and, squatting down, her feet crossed in oriental fashion, proceeded to enjoy them. every now and then she would glance up from the sheet of closely written paper, and take a long, loving look at the large portrait of her sweetheart over the bed. while thus busily engaged, there suddenly came a knock at the door. quickly laura jumped from the bed, replaced the letters in the box, which she slid back in its place, and called out: "come in." cautiously the door was opened a few inches, and a chocolate-colored negress put her head in. seeing that laura was alone, she pushed the door open wider and came in, letter in hand. "hello, annie!" said laura amiably. "heah's yo' mail, miss laura," said the slavey, with a significant leer. "thank you," said the young actress, taking the proffered missive. she merely glanced at the familiar, beloved superscription, making no attempt to open the envelope in the presence of the maid. but annie, the slovenly type of negress one encounters in cheap theatrical boarding-houses, showed no disposition to withdraw. like most servants, she was inquisitive, and never neglected an opportunity to spy and gossip, considering it a part of her duties to learn everything possible of the private affairs of the lodgers. quite unlike the traditional, smiling, good-natured "mammy" of the south, she was one of those cunning, crafty, heartless, surly northern negresses, who, to the number of thousands, seek employment as maids with women of easy morals, and, infesting a certain district of new york where white and black people of the lower classes mingle indiscriminately, make it one of the most criminal and dangerous sections of the city. innately and brutally selfish, such women prey on those they profess to serve, and are honest and faithful only so long as it serves their purpose. annie kept one eye on the letter, while she pretended to tidy things about the room. presently she said: "one like dat comes every mornin', don't it? used to all be postmahked denver. must 'a' moved." as she spoke, she tried to get a glimpse of the letter over laura's shoulder, but as the actress turned, she quickly looked away, and added: "where is dat place called goldfield, miss laura?" "in nevada." "in _nevada_?" echoed the woman, laying comical stress on the pronunciation. "yes--nevada. what's strange about that?" annie drew her jacket closer around her, as if she were chilly. shaking her head, she said: "must be mighty smaht to write yuh every day. de pos'man brings it 'leven o'clock mos' always, sometimes twelve, and again sometimes tehn. today he was late. but it comes, every day, don't it?" "i know," said laura, with a faint smile. she disliked the negress, but reasons of policy prompted her always to appear cordial. annie began brushing the armchair vigorously, and, as she worked, tried once more to see the postmark on the letter. finally she said: "guess mus' be from yo' husban', ain't it?" laura shook her head. "no, i haven't any." the negress whisked her feather duster triumphantly. "dat's what ah tole mis' farley when she was down talkin' about yo' dis mornin'. she said if he was yo' husban' he might do somethin' to help yo' out. ah tole her ah didn't think yo' had any husban'. den she says yo' ought to have one, yo're so pretty." laura laughed. "don't be so foolish, annie." noticing that she had left the room door ajar, the negress went and banged it shut. then, proceeding to hang a clean towel on the washstand, she continued gossiping: "der ain't a decent door in dis old house. mis' farley said yo' might have mos' any man yo' wanted just for de askin', but ah said yuh was too particular about the man yo'd want. den she did a heap o' talkin'." "about what?" demanded laura quickly. she was amused as well as annoyed at the woman's impudence, but it was just as well to know what was being said about her downstairs. pretending, therefore, to be interested, and curbing her impatience, she placed the still unopened letter on the table, and, going to her trunk, took from it a thimble and thread. closing down the lid again, she sat on the trunk and began to sew a rip in her skirt. annie, meantime, had begun to fuss at making the bed. [illustration: she began to sew a rip in her skirt. _page 162._] "well, yo' know," went on the maid, "mis' farley she's been havin' so much trouble wid her roomers. yestuhday dat young lady on de second flo' front, she lef. she's gwine wid some troupe on the road. she owed her room for three weeks, and jus' had to leave her trunk. my! how mis' farley did scold her. mis' farley let on she could have paid dat money if she wanted to, but, somehow, ah guess she couldn't----" she was carrying the pillows round the table, when suddenly she stopped talking and stooped to inspect the letter, which was still lying there. laura happened to look up. indignantly, she exclaimed: "annie!" the negress looked confused, but was not otherwise abashed. going on with her work, she continued coolly: "--for if she could, she wouldn't have left her trunk, would she, miss laura?" "no, i suppose not," replied the actress guardedly. after a pause, she asked: "what did mrs. farley say about me?" the negress picked up the kimona from the chair and carried it to the wardrobe. with some hesitation, she said: "oh, nothin' much." she needed encouragement, and laura gave it to her. "well, what?" thus coaxed, annie went on: "she kinder say somethin' 'bout yo' bein' three weeks behind in yo' room rent, an' she said she t'ought it was 'bout time yuh handed her somethin', seem' as how yuh must o' had some stylish friends when yuh come here." "who, for instance?" "ah don't know. mis' farley said some of 'em might slip yo' enough jest to help yuh out." stopping in her work, she looked curiously at the actress. "ain't yo' got nobody to take care of yo' at all, miss laura?" laura shook her head despondently. sadly, she replied: "no! no one." "dat's too bad." "why?" the negress grinned. significantly, she said: "mis' farley says yuh wouldn't have no trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to." laura averted her head. a chill ran through her. only too well she knew what the girl meant. she wished she would stop gossiping and go. with some display of irritation, she said: "don't talk that way, annie--please." but the negress was not to be put off so easily. in her coarse, brutal way, she felt sorry for the pretty young lady, and aware that in some quarters good looks are negotiable, she felt chagrined that such valuable assets should not be realized upon. playing nervously with a corner of the table-cloth, she continued: "dere's a gemman dat calls on one of de ladies from de circus, in de big front room downstairs. he's mighty nice, and he's been askin' 'bout yo'." "oh, shut up!" cried laura, thoroughly exasperated. the doors of the wardrobe, being loose on their hinges, kept swinging open, and the negress several times had impatiently slammed them shut. turning to laura, she went on: "mis' farley says----" the doors came open again, and hit her in the back. this time the maid lost her temper completely. giving them a vicious push, she exclaimed: "damn dat door!" then going to the washstand, and grabbing a basin which was half-full of water, she emptied it into the waste jar. now thoroughly angry, she went on sourly: "mis' farley says if she don't get some one in the house dat has reg'lar money soon, she'll have to shut up and go to the po'house." a look of distress and annoyance crossed laura's face. it was hard to hear this from a menial. "i'm sorry," she said; "i'll try again to-day." rising from the trunk, she crossed the room, and, taking a desk-pad from the mantel-piece, returned and took a seat at the table. "ain't yo' got any job at all?" demanded annie, who was watching her as closely as she dared. "no." "when yuh come here yuh had lots of money and yo' was mighty good to me. you know mr. weston?" "jim weston?" "yassum, mr. weston, what goes ahead o' shows and lives on the top floor back; he says nobody's got jobs now. dey're so many actors and actresses out o' work. mis' farley says she don't know how she's goin' to live. she said you'd been mighty nice up until three weeks ago, but yuh ain't got much left, have you, miss laura?" the girl shook her head mournfully. "no. it's all gone." the negress threw up her hands and from sheer excitement sat plump down on the bed. "mah sakes!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "all dem rings and things? you ain't done sold them?" "they're pawned," said laura sadly. "what did mrs. farley say she was going to do?" "guess maybe ah'd better not tell." "please do." "yuh been so good to me, miss laura. never was nobody in dis house what give me so much, and ah ain't been gettin' much lately. and when mis' farley said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she would ask yuh for your room, ah jest set right down on de back kitchen stairs and cried. besides, mis' farley don't like me very well since you've been havin' yo' breakfasts and dinners brought up here." "why not?" taking the kimona off the chair-back,' laura went to the dresser, and, putting the kimona in the drawer, took out her purse, an action not unobserved by the stealthy african, who at once grew correspondingly more amiable and communicative. "she has a rule in dis house dat nobody can use huh chiny or fo'ks or spoons who ain't boa'ding heah, and de odder day when yuh asked me to bring up a knife and fo'k she ketched me coming upstairs, and she says, 'where yuh goin' wid all dose things, annie?' ah said, 'ah'm just goin' up to miss laura's room with dat knife and fo'k.' ah said, 'ah'm goin' up for nothin' at all, mis' farley, she jest wants to look at them, ah guess.' she said, 'she wants to eat huh dinner wid 'em, ah guess.' ah got real mad, and ah told her if she'd give me mah pay ah'd brush right out o' here; dat's what ah'd do, ah'd brush right out o' here." she shook out the towel violently, as if to emphasize her indignation. laura could not restrain a smile. "i'm sorry, annie, if i've caused you any trouble. never mind, i'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day, anyway." fumbling in her purse, she took out a quarter, and turned to the servant: "here!" "no, ma'am; ah don' want dat," said annie, making a show of reluctance. "please take it," insisted laura. "no, ma'am; ah don' want it. you need dat. dat's breakfast money for yuh, miss laura." "please take it, annie. i might just as well get rid of this as anything else." rather reluctantly, the negress took the money. with a grin, she said: "yuh always was so good, miss laura. sho' yuh don' want dis?" "sure." "sho' yo' goin' to get plenty mo'?" "sure." suddenly a shrill, feminine voice was heard downstairs, calling loudly: "annie! annie!" the negress hastily went to the door and opened it. "dat's mis' farley!" she said in an undertone. answering in the same key, she shouted: "yassum, mis' farley." "is miss murdock up there?" cried the same voice. "yassum, mis' farley; yassum!" "anything doin'?" "huh?" "anything doin'?" the negress hesitated, and looked at laura. "ah--ah--hain't asked, missy farley." "then do it," said the voice determinedly. laura advanced to the rescue. "i'll answer her," she said. putting her head out of the door, she cried: "what is it, mrs. farley?" the irate landlady's voice underwent a quick change. in a softened voice, she called up: "did ye have any luck this morning, dearie?" "no; but i promise you faithfully to help you out this afternoon or to-morrow." "sure? are you certain?" "absolutely." "well, i must say these people expect me to keep----" there was an exclamation of skeptical impatience, and the door below slammed with a bang. laura quietly closed her door, through which mrs. farley's angry mutterings could still be heard indistinctly. laura sighed, and, walking to the table, sat down again. annie looked at her a moment, and then slowly opened the door. "yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' i can do fo' yuh, miss laura?" "nothing," said laura wearily. the negress reluctantly turned to go. her work now finished, there was no further excuse for remaining. slowly she left the room, carrying her broom and dustpan with her. chapter xi. immediately the maid had disappeared, laura sprang to her feet and picked up john's letter. it was only with the greatest difficulty that she had managed to curb her impatience. eagerly she tore open the envelope. the letter consisted, as usual, of several pages closely written. things were pretty much the same, he said. it was a wonderful country, vast and unconquered, a land where man was constantly at war with the forces of nature. extraordinary finds were being made every day; one literally picked up gold nuggets by the handful. if he and his partner were only reasonably lucky, there was no reason why they should not become enormously rich. he hoped his little girl was happy and prosperous. he was sure she was true. each night when he went to sleep in his tent, he placed two things under his pillow, things that had become necessary to his salvation--a colt revolver and her sweet photograph. he quite understood that it was difficult to secure good engagements, especially since brockton's backing was withdrawn, but he advised her to take heart and accept anything she could get--for the present. it would not be for long. when he came back, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, she would not have to worry about theatre managers any more. she read the letter through hurriedly, re-read it, and then, pressing the missive to her lips, laid it down on the table. "accept anything!" she murmured. "ah, he does not understand. how should he? if only there was something to accept!" rising wearily, she sighed: "hope, just nothing but hope." her mouth quivered, and her bosom, agitated by the emotion she was trying hard to suppress, rose and fell convulsively. he did not understand. how was it possible for her to wait? she had already waited until everything was gone--her rings, her watch and chain, even the clothes on her back. she was absolutely penniless; unless relief came soon she would be turned into the streets. oh, why could he not have guessed the truth from her letters, and come back to her? going to the bed, she fell face down upon it, burying her face in her hands. a convulsive sobbing shook her entire being. it was too hard to bear. she had tried to be brave, but her heart was breaking. ah, if john only knew! what did she care for riches? if only he would come to comfort her and give her courage. for fifteen minutes she lay there, motionless, a pathetic figure of utter despondency. the minutes might have lengthened into hours, when suddenly a hurdy-gurdy in the street below started to play a popular air. often the most trivial and commonplace incident will change the entire current of our thoughts. it was so in this instance. the cheap music had the effect of instantly galvanizing the young actress into life. it suddenly occurred to her that she was ravenously hungry. she rose from the bed, went to the wardrobe and took out a box of crackers. then opening the window, at the same time humming the tune of the hurdy-gurdy, she got a bottle of milk that was standing on the sill outside and placed it on the table. next she went to the washstand and rinsed out a tumbler. while thus engaged, there came a timid knock at the door. startled, not knowing who it could be, unwilling that strangers should detect the traces of tears, she went quickly to the dresser and powdered her nose. the knocking was repeated. "come in!" she called out, without turning round. the door opened and jim weston appeared. he halted on the threshold, holding the knob in his hand. "may i come in?" "hello, jim! of course you may. i'm awfully glad you came. i was feeling horribly blue. any luck?" the advance agent came in, closing the door carefully behind him. "lots of it," he grinned. "that's good," exclaimed laura, who was still at the mirror arranging her hair. "tell me." "it's bad luck--as usual. i kind o' felt around up at burgess's office. i thought i might get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. somehow those fellows always do business to-morrow." laura closed the window, shutting out the sound of the street music, which now could be heard only faintly. grimly, she said: "yes, and there's always to-day to look after." going up to him, she said kindly: "i know just how you feel. sit down, jim." he took a seat near the table, and accepted a dry cracker which she offered him. as he munched it, laura went on: "it's pretty tough for me, but it must be a whole lot worse for you, with a wife and kids." the agent made a wry face. "oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along--turn his hand to anything. but a woman----" "worse, you think?" he eyed her a moment without replying. then he said: "i was just thinking about you and what burgess said." "what was that?" asked the girl indifferently, as she sipped her milk. the agent cleared his throat. with an air of some importance, he said: "you know burgess and i used to be in the circus business together. he took care of the grafters when i was boss canvas man. i never could see any good in shaking down the rubes for all the money they had and then taking part of it. he used to run the privilege car, you know." laura looked puzzled. "privilege car?" she echoed. "yes," he went on, "had charge of all the pick-pockets--dips we called 'em--sure-thing gamblers and the like. made him rich. i kept sort o' on the level and i'm broke. guess it don't pay to be honest----" laura gave him a quick look. in a significant tone of voice, she said: "you don't really think that?" the man shook his head dubiously. "no, maybe not. ever since i married the missis and the first kid come we figured the only good money was the kind folks worked for and earned. but when you can't get hold of that, it's tough." the girl nodded, and, averting her head, looked out of the window. "i know," she said simply. the agent was in a loquacious mood this afternoon, and needed little encouragement to do all the talking. he went on: "burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he turned. he's happy and prosperous, but i guess he ain't any better now than he ought to be." "i guess he isn't," rejoined laura quickly. "i know i've been trying to induce him to give me an engagement, but for some reason i get no satisfaction. there are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that i could do. he has never said absolutely 'no'; but, somehow, he's never said 'yes'." "that's odd," said her visitor, scratching his head, as if puzzled. "he spoke about you to-day." "in what way?" demanded the girl. "i gave him my address, and he saw it was yours, too. he asked if i lived in the same place." "was that all?" "he wanted to know how you was getting on. i let him know you needed work, but i didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. he said something about you being a damned fool." laura looked up in surprise. "how?" she demanded. weston twirled his hat round nervously, and remained silent. "how?" she demanded again. thus encouraged, he proceeded: "well, johnny ensworth--you know he used to do the fights on the _evening screamer_; now he's press agent for burgess; nice fellow and way on the inside--and he told me where you were in wrong." "what have i done?" she asked, taking a seat in the armchair. "burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical comedies--he just trails. of course, he's got a lot of influence, and he's always johnny-on-the-spot to turn any dirty trick that they want. there are four or five rich men in town who are there with the bank-roll, providing he engages women who ain't so very particular about the location of their residence, and who don't hear a curfew ring at eleven-thirty every night." "and he thinks i am too particular?" interrupted laura dryly. "that's what was slipped me. seems that one of the richest men who is in on mr. burgess's address book is that fellow brockton. you're an old friend of his. he's got more money than he knows what to do with. he likes to play show business. and he thought that if you----" rising quickly, the girl went to the wardrobe, and, taking out her hat, picked up a pair of scissors, and proceeded to curl the feathers. the hat was already in so deplorable a condition that this belated home treatment was not likely to help it, but the diversion served its purpose, which was to distract the agent's attention away from her face. "i didn't mean no offence," said jim apologetically. "i thought it was just as well to tell you where he and burgess stand. they're pals." laura jumped up, and, putting the hat and scissors down on the bed, went close up to her visitor. confronting him, she said with angry emphasis: "i don't want you to talk about him or any of them. i just want you to know that i'm trying to do everything in my power to go through this season without any more trouble. i've pawned everything i've got; i've cut every friend i knew. but where am i going to end? that's what i want to know--where am i going to end?" sitting down on the bed, she went on: "every place i look for a position something interferes. it's almost as if i were blacklisted. i know i could get jobs all right, if i wanted to pay the price, but i won't. i just want to tell you, i won't. no!" nervous and restless, she again rose, and, going to the fireplace, rested her elbow on the mantel. the advance agent coughed and nodded his head approvingly. "that's the way to talk," he said. "i don't know you very well, but i've watched you close. i'm just a common, ordinary showman, who never had much money, and i'm going out o' date. i've spent most of my time with nigger minstrel shows and circuses, but i've been on the square. that's why i'm broke." rather sadly he added: "once i thought the missis would have to go back and do her acrobatic act, but she couldn't do that, she's grown so deuced fat." rising and going up to laura, he said: "just you don't mind. it'll all come out right." "it's an awful tough game, isn't it?" she said, averting her face. she wiped away the tears that were silently coursing down her wan cheeks. then, going to the table, she took up the glass, poured the unused milk back in the bottle, and replaced the biscuits in the wardrobe. "tough!" exclaimed the agent. "it's hell forty ways from the jack. it's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, it must be something awful. i ain't blaming the women. they say 'self-preservation is the first law of nature,' and i guess that's right; but sometimes when the show is over and i see them fellows with their hair plastered back, smoking cigarettes in a holder long enough to reach from here to harlem, and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket and turn my head, i feel as if i'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting around this old town." "jim!" protested laura. "yes, i do," he insisted hotly; "you bet!" "that wouldn't pay, would it?" "no; they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in sing sing, and i'm too poor to go to matteawan. but all them fellows under nineteen and over fifty-nine ain't much use to themselves or any one else." "perhaps all of them are not so bad," said laura meditatively. "yes, they are," he insisted angrily; "angels and all. last season i had one of them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a girl. we lost money and he lost his girl; then we got stuck in texas. i telegraphed: 'must have a thousand, or can't move.' he just answered: 'don't move.' we didn't." "but that was business." "bad business," he nodded. "it took a year for some of them folks to get back to broadway. some of the girls never did, and i guess never will." "maybe they're better off, jim." "couldn't be worse. they're still in texas. wish i knew how to do something else--being a plumber or a walking delegate--they always have jobs." "i wish i could do something else, too, but i can't. we've got to make the best of it." weston rose and took his hat. "i guess so. well, i'll see you this evening. i hope you'll have good news by that time." he started to open the door, and then came back a step, and in a voice meant to be kindly, he said: "if you'd like to go to the theatre to-night, and take some other woman in the house, maybe i can get a couple of tickets for one of the shows. i know a lot of fellows who are working." the girl smiled sadly; tears filled her eyes. "no, thanks, jim; i haven't anything to wear to the theatre, and i don't----" he understood. his face broadened into a sympathetic smile, and, putting his arm affectionately round her waist, as a father might with his daughter, he said kindly: "now, you just cheer up! something's sure to turn up. it always has for me, and i'm a lot older than you, both in years and in this business. there's always a break in hard luck some time----" laura dried her eyes, and tried to force a smile. "i hope so," she said. "but things are looking pretty hopeless now, aren't they?" "never mind," he said, as he went toward the door. "i'll go and give mrs. f. a line o' talk and try to square you for a couple of days more, anyway. but i guess she's laying pretty close to the cushion herself, poor woman." "annie says a lot of people owe her." "well, you can't pay what you haven't got. and even if money was growing on trees, it's winter now. i'm off. maybe to-day is lucky day. so long!" "good-by," smiled laura. "keep your nerve," he said, as he closed the door behind him. chapter xii. "keep your nerve!" the words rang mockingly in the girl's ear long after the good-natured advance agent had made his departure. keep her nerve? that was precisely what she was trying to do, and it was proving almost beyond her strength. why had john left her to make this fight alone? he must have known, even better than she, herself, what a terrific, heart-breaking struggle it would be. or did he wish to put her to the test, to find out if her professed determination to live a new and cleaner life was genuine and sincere. if that was his motive, surely she had been tried enough. then, as she gave herself up to reflection, doubts began to creep in, doubts of herself, doubts of him. if he really loved her, truly and unselfishly, would he let her suffer in this way, would he have so completely deserted her? it did not once occur to her that john, being thousands of miles away, could not possibly realize her present plight. a sudden feeling of rebellion came over her. she began to nourish resentment that he should show such little concern, that he should have taken no steps to keep informed of her circumstances. for a long-time she sat in moody silence, engrossed in deep thought, listening only abstractedly to the street sounds without. presently her glance, wandering aimlessly around the room, fell on the letter she had just received from goldfield. she picked it up, as if about to read it; then, as if in anger, she threw it impatiently from her. leaning forward on the table, her face buried in her two hands, she broke down completely: "i can't stand it--i just simply can't stand it," she moaned to herself. a sudden knock on the door caused her to sit up with a jump. rising, confused, as if surprised in some guilty action, she called out: "what is it?" "a lady to see you!" cried annie's shrill voice on the other side of the door. laura went to open. "to see me?" she exclaimed in unaffected surprise. "it's me--elfie," called out a familiar voice below. "may i come up?" laura started. her face turned red and white in turns. elfie st. clair! should she see her, or say she was out? yet, why shouldn't she see her? she needed some one like elfie to cheer her up. drying her eyes, she quickly pulled herself together, and hastened to the top of the stairs. her voice, trembling with suppressed excitement, almost unable to control the agitation that suddenly seized upon her, she cried out: "is that you, elfie?" "yes, shall i come up?" "why, of course--of course!" panting and flushed from the extraordinary exertion of climbing two flights of stairs, elfie at last appeared, gorgeously gowned in the extreme style affected by ladies who contract alliances with wealthy gentlemen without the formality of going through a marriage ceremony. her dress, of the latest fashion and the richest material, with dangling gold handbag and chatelaine, contrasted strangely with laura's shabbiness and the general dinginess of mrs. farley's boarding-house. but the two girls were too glad to see each other to care about anything else. with little cries of delight, they fell into each other's arms. "laura, you old dear!" exclaimed the newcomer in her customary explosive and vivacious manner. "i've just found out where you've been hiding, and came around to see you." "that's awfully good of you, elfie. you're looking bully. how are you, dear?" "fine." "come in, and sit down. i haven't much to offer, but----" laura was visibly embarrassed. even her forced gayety and attempt at cordiality did not quite conceal her nervousness. it was the first time that elfie had seen her living in such surroundings, and, in spite of her efforts to remain cool and self-possessed, her cheeks burned with humiliation. "oh, never mind," said elfie quickly. her first glance had told her how matters stood, but she made no comment. good-naturedly, she rattled on: it's such a grand day outside, and i've come around in my car to take you out. you know, i've got a new one, and it can go some. "i am sorry, but i can't go out this afternoon, elfie." "what's the matter?" "you see, i'm staying home a good deal nowadays. i haven't been feeling very well, and i don't go out much." "i should think not. i haven't seen even a glimpse of you anywhere since you returned from denver. i caught sight of you one day on broadway, but couldn't get you--you dived into some office or other." rising from her chair, for the first time she surveyed the room critically. unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out explosively: "gee! whatever made you come into a dump like this? it's the limit!" laura smiled uneasily. going to the table, she said awkwardly: "oh, i know it isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and, after all--a home's a home." elfie shrugged her shoulders. "looks more like a prison." finding on the mantel a bit of stale candy, she popped it into her mouth from sheer force of habit. but it was no sooner in than, with an expression of disgust, she spat it out on the floor. scornfully, she added: "makes me think of the old days, the dairy kitchen and a hall bedroom," laura sighed. "it's comfortable," she said wearily. "not!" retorted elfie saucily. sitting on the bed, she jumped on the mattress as if trying it: "say, is this here for effect, or do you sleep on it?" "i sleep on it," said laura quietly. "no wonder you look tired," laughed her caller. "say, listen, dearie, what else is the matter with you, anyway?" laura looked up at her companion in pretended surprise. "matter?" she echoed. "why, nothing." "oh, yes, there is," insisted elfie, shaking her head sagaciously. "what's happened between you and brockton?" noticing the faded flowers in the vase on the table, she took them out, and after tossing them into the fireplace, refilled the vase with the fresh gardenias which she was wearing. meantime, she did not stop chattering. "he's not broke, because i saw him the other day." "you saw him? where?" "in the park. he asked me out to luncheon, but i couldn't go. you know, dearie, i've got to be so careful. jerry's so awful jealous--the old fool." laura had to smile in spite of herself. "do you see much of jerry nowadays?" "not any more than i can help and be nice," chuckled elfie. "he gets on my nerves. of course, i have heard about your quitting brockton." "then why do you ask?" demanded laura. "just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the trouble was. now, tell me all about it. can i smoke here?" pulling her gold cigarette-case up with her chatelaine, she opened it, and selected a cigarette. "certainly," said laura, getting the matches from the bureau and putting them on the table. "have one?" said her companion. "no, thank you," said laura, sitting down so that she faced her companion. "h'm-m, h'm-m, hah!" sputtered elfie, lighting her cigarette. "now, go ahead. tell me all the scandal. i'm just crazy to know." "there's nothing to tell," said laura wearily. "i haven't been able to find work, that is all, and i'm short of money. you can't live in hotels, you know, and have cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working." "yes, you can," retorted her visitor. "i haven't worked in a year." "but you don't understand, dear. i--i--well, you know, i--well, you know--i can't say what i want." "oh, yes, you can. you can say anything to me--everybody else does. we've been pals. i know you got along a little faster in the business than i did. the chorus was my limit, and you went into the legitimate thing. but we got our living just the same way. i didn't suppose there was any secret between you and me about that." "i know there wasn't then, elfie; but i tell you i'm different now. i don't want to do that sort of thing, and i've been very unlucky. this has been a terribly hard season for me. i simply haven't been able to get an engagement." "well, you can't get on this way," said elfie. she paused a moment, knocking the ashes off her cigarette to cover her hesitation, and then went on: "won't brockton help you out?" laura rose abruptly and walked over to the fireplace. with some display of impatience, she exclaimed: "what's the use of talking to you, elfie? you don't understand." her legs crossed in masculine style, and puffing the cigarette deliberately, elfie looked at her friend quizzingly: "no?" she said mockingly. "why don't i understand?" "because you can't," cried laura hotly; "you've never felt as i have." "how do you know?" demanded the other, with an elevation of her eyebrows. laura made a gesture of impatience. "oh, what's the use of explaining?" she cried. her visitor looked at her for a moment without making reply. then, with the serious, reproachful manner of a mother reproving a wayward child, she said: "you know, laura, i'm not much on giving advice, but you make me sick. i thought you'd grown wise. a young girl just butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought to be onto the game, and make the best of it." laura was fast losing her temper. her eyes flashed, and her hands worked nervously. angrily, she exclaimed: "if you came up here, elfie, to talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. out west this summer, i met some one, a real man, who did me a lot of good. you know him. you introduced him to me that night at the restaurant. well, we met again in denver. i learned to love him. he opened my eyes to a different way of going along. he's a man who--oh, well, what's the use! you don't know--you don't know." she tossed her head disdainfully as if the matter was not worthy of further discussion, and sank down on the bed. elfie, who had listened attentively, removed the cigarette from her mouth, and threw it into the fireplace. scornfully, she said: "i don't know, don't i? i don't know, i suppose, then, when i came to this town from up-state--a little burg named oswego--and joined a chorus, that i didn't fall in love with just such a man. i suppose i don't know that then i was the best-looking girl in new york, and everybody talked about me? i suppose i don't know that there were men, all ages, and with all kinds of money, ready to give me anything for the mere privilege of taking me out to supper? and i didn't do it, did i? for three years i stuck by this good man, who was to lead me in a good way, toward a good life. and all the time i was getting older, never quite so pretty one day as i had been the day before. i never knew then what it was to be tinkered with by hairdressers and manicures, or a hundred and one of those other people who make you look good. i didn't have to have them then." rising, she went up to the table and faced her companion. "well, you know, laura, what happened." "wasn't it partly your fault, elfie?" her friend leaned across the table, her face flushed with anger. "was it my fault that time made me older and i took on a lot of flesh? was it my fault that the work and the life took out the color, and left the make-up? was it my fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as i'd come, and were chased after, just as i was? was it my fault the cabs weren't waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty i was? and was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no one else wanted me, he got tired and threw me flat----" bringing her hand down on the table with a bang, she added: "cold flat--and i'd been on the dead level with him." with almost a sob, she went up to the bureau, powdered her nose, and returned to the table. "it almost broke my heart. then i made up my mind to get even and get all i could out of the game. jerry came along. he was a has-been, and i was on the road to be. he wanted to be good to me, and i let him. that's all!" "still, i don't see how you can live that way," said laura, lying back on the bed. "well, you did," retorted elfie, "and you didn't kick." "yes," rejoined laura calmly, "but things are different with me now. you'd be the same way if you were in my place." "no," laughed elfie mockingly, "i've had all the romance i want, and i'll stake you to all your love affairs. i am out to gather in as much coin as i can in my own way, so when the old rainy day comes along i'll have a little change to buy myself an umbrella." laura started angrily to her feet. hotly she cried: "what did you come here for? why can't you leave me alone when i'm trying to get along?" "because i want to help you," retorted elfie calmly. with tears streaming down her cheeks, almost hysterical, laura tossed aside the quilt and sank down in a heap on the bed. "you can't help me!" she sobbed. "i'm all right--i tell you i am." peevishly she demanded: "what do you care, anyway?" elfie rose, and going over to the bed, sat down and took her old chum's hand. quietly she said: "but i do care. i know how you feel with an old cat for a landlady, and living up here on a side street with a lot of cheap burlesque people." laura snatched her hand away, and going up to the window, turned her back. it was a direct snub, but elfie did not care. unabashed, she went on: "why, the room's cold, and there's no hot water, and you're beginning to look shabby. you haven't got a job--chances are you won't have one." pointing contemptuously to the picture of john madison over the bed, she went on: "what does that fellow do for you? send you long letters of condolences? that's what i used to get. when i wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a silk petticoat he told me how much he loved me; so i had the other ones re-soled and turned the old petticoat. and look at you--you're beginning to show it." surveying her friend's face more closely, she went on: "i do believe there are lines coming in your face, and you hide in the house because you've nothing to wear." jumping off the bed, laura went quickly to the dresser, and picking up the hand mirror, looked carefully at herself. then laying the glass down, she turned and faced the other. sharply she retorted: "but i've got what you haven't got. i may have to hide my clothes, but i don't have to hide my face. and you with that man--he's old enough to be your father--a toddling dote, hanging on your apron strings. i don't see how you dare show your face to a decent woman!" it was elfie's turn now to lose her temper. she rose, flushed with anger. "you don't, eh?" she cried hotly. "but you did once, and i never caught you hanging your head. you say he's old. i know he's old, but he's good to me. he's making what's left of my life pleasant. you think i like him. i don't--sometimes i hate him--but he understands; and you can bet your life his cheque is in my mail every saturday night, or there's a new lock on the door sunday morning." "how dare you say such things to me?" exclaimed laura indignantly. "because i want you to be square with yourself. you've lost all that precious virtue women gab about. when you've got the name, i say get the game." almost speechless from anger, laura pointed to the door. "you can go now, elfie, and don't come back!" "all right," exclaimed elfie, gathering up her muff and gloves, "if that's the way you want it to be, i'm sorry." she was hurrying toward the door, when suddenly there came a knock. laura, with an effort, controlled herself. "come in," she called out. annie entered, with a note, which she handed to laura. "mis' farley sent dis, miss laura." laura read the note. a look of mingled annoyance and embarrassment came into her face. "there's no answer," she said sharply, crushing the note up in her hand. but annie was not to be put off. "she tol' me not to leave until ah got an answah." "you must ask her to wait," retorted laura doggedly. "she wants an answer," persisted the negress. "tell her i'll be right down--that it will be all right." "but, miss laura, she tol' me to get an answah." she went out reluctantly, closing the door. "she's taking advantage of your being here," exclaimed laura apologetically, half to herself and half to her visitor. "how?" demanded elfie. "she wants money--three weeks' room-rent. i presume she thought you'd give it to me." "huh!" exclaimed the other, tossing her head. changing her tone, laura went up to her. "elfie," she said, "i've been a little cross; i didn't mean it." "well?" demanded her companion. "could--could you lend me thirty-five dollars until i get to work?" "me?" demanded her visitor, in indignant astonishment. "you actually have the face to ask me to lend you thirty-five dollars?" "yes, you've got plenty of money to spare." "well, you certainly have got a nerve!" exclaimed elfie. "you might give it to me," pleaded laura. "i haven't a dollar in the world, and you pretend to be such a friend to me!" elfie turned angrily. "so that's the kind of a woman you are, eh? a moment ago you were going to kick me out of the place because i wasn't decent enough to associate with you. you know how i live. you know how i get my money--the same way you got most of yours. and now that you've got this spasm of goodness, i'm not fit to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. you'll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while you try to play the grand lady. i've got your number now, laura. where in hell is your virtue, anyway? you can go to the devil, rich, poor, or any other way. i'm off!" she rushed toward the door. for a moment laura stood speechless; then, with a loud cry, she broke down and burst into hysterics: "elfie! elfie! don't go now! don't leave me now! don't go!" her visitor stood hesitating, with one hand on the doorknob. laura went on: "i can't stand it. i can't be alone. don't go, please, don't go!" she fell into her friend's arms, sobbing. on the instant elfie's hardness of demeanor changed. with all her coarseness, she was a good-natured woman at heart. melting into the tenderest womanly sympathy, she tried her best to express herself in her crude way. leading the weeping girl to the armchair, she made her sit down. then, seating herself on the arm, she put her arm round her old chum and hugged her to her breast. "there, old girl," she said soothingly, "don't cry, don't cry. you just sit down here and let me put my arms around you. i'm awful sorry--on the level, i am. i shouldn't have said it, i know that. but i've got feelings, too, even if folks don't give me credit for it." laura looked up through her tears. "i know, elfie, i've gone through about all i can stand." her friend smoothed her by stroking her hair. "well, i should say you have--and more than i would. anyway, a good cry never hurts any woman. i have one myself sometimes, under cover." as laura recovered control of herself, she grew meditative. musingly she said: "perhaps what you said was true." "we won't talk about it--there!" said elfie, drying her friend's eyes and kissing her. "but perhaps it was true," persisted laura, "and then----" "and then----" "i think i've stood this just as long; as i can. every day is a living horror----" elfie nodded acquiescence. glancing round the room, she exclaimed, with a comical grimace of disgust: "it's the limit!" "i've got to have money to pay the rent," continued laura anxiously. "i've pawned everything i have, except the clothes on my back----" elfie threw her arms consolingly round her friend. "i'll give you all the money you need, dearie. great heavens, don't worry about that! don't you care if i got sore and--lost my head." laura shook her head. "no, i can't let you do that. you may have been mad--awfully mad--but what you said was the truth. i can't take your money." "oh, forget that!" laughed elfie. laura put up a hand to cool her burning forehead. looking out of the window, she said wistfully: "maybe--maybe if he knew all about it--the suffering--he wouldn't blame me." "who?" cried elfie sarcastically. "the good man who wanted to lead you to the good life without even a bread-basket for an advance agent? huh!" "he doesn't know how desperately poor i am," explained laura half-apologetically. "he knows you're out of work, don't he?" "not exactly. i told him it was difficult to find an engagement, but he has no idea that things are as they are." "then you're a chump!" declared elfie, with an expressive shrug of her shoulders. "hasn't he sent you anything?" "he hasn't anything to send." elfie bounded with indignant surprise. "what? then what does he think you're going to live on--asphalt croquettes with conversation sauce?" sinking down on a chair, laura gave way again. "i don't know--i don't know!" she cried, sobbing. elfie went over to her friend and placed her arms about her. "don't be foolish, dearie. you know there is somebody waiting for you--somebody who'll be good to you and get you out of this mess." laura looked up quickly. "you mean will brockton?" she said, fixing her companion with a steady stare. "yes." "do you know where he is?" "yes." "well?" "you won't get sore again if i tell you, will you?" laura rose. "no--why?" she said. "he's downstairs--waiting in the car. i promised to tell him what you said." "then it was all planned, and--and----" "now, dearie, i knew you were up against it, and i wanted to bring you two together. he's got half of the burgess shows, and if you'll only see him, everything will be fixed." "when does he want to see me?" "now." "here?" "yes. shall i tell him to come up?" motionless as a statue, laura made no sign. her face pale as death, her hands clasped in front of her, she stood as if transfixed, staring out of the window. "shall i tell him to come up?" repeated elfie impatiently. still no answer for a long moment that seemed like an hour. then all at once, with a quick, convulsive movement, as if by a determined effort she had succeeded in conquering her own will, she turned and cried, with a half sob: "yes--yes--tell him to come up!" elfie sprang joyously forward. her arguments had not been in vain, after all. kissing her friend's cold cheeks, she exclaimed: "now you're a sensible dear. i'll bet he's half-frozen down there. i'll send him up at once." anxious to get brockton there before the girl had a chance to change her mind, she was hurrying toward the door, when she happened to notice laura's red eyes and tear-stained face. that would never do. coming back, she exclaimed: "look at you, laura! you're a perfect sight!" throwing her gloves and muff onto a chair, she led the girl to the washstand, and taking a towel, wiped her eyes and face. "it'll never do to have him see you looking like this!" she said. "now, laura, i want you to promise me you won't do any more crying. come over here and let me powder your nose----" incapable of further resistance, feeling herself a helpless victim in the hands of irrevocable fate, laura followed docilely to the dresser, where elfie took the powder-puff and powdered her face. this done, she daubed her cheeks with the rouge-paw and pencilled her lips and eyebrows. as she worked, she rattled on: "now, when he comes up, you tell him he has got to blow us all off to a swell dinner to-night--seven-thirty. let me look at you----" laura put up her face like an obedient child. elfie kissed her. "now you're all right," she said cheerfully. "make it strong, now--seven-thirty, don't forget. i'll be there. so-long." going to the armchair and gathering up the muff and gloves she had thrown there, elfie left the room. chapter xiii. for a minute or two laura remained motionless. sinking inertly onto a chair after the door closed, she sat still, engrossed in deep thought. this, then, was the end of her good resolutions and her hopes of regeneration! what would _he_ say? would he care and grieve after her, or would he treat it as a jest, an idle romance with which they had amused themselves those happy midsummer days in denver? yes--it was a dream--nothing more. life was too hard, too brutal for such ideal longings to be possible of realization. it was just as well that she had come to her senses before it was too late. rising with a sigh, she crossed to the other side of the room, and halting at the wardrobe, stood contemplating john's portrait which was tacked up there. then calmly, deliberately, she loosened the nails with a pair of scissors and took the picture down. proceeding to the dresser, she picked up the small picture in the frame; then, kneeling on the mattress, she pulled down the large picture of him that was over the bed, and placed all three portraits under a pillow. barely was this done, when there was a sharp rap at the door. "come in," she called out. the door opened, and brockton entered, well groomed and immaculately dressed. for a moment he stood irresolute on the threshold, just looking at her. there was obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them. laura went toward him, with hand extended. "hello, laura," he said pleasantly. "i'm--i'm glad to see you, will." "thank you." "won't you sit down?" she said timidly. "thank you again," he smiled. quickly regaining his ease of manner, he put his hat and cane on the table, took off his overcoat, which he placed on the back of the armchair, and sat down. "it's rather cold, isn't it?" said laura, taking a seat opposite him. "just a bit sharp." "you came with elfie in the car?" "she picked me up on broadway; we lunched together." "by appointment?" she asked quickly. "i'd asked her," he answered dryly. "well?" she demanded. "well, laura," he replied calmly. "she told you?" he shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "not a great deal. what do you want to tell me?" avoiding his direct glance, she said very simply: "will, i'm ready to come back." with an effort, the broker concealed his sense of triumph and satisfaction. rising quickly, he went up to her. taking her hand, he said tenderly: "i'm mighty glad of that, laura. i've missed you like the very devil." visibly embarrassed, she asked timidly: "do we--do we have to talk it over much?" "not at all unless you want to. i understand--in fact, i always have." "yes," she said wearily, "i guess you always did. i didn't." "it will be just the same as it was before, you know." "yes--of course----" "i didn't think it was possible for me to miss anyone the way i have you. i've been lonely." she smiled faintly: "it's nice in you to say that." drawing back a few steps he cast a hurried glance around the room. "you'll have to move out of here right away. this place is enough to give one the colly-wabbles. if you'll be ready to-morrow, i'll send my man over to help you take care of the luggage." "to-morrow will be all right, thank you," she replied. he put his hand in his pocket and took out a big roll of money. peeling off five yellow-backed bills and placing them on the table, he said: "and you'll need some money in the meantime. i'll leave this here." "you seem to have come prepared," she smiled. "did elfie and you plan all this out?" he chuckled as he replied: "not planned--just hoped. i think you'd better go to some nice hotel now. later we can arrange." she offered no objection, accepting everything suggested as a matter of course. having sold herself, as it were, to the highest bidder, it was not her place to raise any further obstacles. dispassionately, therefore, she said: "will, we'll always be frank. i said i was ready to go. it's up to you--when and where." he smiled, surprised to find her so tractable. "the hotel scheme is the best, but, laura----" "yes?" he looked at her keenly, trying to penetrate beneath the surface of her almost unnatural calm. he did not wish to be fooled again. "you're quite sure this is in earnest?" he demanded. "you don't want to change? you've time enough now." she shook her head. "i've made up my mind. it's final," she said positively. "if you want to work," he went on, "burgess has a nice part for you. i'll telephone and arrange if you say so." "please do. say i'll see him in the morning." the broker rose and paced nervously up and down the room. so far so good, but he had not yet finished. there was still something unpleasant that must be attended to before all was settled, and now was the proper and only time to do it. turning abruptly, he said: "laura, you remember when we were in denver----" starting forward, the girl raised one hand entreatingly. for the moment her studied quiet was laid aside. "please, please don't speak of that!" she cried. brockton stood still, looking her squarely in the eyes. his manner was extremely serious and determined. "i'm sorry," he said, "but i've got to." slowly and deliberately he went on: "last summer, in denver, i told john madison that if this time ever came--when you would return to me of your own free will--i'd have you write him the truth. before we go any further, i'd like you to do that--now." even under her cosmetics, the girl grew a shade paler. in a trembling, uncertain voice, she faltered: "say good-by?" "just that," said brockton firmly. she looked distressed. the muscles about the corners of her mouth worked convulsively. "i wouldn't know how to begin. it will hurt him terribly." "it will be worse if you don't," insisted the broker. "he'll like you the better for telling him. it would be honest, and that is what he expects." she knew he was right, and that there was no way out of it, yet this was the hardest ordeal of all. in her heart she knew she was lying--lying to brockton, lying to john, lying to herself. but she must lie, for she had not the strength to resist. the world was too hard, the suffering too great. what could she tell john--that she had ceased to love him and gone back to her old life? how he would despise her! yet it must be----. her eyes blinded with scalding tears, she asked: "must i write--now?" "i think you should," he replied kindly but firmly. dropping onto a seat near the table, she took up a pen. "how shall i begin?" she asked tremulously. he looked at her in surprise. "do you mean that you don't know what to say?" she nodded and turned away her head, not daring to let him see her white, tear-stained face. he made a step forward. "then i'll dictate a letter," he said. "that's right," she half-sobbed. "i'll do just as you say. you're the one to tell me now----" "address it the way you want to," he said. "i'm going to be pretty brutal. in the long run, i think that is best, don't you?" "it's up to you," she said quietly. "ready?" "begin." looking-over her shoulder, while she put pen to paper, he began to dictate: "this is the last letter you will ever receive from me. all is over between us. i need not enter into explanations. i have tried and i have failed. do not think badly of me. it was beyond my strength. good-by. i shall not tell you where i've gone, but remind you of what brockton told you the last time he saw you. he is here now, dictating this letter. what i am doing is voluntary--my own suggestion. don't grieve. be happy and successful. i do not love you----" when she came to the last sentence, she stopped, laid her pen down, and looked up at the broker. "will--please--" she protested. but he insisted. "it has got to go just that way," he said determinedly. "'i do not love you.' sign it 'laura.' fold it, put it in an envelope--seal it--address it. shall i mail it?" she hesitated, and then stammered: "no. if you don't mind, i'd sooner mail it myself. it's a sort of a last--last message, you know. i'd like to send it myself." brockton went to the armchair, took his coat, and put it on. "all right," he said cheerily. "you're a little upset now, and i'm going. we are all to dine together to-night at seven-thirty. there'll be a party. of course you'll come." "i don't think i can," she answered, with some embarrassment. "you see----" he understood. nodding and pointing to the money he had left on the table, he said: "i know. i guess there's enough there for your immediate needs. later you can straighten things up. shall i send the car?" "yes, please." he drew nearer and bent over her, as if about to caress her. instinctively she shrank from his embrace. what at any other time would have appeared perfectly natural was now repugnant to her. it seemed indecent when the ink on her letter to john madison was not yet dry. "please don't," she said. "remember, we don't dine until seven-thirty." "all right," he laughed, as he took his hat and cane and went out of the door. for a few minutes after his departure laura sat in meditative silence. there was no drawing back now. she had accepted this man's money. she must go on to the end, no matter where it led her. she had sold herself; henceforth she was this man's slave and chattel. suddenly she was seized with a feeling of disgust. she loathed herself for her weakness, her lack of stamina, her cowardice. she did not deserve that a decent man should love or respect her. angry at herself, angry with the world, she rose, and going to the dresser, got the alcohol lamp and placed it on the table. while she was lighting it there came a knock at the door. "come in," she called out. annie entered. "is that you, annie?" "yassum," said the negress. laura took the bank notes which brockton had left and threw them on the table. with affected carelessness, she said: "mrs. farley wants her rent. there is some money. take it to her." approaching the table, the negress' eyes nearly started out of her head when she caught sight of the bank notes. bewildered, she exclaimed: "dey ain't nothin' heah, miss laura, but five great big one hundred dollah bills!" "take two," said laura. "and look in that upper drawer. you'll find some pawn-tickets there." "yassum," said the negress, obeying instructions. "dat's real money--dem's yellow backs, sure!" "take the two top ones," continued laura, "and go get my lace gown and one of the hats. the ticket is for a hundred and ten dollars. keep ten for yourself, and hurry." annie gasped from sheer excitement. "ten for myself?" she grinned. "i never seen so much money. yassum, miss laura, yassum." as she went toward the door she turned round, and said: "ah'm so mighty glad yo' out all yo' trouble, miss laura. i says to mis' farley, now----" laura cut her off short. "don't--don't!" she exclaimed sharply. "go do as i tell you, and mind your business." annie turned sullenly and walked toward the door. at that moment laura noticed the letter which still lay on the table. she called the maid back: "wait a minute. i want you to mail a letter." picking up the letter, she held it out to the negress, who put out her hand to receive it. laura still hesitated. looking at the envelope long and wistfully, her nerve failed her. dismissing the girl with a gesture, she said: "never mind. i'll mail it myself." the negress went out. when the door shut behind her, laura went quickly to the table and held the letter over the flame of the alcohol lamp. the envelope speedily ignited. as it burned she held it for a moment in her fingers, and when half-consumed, threw it into a waste-jar. sitting on the side of the bed, she watched the letter burn, and when the last tiny flame flickered out, she sank down on the bed, her head supported on her elbows, her chin resting in her hands, thinking, thinking. chapter xiv. hugging the grateful warmth of an expiring camp fire, the figures of two stalwart men lay stretched out on the hard, frozen ground, bundled up in heavy army blankets. the mercury was forty-five below zero and still falling, but they did not appear to mind. gaunt and hollow-eyed, enfeebled from long fasting, they had succumbed at last to utter physical exhaustion, and fallen into a sound and merciful sleep. all nature slept with them. the distant howling of wolves and the occasional scream of an eagle only served to intensify the universal stillness. the sepulchral silence of the far north enveloped everything like an invisible mantle. away to the east, the first gray mists of approaching daylight were creeping over the jagged mountain tops. the cold was intense. the snow was so deep in spots that the entire landscape was obliterated; only the trees, marvellously festooned with lace-like icicles, and a few huge, fire-scarred rocks which here and there thrust their jagged points above the surface, remained of the desolate marsh and forest land. everywhere, as far as the eye could carry, was a trackless waste of snow drift. the men lay motionless; only by their deep, rhythmical breathing could one know that they were alive. dead to the world, they were as insensible to the cutting wind which, with the force of a half-gale, swept over the icy plains, sending the last flickering embers of their fire up in a cloud of flying sparks, as they were to the pain in their fever-racked bodies. it was lucky they were still able to make a fire. the flames gave them warmth and kept the wolves at bay. but for that and the occasional small game they had been able to shoot, they would have perished long ago, and then the gold-fever would have claimed two victims more. for days and days they had tramped aimlessly through that wild region, prospecting for the yellow metal, until, footsore and weary, nature at last gave way. they had lost their bearings and could go no farther. miles away from the nearest human habitation, they were face to face with death from starvation. then the weather changed; it suddenly grew very cold; before they knew it, the blizzard was upon them. the suffering had been terrible, the obstacles inconceivable, yet they never faltered. a goal lay before them, and they pushed right on, determined to attain it. the prospector for gold plays for heavy stakes--a fortune or his life. never willing to acknowledge defeat, undeterred by continual, heart-breaking disappointment, still he pushes on. spurred by the irresistible lure of gold, there is no place so dangerous or so difficult of access that he will not penetrate to it. in winter he perishes of cold, in summer he is overcome by the heat, yet no matter. nothing short of death itself can stop him in his determined, insensate quest for wealth. it grew gradually lighter. the sky was overcast and threatening. a light snow began to fall. one of the men shivered and opened his eyes. looking stupidly about him, with a long-drawn-out yawn, first at the dying fire, then at his still unconscious mate, he jumped up with a shout. at first he was too dazed with sleep to stand straight, and his teeth chattered from the cold. he was also ravenously hungry. but first they must think of the fire. that must be kept up at all costs. he was so weak that he staggered, and his clothes hung from him in rags; but shambling over to where his companion lay, he shook him roughly: "hello, jim--hello, there! the d----d fire is almost out. quick, man!" thus unceremoniously aroused from his trance-like slumber, john madison, or what remained of him, lifted his head and painfully raised himself on one elbow. he was a pitiable-looking object. his hair, all dishevelled and matted, hung down over haggard-looking eyes; his cheeks were hollow from hunger, his ghastly pale face, livid from the cold, was covered with several weeks' growth of beard. from head to foot he was filthy and neglected from lack of the necessaries of life, and there was in his staring eyes a haunted, terrified look--the look of a man who has been face to face with death and yet lived to tell the tale. his remaining rags barely covered his emaciated, trembling frame. shoes had gone long ago. his bleeding, frost-bitten feet were partly protected with coarse sacking tied with string. no one could have recognized in this human derelict the strapping specimen of proud manhood who six weeks before had said good-by to laura and started out light-heartedly to conquer the world. instead, the world had conquered him. throwing off the blanket, he staggered to his feet. he felt sick and dizzy. once he reeled and nearly fell. twenty hours without food takes the backbone out of any man, and it was as bad as that, with no prospect of anything better. weakly he stooped, and gathering up a little snow, put it in his mouth. then his face winced with pain. the hunger pangs were there again. stamping the ground and exercising his arms vigorously for a few moments, to get his blood in circulation, he turned, and, stooping down again to his couch, drew from under the roll of blanket that had served him for a pillow, a formidable-looking colt six-shooter and a girl's photograph. the colt he slipped between his rags; the picture he pressed to his lips. "god bless you, little one!" he murmured. his companion, who was busy bending over the fire, trying to coax it back to life, happened to look up. "say, young feller!" he bellowed. "cut out that mush, and lend a hand with this fire. get some wood, and plenty--quick!" madison made no retort. he was too weak to care. besides, bill was right. he had no business to think only of himself when they were both making a last stand for life itself. hastily gathering an armful of small twigs, he threw them on the fire. as he watched the flames leap up, his mate still grumbled: "this ain't no time for foolin'. i should think yer'd try to get us out of this mess, instead of wastin' time mooning-over that picture." madison stooped over the fire and warmed his frozen hands. shivering, he said: "bill--you don't know--how can you know?--what that picture means to me. it's all that's left to me. i never expect to see her again. i guess we'll both leave our carcasses here for the vultures to feed on. i can't go on much longer like this without food or shelter. i'm almost ready to cash in myself." the other doggedly bit on a piece of ice and said nothing. madison continued: "if i gave up three square meals a day and a comfortable bed to come out here and die in this infernal hole, it was only for her sake. we were to get married soon. i promised to go back with a fortune, and she said she'd wait for me----" the figure crouching on the other side of the fire chuckled grimly: "wait for you, eh?" he echoed dubiously. "yes, wait for me--why not?" snapped john. the other shook his head. "she may and she may not. it depends on the gal. where is she?" "new york." "working?" "yes--in a fashion. she's an actress." "oh!" bill gave another derisive chuckle. irritated, john demanded hotly: "what's the matter?" "queer lot--actresses!" grinned bill. "never knew no good of 'em." john's eyes flashed dangerously, and weak though he was, he sprang up and put his hand to his hip. before he drew his gun, his mate apologized. "no offense, pard. i didn't mean no harm. i guess if she's your gal, she's all right. no offense." madison, mollified, sat down again. warmly he said: "ah, bill--you don't know--you don't know. she means everything to me. i'd sooner cut my throat than think her false for one instant. why--she'd wait for me if it took years. i know her; you don't. she's the best girl in the world." bill nodded. sententiously he said: "that's the right line o' talk, i guess, for a feller wot's in love, but it's not goin' to help us find the trail. we've got to get on and find something to eat. jist at present, wittles is more to the point than spooning." bill branigan was an original. an irish-american, he was earning good wages in one of the chicago stockyards when the gold rush to alaska began. attacked like many others with the get-rich-quick fever, he went to the yukon, and later found his way to goldfield, nevada, where he met madison. the two men were instantly attracted to each other. superb specimens of hardy manhood, both were ambitious, fearless, thirsty for adventure. bill proposed a partnership--a risk-all, divide-all agreement. his other scheme having failed, madison was glad enough to accept the offer. so with renewed hope and determination, both men turned their faces to the setting sun, and wandered across the mountain ranges, looking for gold. a loquacious indian, after being generously dosed with "firewater," had told them of a lonely unknown place in the wilderness, where the ground was literally strewn with gold. nuggets as big as a man's fist, he said, could be found by merely scratching the surface of the soil. they swallowed the yarn with the necessary grain of salt; but in the gold region, where so many miracles have happened, nothing is deemed impossible. the wildest romance receives credence. vast fortunes had been made over night on clues no less preposterous. anyhow, it was worth investigating. so, quietly, almost stealthily, taking no one into their confidence, they started north. after days of strenuous tramping and effort, climbing hills, fording streams, cutting through impenetrable brushwood, they finally reached the region of which the indian had given a fairly accurate description. nearly two hundred miles from the nearest camp, on the top of a mountain plateau, the country was as wild and desolate as it is possible to imagine. probably no white man had ever set foot there before. soon their supplies ran low, and as they advanced further into the wilderness, and game grew scarcer, it became more difficult to find food. in addition to hunger, they suffered severely from the cold, and the jagged rocks tearing their boots made them footsore. of gold they had seen a few traces, but the ore was not present in such quantities as to encourage them to believe they had stumbled across another el dorado, or even to make it worth their while to stake out a claim. branigan, disappointed, was in favor of going back. the indian was lying, he said. there was danger of getting lost in the mountains. the severe winter storms were about due. prudence counselled caution. john took an opposite view. they had picked up several lumps of quartz streaked with yellow. if gold was there in minute particles, he argued, it was there also in larger quantities. the only thing was to have patience, to go on prospecting, and ferret out the hiding-place where jealous nature secreted her treasures. so they had struggled on, hoping against hope, thinking they would soon come across a trapper's hut, fighting for mere existence each inch of the way, becoming more bewildered and demoralized as they realized the gravity of their plight, advancing further and further into the merciless desert, literally stumbling into the jaws of death. then came the snow, and the faint indian trails were completely obliterated. this put the climax on their misery. now there was no knowing where they were. having no compass, they were hopelessly lost. in clear weather it was possible to find the right direction by the stars, but the sky, long-overcast and menacing, vouchsafed no sign. even if the road could be found, escape was impossible. starved and footsore, they were now so weak that they were scarcely able to drag themselves along. yet move they must; to remain in one spot meant to fall down and go to sleep and perish. they had had nothing to eat for days except snow and some roots which bill dug up from under the snow. once they were attacked by wolves. madison shot one of their pursuers with his revolver, and the rest of the pack turned tail and ran. the dead wolf they ate. they did not stop to cook it, but devoured it raw, like famished dogs worrying a bone. it saved their lives for a time, and then the hunger pangs began again, terrible, incessant. the freshly stacked fire send clouds of smoke skywards, and its crimson glow, casting a vivid light on the two men crouching close by, made their abject figures stand out with startling distinctness against the gray background of the snow-clad landscape. madison, who had long been silent, staring stolidly into the flames, listening absent-mindedly to his companion's arguments, at last broke in: "gold! i'm sick of gold--sick of the very word. i'd give all the gold there is in the world just to see laura once again. that's all i'd ask--to see her just once. then i'd be willing to die in peace. she has no idea of this. do you think they'll ever know? maybe some one will find our bodies." bill made no answer. he was paying no attention. his mind was too weak to grasp what was said. he had only one thought--one fixed thought--and that was--gold. pointing off in the distance, where a mass of moss-covered rock rose like some gigantic vessel in an ocean of snow, he said in a thick, uncertain voice: "john, my boy, i had a dream last night. i dreamt i tried some of them high spots yonder. i struck the rock with my pick, and suddenly i was dazzled. wet flakes of shining gold stared up at me from the quartz. i struck again, and there was more gold. i pulled the moss from it, and everywhere there was gold. i struck right and left, and a perfect shower of nuggets as big as my head rolled at my feet. then i woke up." "yes," said john sarcastically, "then you woke up." bill nodded stupidly. "i know it was only a dream," he said, "but somehow i can't get the gold out of my head. i've a notion to go and try them rocks. you might try in the other direction." john shrugged his shoulders. "won't do any harm as i know of," he said wearily. "go and try. i'll stay here a while and nurse my frost bites. when i'm rested i'll go and try my luck." his mate rose, and taking his pick, the weight of which was almost too much for his strength, said cheerily: "if i find anything, i'll holler," he said. "i guess you won't holler," replied his comrade, with a wan smile. when his mate had disappeared, madison remained sitting by the fire, staring meditatively into its red depths. he was not thinking of gold just then, but of a golden-haired girl who was thousands of miles away, little dreaming of the unexpected fate that had befallen him. he wondered what laura was doing, if she was happy and successful. she had written in rather discouraging tone, saying it seemed impossible to find the right kind of engagement, but of course that was long ago, at the beginning of the season. letters took so long to come from new york. by this time she must have found something she liked, and in which she could do herself justice. he did not like to see her on the stage. it was an artificial, unhealthy life. he had intended, when they were married, taking her away from her former surroundings for good. it would not be necessary for her to earn her living. he could have made enough for both. when they were married! what cruel irony that sounded now. perhaps she would never hear of his fate. inquiries would be made at goldfield and search parties might be sent to scour the brush, but it would be too late. they would find only their dead bodies, picked clean by the birds of prey. how happy he might have been. after all his many years, he at last had found a girl who really cared for him, a girl who was willing to give up everything for his sake, a girl whose firmness of character he could not help but respect. what had he cared what her past had been? the very fact that she had been willing to abandon her luxurious way of living, and endure comparative poverty for his sake, was proof enough of her sincerity. he had hoped she would not have to make a sacrifice long. one day he thought he would make a lucky "strike" and go back laden with gold, which he would pour into her lap. how delighted and surprised she would have been. he would have given her a fine house, automobiles, beautiful gowns, precious jewels, everything money can buy. nothing would have been too good to reward her weary months of waiting. and now---rising wearily to his feet, he threw some more wood on the fire, and then snatching up a short steel pick, proceeded in the direction opposite to that taken by branigan. he soon reached the foothills, and began work scraping the moss-covered rocks, striking deep into boulders, turning over the soil, his eye watchful for a glimpse of glittering gold particles. he toiled for a couple of hours, till his hands were blistered and his muscles ached. there was no sign of his companion. he hollered several times at the top of his voice, but receiving no response, he concluded that bill, in his prospecting, had wandered farther away than he intended. there was no reason for uneasiness. if he did not return soon, he would go in search of him. as he toiled on mechanically, he pondered: even if they were lucky and got out of this plight, it would be years before he was on his feet again. he would not be able to support himself, let alone a wife. it might be months, years before his luck turned again. would she wait? suddenly his brow darkened. he clenched his fist, and the veins on his temple swelled up like whipcord. had she waited? he remembered bill's scoffing words. could it be true of laura? was she false to him? the possibility of such a thing had never entered his head before, but now he was tortured with the agonies and doubts of insensate, unreasoning jealousy. maybe she had found it harder than she anticipated. compelled to economize, deprived of luxuries that had become necessities, perhaps she had repented her bargain and gone back to that scoundrel brockton. possibly at that very moment she was in the broker's arms. the thought was maddening. a cold sweat broke out all over him at the very thought of it what would he do if he found her false? what would he do if he found his happiness destroyed, the future a hopeless blank, his faith in womankind forever shattered. there was only one thing to be done. stern justice--the swift, savage justice of the cold, desolate, blizzard-swept plains. he would shoot them both, and himself afterward. he ceased working, the pick fell from his nerveless hands. the hunger pains were gnawing at his vitals. he felt dizzy and sick. a death chill invaded his entire being. it suddenly grew dark; there was a buzzing in his ears. his knees gave way beneath him. he stumbled and fell. he was still conscious, but he knew he was very ill--if only he could call branigan. suddenly his ear caught an unfamiliar sound. instinctively, ill as he was, he started up. it was the sound of human voices. with difficulty he raised himself on one elbow. a party of hunters and indians were coming in his direction. some were carrying a stretcher formed with rifles and the branches of trees. "gold! gold!" they shouted wildly, as they ran toward him. half a dozen trappers crowded round john's prostrate form. on the stretcher lay bill branigan, asleep. the leader of the party, a big, muscular chap, with a great blond beard, pushed a whiskey flask between madison's clenched teeth. "poor devil!" he exclaimed. "we're just in time. he was about all in." addressing madison, who, with eyes starting from his head, stared up at the newcomers with amazement, as if they were phantoms from another world, he said: "we picked your mate up yonder in the mountains. he's found the biggest gold nugget ever found in this section. there's gold everywhere." "damn the gold! give me some food!" gasped madison. then he fainted. chapter xv. the pomona, on west ---street, was well known among those swell apartment houses of manhattan which find it profitable to cater to the liberal-spending demi-monde, and therefore are not prone to be too fastidious regarding the morals of their tenants. many such hostelries were scattered throughout the theatre district of new york, and as a rule they prospered exceedingly well. invariably they were of the same type. there was the same monotonous sameness in the gaudy decorations and furnishings; the same hilarious crowd in the café downstairs; the same overdressed, over-rouged women in the elevator and halls. they enjoyed in common the same class of patronage--blonde ladies with lengthy visiting-lists of gentlemen callers. willard brockton occupied a suite on the sixth floor, and it was one of the handsomest and most expensive in the hotel. it consisted of ten large rooms and three baths. the large sitting-room in white and gold had two windows overlooking fashionable fifth avenue. the furnishings were expensive and rich, but lacked that good taste which would naturally obtain in rooms occupied by people a little more particular concerning their reputation and mode of life. at one end of the room a large archway hung with tapestries led to the sleeping chambers. at the other end a door opened onto a small private hall, which, in turn, had another door communicating with the main corridor. the apartment was expensively and elaborately furnished. the inlaid floors were strewn with handsome oriental rugs, the chairs and sofas were heavy gilt, upholstered in crimson silk, while here and there were louis xv writing desks, teakwood curio cabinets, costly bronzes and statuary. the walls were covered with valuable paintings and engravings. near the window stood a superb full-length empire cheval glass, the kind that women love to dress by and survey their beauty. two months had sped quickly by since that cold, stormy day in february, when laura, distracted, half-starved, her spirit broken, despairing of aid from madison or any other decent quarter, threatened with eviction even from mrs. farley's miserable lodgings, weakly surrendered, listened to the call which summoned her back to her former life, and once more became brockton's mistress. at first the sudden transition from misery and absolute want to all the comforts and extravagant luxuries that unlimited means can command was so gratifying that she saw no reason to repent of the step she had taken. on the contrary, she rejoiced that she was still pretty enough, still young and clever enough to hold a man of brockton's influence and wealth. decidedly, she thought to herself, elfie was right. virtue was all very well for nice, good girls who did not mind doing chores, practicing painful economy, wearing shabby clothes, and tiring themselves out for small wages in petty, humiliating occupations, but she could never stand it. she would die rather. life would not be worth living if she were to be always denied the sweets of life, and to her that meant champagne suppers, gorgeous gowns, and all that goes with them. so, banishing from her mind any unpleasant memories or regrets, she plunged headlong into the boiling vortex of gay metropolitan life. thanks to brockton, she secured one of the best parts of the expiring theatrical season, and made such a hit that her name was in everybody's mouth. the newspapers interviewed her, society women copied her, toothpaste and perfume manufacturers solicited her testimonials. in a word, she was famous overnight. burgess, the manager, was now eager to sign for five years, but laura laughed, and tore up the contract before his face. what did she care now? she had the whip hand. the managers had neglected and despised her long enough; they could do the running after contracts now. meantime she drained the cup of pleasure to the very dregs. it was one continual round of gaiety. she seemed insatiable. with elfie st. clair and others, she formed an intimate circle of friends, a little coterie of the swiftest men and women in town, and entertained them lavishly, spending wilfully, recklessly. her extravagances were soon the talk of new york. a thousand dollars for a single midnight supper, $700 for a new gown, $200 for a hat were as nothing. once more she reigned as the belle of broadway, almost each night, after the play, she was the centre of an admiring throng in the pleasure resorts, and none ventured to dispute the claim that she was the prettiest as well as the best-dressed woman in town. dressmakers, attracted by her matchless figure and eager to profit by her vogue, turned out for her their latest creations; milliners designed for her hats that were the despair of every other woman. she had her carriages, her automobiles, and her saddle horse, her town apartment and her bungalow by the sea, and for a time set a pace so swift that no other woman of her acquaintance could keep up with her. all this cost money, and a lot of it, but brockton gave her free rein. the broker did not care. he smiled indulgently and footed her enormous bills without protest. on the contrary, he was delighted. never had she proved so fascinating a companion or attracted so much attention in public. he was getting plenty of other people's money in the wall street game, so why should he care if his mistress spent a few thousands a year more or less? it amused him to see her plunging, as he put it. besides, he was proud of his protégée. it flattered him when they entered a theatre or restaurant, laura wearing her $200 picture hat, to hear people whisper: "that's brockton's girl. isn't she stunning?" she drank more champagne than was good for her, and when this happened, brockton himself would chide her. but she only laughed at him, and, disregarding his rebuke, turned to the waiter and imperiously ordered another bottle. not that she liked the golden, hissing stuff. it made her sick and gave her a bad headache the next morning, but still she must drink it, drink it unceasingly. it was the only way she could deaden that terrible, accusing conscience which persistently demanded an accounting. with her knowledge of her own guilt and her tendency to introspective brooding, it was only natural that her sensitive nature suffered atrociously. all day and all night her conscience tortured her. incessantly it put the agonizing question: have you been true, true to yourself and to the man to whom you gave your word? and always came the damning answer: "no--i've been false, miserably false, both to myself and him." in her quieter moods--the moods she dreaded most--she allowed her mind to dwell on the past. she wondered what john was doing and where he was. had he succeeded or had he failed? for a long time she had received no word. on leaving mrs. farley's, she had left no address and had taken no pains to have her mail forwarded. no doubt his letters had been returned to him. sometimes she regretted having burned the message of farewell which brockton had dictated. it would have been fairer, more honest, to have told him the truth frankly. brockton had wanted to do the right thing, and she had lied, making him believe she had done it. that was why she despised herself, and that was why she drank champagne--so she might forget. sometimes she took too much. one night elfie st. clair celebrated her birthday by giving a supper in her apartment. it was a jolly gathering, and they made merry until the late hours of the morning. laura had been particularly high spirited and hilarious until, toward the end, her face grew deathly white. seized with a sudden dizziness, she had to be wrapped in furs and carried down to her carriage. brockton, embarrassed, declared it to be due to the heat. everybody present knew it was the champagne. but gaiety that is forced and only artificially stimulated cannot be kept up long. one day the reaction inevitably comes, and then the awakening is terrible, disastrous. at times, when, in company of others, she was laughing loudly and appearing to be thoroughly enjoying herself, she would suddenly become serious, talk no more, and go away in the corner by herself. her companions teased her about it, and called such symptoms "laura's tantrums." the truth was that each day the girl realized more the hollowness and rottenness of the life she was leading. she was filled with repulsion and disgust, both for herself and her associates. while she was weak and luxury-loving, she was not entirely devoid of character. there was enough sentimentality and emotion in her moral fibre to make her see the impossibility of continuing to live this irregular, vicious kind of existence. women of elfie st. clair's type could do it, because they had no innate refinement of feeling, but she could not, and, in her saner moments, when she thought of what she had lost, when she remembered how she had been regenerated, purified, by her disinterested love for a good man, she looked wistfully back on those weeks at mrs. farley's boarding-house. her attic, miserable as it was, was a haven of happiness and respectability compared with her present degradation. then, again, she had an uncomfortable idea that there was an accounting still to be made. in her sleep she saw john madison approaching, stern, terrible, exacting some awful penalty, like an implacable judge. she had a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling, vague but nevertheless palpable, that something was going to happen. the idea obsessed her, haunted her; she could not shake it off. she became nervous of her own shadow. gradually, too, she grew to dislike brockton. instead of feeling gratitude for all the luxuries he gave her, she blamed him for having made her what she was. she classed him as the type of man who preys on woman's virtue and exults in the number of souls he is able to destroy. she looked upon him as responsible for all her troubles, for her degradation and sacrifice of her womanhood. he was the eternal enemy of her sex, the arch tempter, the anti-christ. her mind became obsessed with this idea, and a savage, unreasoning hate for him and all his kind sprang up in her heart. meantime, things pursued the even tenor of their way, at least outwardly. brockton was careless, indifferent, good natured as usual. laura was seemingly as gay and carefree as ever. none saw the ripples on the apparently serene surface, except, perhaps, one pair of black eyes which, always spying, never missed anything. annie guessed her mistress' thoughts, but was shrewd enough to hold her tongue. the negress, promoted from the rank of maid of all work at mrs. farley's establishment, had been elevated to the dignity of lady's maid. laura never liked the negress, but well aware of the difficulty she might have in finding a servant, she accepted her voluntary offer to follow when she went with brockton. the woman knew her ways, and in some respects was a good servant--at least as faithful and honest as any she could expect to get, which was not, of course, saying a great deal. but smart as she was, the negress never quite succeeded in deceiving her young mistress. laura never trusted her further than she could see her. a hundred times, her patience tried to the limit, she had discharged her. "you'll go in the morning, annie." "yassum!" but somehow annie always stayed. chapter xvi. late one morning laura and brockton were seated at the little table in the parlor, having breakfast together. they had been out the night before, at a big supper given by some friends, and had only got home in the small hours. laura, attired in an expensive negligée gown, sat at one side of the table, pouring out the coffee; brockton, in a gray business suit, sat opposite, carelessly scanning the _wall street messenger_. neither spoke and both looked tired and out of sorts. brockton was as fond of champagne suppers as anyone, but he was not getting any younger. they did not agree with his constitution as they used to, with the result that he was generally out of humor the next day. while he and his companion toyed listlessly with the silver-plated dishes in front of them, annie busied herself about the room, trying to put it in order. everything lay about just as it had been thrown the night before. the place looked as if a cyclone had devastated a second-hand clothing store. in the alcove a man's dress coat and vest were thrown carelessly on the cushions; a silk hat, badly rumpled, was near it. an opera cloak had been flung on the sofa, and on a chair was a huge picture hat with costly feathers. a pair of women's gloves were thrown over the cheval glass. the curtains in the bay window were half-drawn, filling the room with a rather dim light. laura preferred it so. she did not wish brockton to see the ravages which late hours and overabundance of rich foods were making on her complexion. she still had some feminine vanity left. with a grunt and gesture of annoyance, brockton threw his paper aside. looking around, he demanded impatiently: "have you seen the _recorder_, laura?" his companion was engrossed in the theatrical gossip of the _morning chronicle_. without looking up, she replied indifferently: "no." "where is it?" he growled. "i don't know," she answered calmly, still intent on her own paper. brockton began to lose his temper, as he did easily when not feeling just right. not daring to vent his ill humor on his _vis à vis_, he looked around for the colored maid. loudly he called: "annie----! annie----!! annie!!!" in a savage undertone, half directed at laura, he growled: "where the devil is that lazy nigger?" laura looked up, a mild expression of indignant surprise on her face. quietly she said: "i suppose she's gone to get her breakfast." "well, she ought to be here," he snapped. "did it ever occur to you," said laura quickly, "that she has got to eat, just the same as you have?" "she's your servant, isn't she?" he barked. "my maid," she corrected, with difficulty controlling herself. "well, what have you got her for--to eat, or to wait on you?" again he thundered: "annie!" "don't be so cross," protested laura. "what do you want?" "i want the paper," he growled, pouring out one half-glass of water from a bottle. "i will get it for you," she said, with quiet dignity. wearily she got up and went to the table where there were other morning papers. taking the _recorder_, she handed it to him, and, returning to her seat, reopened the _chronicle_. he relapsed into a sulky silence, and for a few minutes there was peace. suddenly annie entered the room from the sleeping apartments. "do yuh want me, suh?" she asked, with the ludicrous grin characteristic of her race. "yes!" snapped the broker. "i did want you, but don't now. when i'm at home i have a man to look after me, and i get what i want----" laura looked up angrily. her patience was exhausted. "for heaven's sake, will, have a little patience!" she said. "if you like your man so well, you had better live at home, but don't come around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody----" "don't think for a moment that there's much to come around here for. annie, this room's stuffy." "yassuh." "draw those _portières_. let those curtains up. let's have a little light. take away those clothes and hide them. don't you know that a man doesn't want to see the next morning anything to remind him of the night before? make the place look a little respectable." annie stood in considerable awe of brockton. in fact, she was afraid of him, so she did not stand on the order of going. she scurried around, and after picking up the coat and vest, opera cloak and other things, threw them over her arm without any idea of order. "be careful!" angrily shouted the irate broker, who was watching her. "you're not taking the wash off the line." "yassuh!" the negress literally flew out of the room. laura put down her newspaper. "i must say you're rather amiable this morning," she said pointedly. brockton turned his head away. "i feel like h--ll," he growled. "market unsatisfactory?" she inquired. "no, head too big." lighting a cigar, he took a puff and then made a wry face. putting the offending weed into the empty cup, he said, with another grimace: "tastes like punk." "you drank a lot," she said unconcernedly. he nodded. "yes--we'll have to cut out these parties. i can't do those things any more. i'm not as young as i was, and in the morning it makes me sick." looking up at her, he added. "how do you feel?" she rose from the breakfast table and sat down at a small _escritoire_. "a little tired, that's all," she said languidly. "you didn't touch anything, did you?" "no." "that's right--you've been taking too much lately. it was a great old party, though, wasn't it?" laura yawned and gazed listlessly out of the window. "do you think so?" not noticing her expression of wearied disgust, he went on: "yes, for that sort of a blow-out. not too rough, but just a little easy. i like them at night, but i hate them in the morning. were you bored?" picking up his newspaper, he started to glance over it carelessly. still staring idly into the street, she answered laconically: "i'm always bored by such things as that." "you don't have to go." "you asked me." "still, you could say no." rising, she stooped and picked up a newspaper which had fallen on the floor. placing it on the breakfast table, she returned to her seat at the desk. "but you asked me," she insisted. "what did you go for if you didn't want to?" "_you_ wanted me to." "i don't quite get you," he said impatiently. "well, it's just this, will--you have all my time when i'm not in the theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. you pay for it. i'm working for you." he looked up at her quickly. something in the tone of her voice warned him that there was a scene coming, and he hated scenes. but he could not resist inquiring sarcastically: "is that all i've got--just your time?" "that and--the rest," she replied bitterly. looking at her curiously, he said: "down in the mouth, eh? i'm sorry." "no," she retorted, her mouth quivering at the corners; "only, if you want me to be frank, i'm a little tired. you may not believe it, but i work awfully hard over at the theatre. burgess will tell you that. i know i'm not so very good as an actress, but i try to be. i'd like to succeed myself. they're very patient with me. of course, they've got to be--that's another thing you're paying for; but i don't seem to get along except this way." brockton shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "oh, don't get sentimental," he said testily. "if you're going to bring up that sort of talk, laura, do it some time when i haven't got a hang-over, and then, don't forget, talk never does count for much." rising and going to the mirror, laura picked up a hat from a box, put it on, and looked at herself in the mirror. she turned around and looked at her companion steadfastly for a moment without speaking. it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth there and then, tell him she had lied about mailing the letter to madison, and that she had been miserable ever since; tell him that this rotten, artificial life disgusted and degraded her, that she was sick of it and of him. but she had not the courage. meantime, brockton, left to himself, went on perusing the paper more carefully. suddenly he stopped and looked at his watch. "what time is it?" inquired laura. "after ten." "aren't you ever going out?" she demanded crossly. deeply engrossed in his paper, the broker made no answer. his eye had just been attracted to an item which particularly interested him. it was a despatch from chicago, and read as follows: "a story has reached here of an extraordinary gold find just made in nevada by two lucky prospectors. the men set out from goldfield several weeks ago, and got lost in the mountains. after enduring terrible privations, and almost perishing in the blizzard, they were found in last extremity by a party of hunters. they had actually discovered gold, having accidentally stumbled on one of the richest ore deposits in the gold region. a nugget of enormous size was brought in by the rescuing party in support of their well-nigh incredible story. the prospectors quickly recovered from their terrible experience, and one of them, named john madison, is now on his way east for the purpose of organizing a syndicate which will begin at once large operations in the nevada gold fields. rumor has it that mr. madison will also bring back a bride." brockton caught his breath and looked sharply over at laura. did she know about this? was it the explanation of her petulance and discontented attitude? that fellow madison was now a man of means. the coincidence of the despatch brought back to the broker's mind the night scene on the terrace in denver, and later their conversation at the boarding house in new york, and with the subtle intuition of the shrewd man of the world, he at once connected the two. eyeing his companion keenly and suspiciously, he said: "i don't suppose, laura, that you'd be interested now in knowing anything about that young fellow out in colorado? what was his name--madison?" the girl started and changed color. "do you know anything?" she said quickly. "no, nothing particularly," he replied, with affected carelessness. "i've been rather curious to know how he came out. he was a pretty fresh young man, and did an awful lot of talking. i wonder how he's doing and how he's getting along. i don't suppose by any chance you have ever heard from him?" she shook her head. "no, no; i've never heard." "i presume he never replied to that letter you wrote?" "no." "it would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow should happen to come across a lot of money--not that i think he ever could, but it would be funny, wouldn't it?" "yes, yes," she said quickly; "it would be unexpected. i hope he does. it might make him happy." "think he might take a trip east and see you act? you know you've got quite a part now." laura tossed back her head impatiently. petulantly she said: "i wish you wouldn't discuss him. why do you mention it now? is it because you were drinking last night, and lost your sense of delicacy? you once had some consideration for me. what i've done i've done. i'm giving _you_ all that i can. please, please, don't hurt me any more than you can help. that's all i ask." brockton rose, and, going over to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and his cheek close to the back of her head. he was sorry he had spoken so sharply. in his gruff way he was as fond of her as ever, but he could not help it if he sometimes felt under the weather. "you know, dearie," he said kindly, "i do a lot for you because you've always been on the level with me. i'm sorry i hurt you, but there was too much wine last night, and i'm all upset. forgive me." he tried to kiss her, to make up, but she averted her head. holding herself aloof, she shuddered. a feeling of repulsion passed through her. perhaps never so much as now had she realized that this kind of life was becoming more intolerable every hour. in order to avoid his caresses, laura had leaned forward. her hands clasped between her knees, she gazed straight past him, with a cold, impassive expression. brockton looked at her silently for a moment. the man was really fond of her; he wanted to try and comfort her, but of late a wall seemed to have risen between them. he realized now that she had slipped away from the old environment and conditions. he had brought her back, but he had regained none of her affection. with all his money, their old _camaraderie_ was gone forever. these and other thoughts hurt him as such things always hurt a selfish, egotistical man, inclining him to be brutal and inconsiderate. as they both remained there in silence, the front door bell rang, first gently and then more violently. brockton went to open. before he could reach it there was another ring. the caller, whoever it was, seemed in a good deal of a hurry. "d----n that bell!" exclaimed the broker. he opened the parlor door and passed out into the private hall, so he could open the door leading into the public corridor. laura remained seated where she was, immovable and impassive, with the same cold, hard expression on her face. when, she pondered, would she be able to summon up courage enough to tell brockton the truth--that she detested him and his set and loathed herself? why had he mentioned john just now? could he have read her thoughts and guessed of whom she had been thinking? presently the outer door slammed loudly, and brockton re-entered the room, holding a telegram in his hand. "a wire," he said briefly. laura started forward. "for me?" she exclaimed. "yes." she looked surprised. "from whom, i wonder? perhaps elfie, with a luncheon engagement." "i don't know," he said indifferently, handing her the closed yellow envelope. as she broke it open and hastily read the contents, he watched her face closely. she gasped involuntarily as she caught sight of the signature, but by a great effort managed to control herself. outwardly calm and self-possessed, she silently read the message, which was dated buffalo, the night before, and ran as follows: "my own darling: "i have been through the shadow of the valley, but have won out. to-day i am rich. isn't it glorious? i am the happiest man on earth. i shall be in new york before noon to-morrow. i am coming to marry you, and i'm coming with a bank-roll. i wanted to keep it secret, and have a big surprise for you, but i can't hold it any longer, because i feel just like a kid with a new top. don't go out. i'll be with you early. "john." she crushed the telegram up in her hand, and crossed the room so he should not see her face. john was coming back--a rich man. he was coming back to claim her. great god! what could she say to him? "no bad news, i hope?" said brockton suspiciously. "no, no--not bad news," she replied hastily. "i thought you appeared startled." "no, not at all," she stammered. brockton sat down and picked up the newspaper again. carelessly he asked: "from elfie?" "no--just a friend." "oh!" he sat down again, making himself comfortable in the armchair. laura, in an agony of suspense, growing momentarily more nervous, watched him sideways, wondering how she could get rid of him, hoping he would soon go out. it would never do for john to come and find him there. with two men of such violent temper, already jealous to the breaking point, there was no telling what terrible tragedy might happen. besides, she was anxious to be alone, so she might think out some plan of action. something must be done at once. it was near eleven already. john would reach new york about noon; he would probably seek her out at once. she could reasonably expect him that very afternoon. a cold chill ran through her at the thought. what would she say to him? get rid of brockton she must at all costs. timidly she asked: "won't you be rather late getting down town, will?" without lifting his head, he answered carelessly: "doesn't make any difference. i don't feel much like the office now. thought i might order the car and take a spin through the park. the cold air will do me a lot of good. like to go?" "no, not to-day," she replied hastily. a silence followed, and then she went on: "i thought your business was important; you said so last night." "no hurry," he answered. suddenly turning and looking up at her, he asked searchingly: "do you--er--want to get rid of me?" "why should i?" she demanded, with pretended surprise. "expecting some one?" he demanded. "no--not exactly," she replied hesitatingly. turning her back on him, she went to the window, and stood there, gazing out into the street. brockton watched her for a moment; then, with a covert smile, he said dryly: "if you don't mind, i'll stay here." laura left the window, and coming back into the room, sat down at the piano. "just as you please," she said, realizing that he was watching her, and trying her utmost to appear unconcerned. after playing a few bars, she stopped and said in a more conciliatory tone: "will?" "yes." "how long does it take to come from buffalo?" "depends on the train," he answered laconically. "about how long?" she persisted. "between eight and ten hours, i think." looking up, he asked: "some one coming?" ignoring his question, she asked: "do you know anything about the trains?" "not much. why don't you find out for yourself? have annie get the timetable." "i will," she said. leaving the piano, she went to the door and called: "annie! annie!" the negress appeared on the threshold. "yassum!" "go ask one of the hall-boys to bring me a new york central timetable." "yassum!" the maid crossed the room, and disappeared through another door. laura, with forced nonchalance, seated herself on the arm of the sofa, humming a popular air. brockton turned and faced her. "then you _do_ expect some one, eh?" he exclaimed. her heart was in her throat, but she remained outwardly calm as she replied carelessly: "only one of the girls who used to be in the same company with me. but i'm not sure that she's coming here." "then the wire was from her?" "yes." "did she say what train she was coming on?" "no." "well, there are a lot of trains. about what time did you expect her in?" "she didn't say." "do i know her?" "i think not. i met her while i worked in 'frisco." "oh!" he resumed reading his paper, and the next moment annie re-entered with a timetable. "thanks," said laura, taking it. then, pointing to the breakfast table, she said: "now take those things away, annie." the maid started in to gather up the dishes, while her mistress became engrossed in a deep study of the timetable. soon annie left the room with the loaded tray, and laura looked up in despair. "i can't make this out," she cried. brockton looked up and held out his hand. "give it here; maybe i can help you." she rose, and, approaching the table, handed him the timetable, a diabolical labyrinth of incomprehensible figures and words specially compiled by railroad managers to puzzle and befog the traveling public. but brockton, from long practice, seemed familiar with its mysteries. "where is she coming from?" he demanded, as he quickly turned over the leaves. "the west," she answered promptly. "the telegram was from buffalo. i suppose she was on her way when she sent it." brockton had found the right page, and was busy calculating the time made by the different trains. "there's a train comes in here at nine-thirty--that's the twentieth century. that doesn't carry passengers from buffalo. then there's one at eleven-forty-one. one at one-forty-nine. another at three-forty-five. another at five-forty and another at five-forty-eight. that's the lake shore limited, a fast train; and all pass through buffalo. did you think of meeting her?" "no, she'll come here when she arrives." "she knows where you live?" "she has the address." "ever been to new york before?" "i think not." he passed back the timetable. "well, that's the best i can do for you." "thank you." she took the timetable and placed it in the desk. brockton, who had taken up his paper again, gave an exclamation of surprise. "by george--this is funny." "what?" she demanded, looking impatiently at the clock. "speak of the devil, you know." "who?" "your old friend--john madison." laura started involuntarily. she became deathly pale, and put her head on the chair-back to steady herself. controlling her agitation by a supreme effort, she said: "what--what about him?" "he's been in chicago." "how do you know?" brockton held out the newspaper. "here's a dispatch about him." she came quickly forward and looked over the broker's shoulder. her voice was trembling with suppressed excitement, as she said: "what--where--what's it about?" brockton chuckled. holding out the paper so she could see, and watching her face closely, he went on: "i'm damned if he hasn't done what he said he'd do--see! he's been in chicago, and is on his way to new york. he's struck it rich in nevada, and is coming with a pot of money. queer, isn't it? did you know anything about it?" "no, no; nothing at all," she said, laying the paper aside and returning to her former place near the piano. her face was drawn and white, and there was a hard, metallic note perceptible in her voice. "lucky for him, eh?" said the broker. "yes, yes; it's very nice." "too bad he couldn't get this a little sooner, eh, laura?" "oh, i don't know," she said, with a forced laugh. "i don't think it's too bad. what makes you say that?" "oh, nothing. i suppose he ought to be here to-day. are you going to see him if he looks you up?" "no, no," she replied quickly; "i don't want to see him. you know that, don't you--that i don't want to see him? what makes you ask these questions?" brockton shrugged his shoulders. "just thought you might meet him, that's all. don't get sore about it." "i'm not." she still held john's telegram crumpled in one hand. brockton put down his paper, and regarded her curiously. she saw the expression on his face, and, reading its meaning, averted her head in order not to meet his eye. "what are you looking at me that way for?" she demanded hotly. "i wasn't conscious that i was looking at you in any particular way. why?" "oh, nothing. i guess i'm nervous, too." "i dare say you are." "yes, i am." brockton rose slowly from his chair. crossing over to where she sat, he stood with folded arms, looking her squarely in the face. there was a hard look in his eyes, a determined expression around his mouth. he was in one of his obstinate, ungovernable tempers, and laura knew at once by his manner that a critical moment was at hand. he began ominously: "you know i don't want to delve into a lot of past history at this time, but i've got to talk to you for a moment." she rose quickly, and, going to the other side of the room, pretended to be busy. nervously, she said: "why don't you do it some other time? i don't want to be talked to just now." he followed her, and, in the same, hard, determined tone, said firmly: "but i've got to do it, just the same." trying to affect an attitude of resigned patience and resignation, laura shrugged her shoulders and resumed her seat on the sofa. "well, what is it?" she said. he looked at her in silence for a moment, as if not quite sure how to begin. then, quietly, he said: "you've always been on the square with me, laura. that's why i've liked you a lot better than the other women----" she stirred restlessly on her seat, and began to polish her finger-nails. peevishly, she said: "are you going into all that again this morning. i thought we understood each other." "so did i," he replied bitterly; "but somehow, i think that we _don't_ quite understand each other." she looked up, as if surprised. "in what way?" looking steadily at her, he went on: "that letter i dictated to you the day that you came back to me and left for you to mail--did you mail it?" for a sixteenth of a second she hesitated. should she go on lying, or stop right now and confess everything? she dare not. she had not the courage. positively, decisively, almost indignantly, she answered: "yes--of course. why do you ask?" he eyed her keenly, trying to penetrate her thoughts. "you're quite sure?" "yes, i'm quite sure." with an effrontery that surprised herself, she added: "i wouldn't say so if i wasn't." "and you didn't know madison was coming east until you read about it in that newspaper?" "no--no--i didn't know." "have you heard from him?" again an opportunity presented itself to tell the truth, and again her courage failed her. "no--no--i haven't heard from him." peevishly, she exclaimed: "don't talk to me about this thing. why can't you leave me alone? i'm miserable enough, as it is." she walked away, with the idea of leaving the room, but quickly he intercepted her. sternly, he said: "but i've got to talk to you. laura, you're lying to me." "what!" she made a valiant effort to seem angry, but brockton was too old a bird to be deceived. raising his voice in anger he exclaimed: "you're lying to me, and you've been lying to me all along! like a fool i've trusted you. show me that telegram!" "no," she said defiantly. she retreated into a far corner. he followed her. "show me that telegram!" he commanded. "you've no right to ask me," she exclaimed hotly. before he could prevent it, she had torn the telegram in half and run to the window. before she could throw the pieces out, he had caught her by the arm. livid with rage, he almost shouted: "are you going to make me take it away from you? i've never laid my hands on you yet." "it's my business!" she cried in desperation. "yes, and it's mine!" he retorted, trying to seize the fragments. her face flushed from the struggle, now furiously angry, she fought him with all her strength. they battled all over the room. finally he backed her against the dresser, and she was powerless to resist further. he put out his hand to seize the torn pieces of the telegram, which she had stuffed inside her waist. "that telegram's from madison," he cried hotly. "give it here!" "no!" she exclaimed, white as death, and still defiant. "i'm going to find out where i stand," he cried. "give me that telegram, or i'll take it away from you." "no!" "come on!" he said savagely, his teeth clenched, his face white from furious jealousy. the struggle was unequal. he was the stronger. further resistance was futile. "all right," she said breathlessly; "i'll give it to you." slowly, she drew the pieces out of her bosom, and handed them to him. he took them, and, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, slowly smoothed them out, and pieced them together so that he could read the dispatch. when, at last, he began to read, she staggered back apprehensively. he read it slowly, deliberately. when he had finished, he looked up. sternly, he said: "then you knew?" "yes," she faltered. "but you didn't know he was coming until he arrived?" "no." "and you didn't mail the letter, did you?" "no----" his face turned livid with rage. clenching his fists menacingly, he advanced towards her. "what did you do with it?" he thundered. shrinking from him, afraid of his violence, she replied faintly: "i--i burned it." "why?" he shouted, in a fury. dazed, bewildered, almost hysterical, laura was unable to answer. he advanced until he almost stood over her, his arm raised threateningly, as if about to strike her. she cowered before him. "why--why?" he repeated hoarsely. almost in tears, she murmured weakly: "i--i couldn't help it. i simply couldn't help it." folding his arms he looked down at her with an expression in which pity was mingled with contempt. a straightforward man himself, he had no patience with lying. he could forgive her lying--it was natural to her--but she had made him appear a liar. with a sweeping gesture of his hand, which took in the whole room, and its luxurious contents, he said: "and he doesn't know about us?" "no." thoroughly exasperated, he again advanced towards her, his face distorted with rage. "by god!" he exclaimed. "i never beat a woman in my life, but i feel as though i could wring your neck!" white-faced, trembling, she stared at him helplessly. hysterically, she cried: "why don't you? you have done everything else. why don't you?" "don't you know," he continued furiously, "that i gave madison my word that if you came back to me i'd let him know? don't you know that i like that young fellow, and i wanted to protect him, and did everything i could to help him? and do you know what you've done to me? you've made me out a liar--you've made me lie to a man--a man--you understand! what are you going to do now? tell me--what are you going to do now? don't stand there as if you've lost your voice--how are you going to square me?" summoning up all her courage, she faced him, calmly, defiantly. "i'm not thinking about squaring _you_," she said ironically. "what am i going to do for _him_?" "not what _you_ are going to do for him," he retorted. "what am _i_ going to do for him? why, i wouldn't have that young fellow think that i tricked him into this thing for you or all the rest of the women of your kind on earth. good god! i might have known that you, and the others like you, couldn't be square." she made no answer. the attitude of hostility and defiance had gone. she looked at him silently, pleadingly, like some helpless dumb animal trying to placate its master's wrath. brockton glanced at his watch, walked over to the window and then came back to where she stood. shaking his fist at her, he muttered: "you've made a nice mess of it, haven't you?" "there isn't any mess," she answered weakly. "please go away. he'll be here soon. please let _me_ see him--please do that." "no," he replied doggedly, "i'll wait. this time i'm going to tell him myself, and i don't care how tough it is." frightened at this suggestion, which might be so full of dire consequences, she was instantly galvanized into action. starting up again, she cried: "no, you mustn't do that!" approaching him, she said pleadingly: "oh, will, i'm not offering any excuse. i'm not saying anything, but i'm telling you the truth. i couldn't give him up--i couldn't do it. i love him." shrugging his shoulders he made an ironical exclamation: "huh!" "don't you think so?" she went on piteously. "i know you can't see what i see, but i do. and why can't you go away? why can't you leave me this? it's all i ever had. he doesn't know. no one will ever tell him. i'll take him away. it's the best for him--it's the best for me. please go." he laughed, and, going back to the armchair, deliberately reseated himself. ignoring her tearful pleading, he said scornfully: "why--do you think that i'm going to let you trip him the way you tripped me? no. i'm going to stay right here until that man arrives, and i'm going to tell him that it wasn't my fault. you alone were to blame." she listened blankly, staring at him in a bewildered, dazed sort of way. her face was white as death, and her hands twisted convulsively. slowly, with a half-stifled sob, she cried: [illustration: she sank down on her knees beside him. _page 273._] "then you are going to let him know?" she said slowly. "you're not going to give me a single, solitary chance?" the plaintive tone in her voice touched him. he hated such scenes, and would willingly have overlooked anything to avoid one. but there was a limit to a man's patience. perhaps, however, he had been a bit brutal. he did not trust himself to look up, but his voice was less harsh as he replied: "i'll give you every chance that you deserve when he knows. then he can do as he pleases, but there must be no more deception, that's flat." approaching the chair in which he sat, she laid a hand on his shoulder. gently, she said: "then you must let me tell him." brockton turned away impatiently. she sank down on her knees beside him. "yes--you must," she went on imploringly. "if i didn't tell him before i'll do it now. you must go. if you ever had any regard for me--if you ever had any affection--if you ever had any friendship, please let me do this now. i want you to go--you can come back. then you'll see--you'll know--only i want to try to make him understand that--that maybe if i'm weak i'm not vicious. i want to let him know that i didn't want to do it, but i couldn't help it. just give me the chance to be as good as i can be----" brockton turned and looked straight at her. she did not flinch under his severe, critical gaze. impulsively, coaxingly, she went on: "oh, i promise you i will tell him, and then--then i don't care what happens--only he must learn everything from me--please--please, let me do this--it's the last favor i shall ever--ever ask of you. won't you?" this last appeal, uttered hysterically, was followed by a flood of weeping. she had controlled herself as long as she could, but at last her nerves could not stand the strain, and she broke down completely. brockton rose, and for a moment stood watching, as if mentally debating himself what was the best thing to do. finally, he said: "all right; i won't be unkind. i'll be back early this afternoon, but remember--this time you'll have to go right through to the end." with a significant warning gesture, he added: "understand?" drying her eyes, she said hastily: "yes, i'll do it--all of it won't you please go--now?" "all right," he replied. the broker disappeared into the bedroom and almost immediately entered again with overcoat on his arm and hat in hand. he went towards the door without speaking. at the threshold he halted and, looking back at her, said firmly: "i am sorry for you, laura, but remember--you've got to tell the truth." "please go," she cried almost hysterically. he went out, closing the door behind him. chapter xvii. with a sigh of intense relief, laura sank utterly exhausted into the armchair which brockton had vacated. everything had come so suddenly that the girl's brain was all awhirl. john might arrive any moment. she must decide at once on what was to be done. what could she say to him? how much did she wish to say; how much would he believe? was it possible that providence had relented, and that, after all, she was to be truly happy, marry the only man she had ever truly, unselfishly loved, and still have all those luxuries which she could not live without? john was now a rich man. that made all the difference in the world. it would not make her love him any the more, but, as a rich man's wife, as _his_ wife, she knew she would be truly happy. she might have married him, even if he had been unsuccessful and returned to her penniless, but would their happiness have lasted, could their love have survived all the hardships which poverty brings in its train? of course, she could not tell him about brockton. he was not the kind of man she dare tell it to. he would never forgive her; he might even kill her. no, she must go on lying to the end, until she was safely married, and then she would turn over a new leaf altogether. while she sat there, her elbows between her knees, her chin on her hands, engrossed in thought, annie entered and began to dust the room. laura watched her in moody silence for a few minutes. then she said: "annie!" "yassum." "do you remember in the boarding-house--when we finally packed up--what you did with everything?" "yassum." "you remember that i used to keep a pistol?" "yo' mean dat one yo' say dat gemman out west gave yuh once?" "yes." "yassum, ah 'membuh it." "where is it now?" "last ah saw of it was in dis heah draw' in de writin'-desk." crossing to the other side of the room, the negress opened the desk and began to fumble among a lot of old papers. finally she drew out a small, thirty-two calibre revolver, which she held out gingerly. "is dis it?" laura turned and looked. "yes," she said quickly. "put it back. i thought that perhaps it was lost." annie had no sooner replaced the weapon in the drawer when the front door-bell rang. laura turned pale and started to her feet. could that be john? instinctively, she gathered her negligée gown closer to her frail, trembling figure, and, hurrying to the mirror, put those little finishing touches to her hair which no woman, jealous of her personal appearance, would think of neglecting, even though the house was on fire. she was so unstrung and agitated that she could hardly stand; she had to hold the table with one hand to maintain her balance. she could not articulate; her voice stuck in her throat. "see--who--that is--and let me know," she gasped. "yassum." the maid went out into the private hall and opened the door. immediately was heard the voice of elfie st. clair. "hello, annie. folks in?" "yassum; she's in." laura breathed more freely, and ran to greet her friend, who bounced in, smiling and good-natured. elfie was beautifully gowned in a morning dress, with an over-abundance of trimmings and all the furbelows that generally accompany the extravagant raiment affected by women of her type. advancing effusively, she exclaimed: "hello, dearie!" "hello, elfie!" said laura, unable to conceal how genuinely glad she was to see her friend. "it's a bully day out," said elfie, looking at herself in the mirror. "i've been shopping all morning long; just blew myself until i'm broke, that's all. my goodness, don't you ever get dressed? listen--talk about cinches! i copped out a gown, all ready made. it fits me like the paper on the wall for thirty-seven and one-half dollars. looks like it might have cost $200. anyway, i had them charge $200 on the bill, and i kept the change. there are two or three more down there, and i want you to go down and look them over. models, you know, being sold out. my--how you look this morning! you've got great black circles round your eyes. i don't blame you for not getting up earlier." sitting down at the table without noticing laura further, she rattled on: "that was some party last night! i know you didn't drink a great deal, but gee! what an awful tide will had on! how do you feel?" stopping short in her prattle, and looking at her friend, she exclaimed with concern: "what's the matter, are you sick? you look all in. what you want to do is this--put on your duds and go out for an hour. it's a perfectly grand day out. my gaud! how the sun does shine! clear and cold. well, much obliged for the conversation. don't i get a 'good-morning,' or a 'how-dy-do,' or a something of that sort?" "i'm tired, elfie, and blue--terribly blue." the caller rose, and, going up to her friend, said: "well, now, you just brace up and cut out all that emotional stuff. i came down to take you for a drive. you'd like it; just through the park. will you go?" "not this morning, dear; i'm expecting somebody." "a man?" in spite of herself, laura could not restrain a smile. "no--a gentleman," she corrected. "same thing. do i know him?" "i think you do." "well, don't be so mysterious. who is he?" ignoring the question, laura asked anxiously: "what is your time, elfie?" the girl looked at her watch. "five minutes past eleven." "i'm slow," exclaimed laura. "i didn't know it was so late. just excuse me, won't you, while i get some clothes on. he may be here any moment." going to the end of the room, where the heavy _portières_ separated the parlor from the sitting-room, she called out: "annie!" "who is it?" insisted elfie. "i'll tell you when i get dressed. make yourself at home, won't you, dear?" "i'd sooner hear," replied elfie. "what is the scandal, anyway?" "i'll tell you in a moment," laughed laura; "just as soon as annie gets through with me." she went out, leaving her visitor alone. elfie, left to herself, wandered about the room. finding a candy box on the desk, she helped herself to the sugared contents. aloud, she said: "do you know, laura, i think i'll go back on the stage?" "yes?" came the answer from the inner room. "yes," went on elfie, "i'm afraid i'll have to. i think i need a sort of a boost to my popularity." "how a boost?" "i think jerry is getting cold feet. he's seeing a little too much of me nowadays." "what makes you think that?" "i think he is getting a relapse of that front-row habit. there's no use in talking, laura, it's a great thing for a girl's credit when a man like jerry can take two or three friends to the theatre, and when you make your entrance delicately point to you with his forefinger, and say: 'the third one from the front on the left belongs to muh.' the old fool's hanging around some of these musical comedies lately, and i'm getting nervous every time rent day comes." laura laughed incredulously. she had too high an opinion of her friend's business ability to believe the danger very serious. pointedly, she said: "oh, i guess you'll get along all right." elfie rose, and, going to the mirror, gave her hat and hair a few deft little touches, after which she surveyed herself critically. with serene self-satisfaction, she said: "oh, that's a cinch! but i like to leave well enough alone, and if i had to make a change right now it would require a whole lot of thought and attention, to say nothing of the inconvenience, and i'm so nicely settled in my flat." suddenly her eye lighted on the pianola. going to it, she exclaimed: "say, dearie, when did you get the piano-player? i got one of them phonographs, but this has got that beat a city block. how does it work? what did it cost?" "i don't know," laughed laura. "well, jerry's got to stake me to one of these." looking over the rolls on top, she mumbled to herself: "tannhauser, william tell, chopin." louder, she said: "listen, dear. ain't you got anything else except all this high-brow stuff?" "what do you want?" "oh, something with a regular tune to it." looking at the empty box on the pianola, she exclaimed: "oh, here's one; just watch me tear this off." the roll was the ragtime tune of "_bon-bon buddy--my chocolate drop_." she started to play. pushing wide open the _tempo_ lever she worked the pedals with the ingenuous delight and enthusiasm of a child. "ain't it grand?" she cried. "gracious, elfie, don't play so loud!" exclaimed laura, who reëntered. "what's the matter?" her visitor stopped playing. smiling, she explained: "i shoved over that thing marked 'swell.' i sure will have to speak to jerry about this. i'm stuck on this 'swell' thing. hurry up!" noticing laura's white, anxious-looking face, she exclaimed sympathetically: "gee! you look pale! i'll just bet you and will had a fight. he always gets the best of you, doesn't he, dearie? listen. don't you think you can ever get him trained? i almost threw jerry down the stairs the other night, and he came right back with a lot of american beauties and a cheque. i told him if he didn't look out, i'd throw him downstairs every night. he's getting too d----d independent, and it's got me nervous." sinking into a seat, she exclaimed, with a sigh: "oh, dear, i s'pose i will have to go back on the stage." "in the chorus?" inquired laura quietly. elfie looked up in mock indignation. "well, i should say not. i'm going to give up my musical career. charlie burgess is putting on a new play, and he says he has a part in it for me if i want to go back. it isn't much, but very important--sort of a pantomime part. a lot of people talk about me and just at the right moment i walk across the stage and make an awful hit. i told jerry that if i went on he'd have to come across with one of those irish crochet lace gowns. he fell for it. do you know, dearie, i think he'd sell out his business just to have me back on the stage for a couple of weeks, just to give box parties every night for my entrance and exits." laura went over to the sofa, picked up the candy box, placed it on the desk, and took the telegram from the table. then, taking her friend by the hand, she led her over to the sofa. "elfie," she said seriously. "yes, dear." "come over here and sit down." "what's up?" "do you know what i'm going to ask of you?" elfie took a seat opposite. with a wry face, she said: "if it's a touch, you'll have to wait until next week." "no," smiled laura; "just a little advice." her friend looked relieved. "well, that's cheap," she laughed; "and the lord knows you need it. what's happened?" laura took the crumpled and torn telegram which brockton had left on the table, and handed it to her companion. elfie put the two pieces together, and read it very carefully. when she reached the middle of the despatch she gave an exclamation of surprise and looked up quickly at her companion. then, finishing it, she laid it down. "well?" she demanded. rather at a loss how to explain, laura flushed and stammered: "will suspected. there was something in the paper about mr. madison--the telegram came--then we had a row." "serious?" "yes. do you remember what i told you about that letter--the one will made me write--i mean to john--telling him what i had done?" "yes, you burned it." "i tried to lie to will--he wouldn't have it that way. he seemed to know. he was furious." "did he hit you?" "no, he made me admit that john didn't know, and then he said he'd stay here and tell him himself that i'd made him lie, and he said something about liking the other man and wanting to save him." "save him?" exclaimed elfie derisively. "shucks! he's jealous!" "i told him if he'd only go i'd--tell john myself when he came, and now, you see, i'm waiting--and i've got to tell--and--and i don't know how to begin--and--and i thought you could help me--you seem so sort of resourceful, and it means--it means so much to me. if john turned on me now i couldn't go back to will, and, elfie--i don't think i'd care to--stay here any more." "what!" exclaimed elfie. impulsively, she took laura in her arms. "dearie," she said earnestly, "get that nonsense out of your head and be sensible. i'd just like to see any two men who could make me think about--well--what you seem to have in your mind." "but i don't know what to do," went on laura. "can't you see, elfie, i don't know what to do. if i don't tell him, will will come back and he'll tell him. i know john, and maybe----" fearfully she added: "do you know, i think john would kill him!" "nonsense!" laughed the girl. "don't waste your time worrying about that. now, let's get down to cases. we haven't much time. business is business, and love is love. you're long on love, and i'm long on business, and, between the two of us, we ought to straighten this thing out. now, evidently john is coming on here to marry you." "yes." "and you love him?" "yes." "and, as far as you know, the moment that he comes in here, it's quick to the justice and a wedding?" "yes; but you see how impossible it is----" "i don't see that anything is impossible. from all you've said to me about this fellow, there is only one thing to do." "what is that?" "to get married--quick. you say he has the money, and you have the love. you're sick of brockton, and you want to switch and do it in the decent, respectable, conventional way, and he's going to take you away. haven't you got sense enough to know that once you're married to mr. madison that will brockton wouldn't dare go to him? even if he did, madison wouldn't believe him. a man will believe a whole lot about his girl, but nothing about his wife." laura turned and looked at her. there was a long pause. "elfie--i--i--don't think i could do that to john. i don't think--i could deceive him." her companion made a gesture of impatience. rising, she cried: "you make me sick! you're only a novice! lie to all men--they all lie to you. protect yourself. you seem to think that your happiness depends on this. now do it. listen: don't you realize that you and me, and all the girls that are shoved into this life, are practically the common prey of any man who happens to come along? don't you know that they've got about as much consideration for us as they have for any pet animal around the house, and the only way that we've got it on the animal is that we've got brains? this is a game, laura, _not a sentiment_. do you suppose that madison--now don't get sore--hasn't turned these tricks himself before he met you, and i'll gamble he's done it since. a man's natural trade is a heartbreaking business. don't tell me about women breaking men's hearts. the only thing they can ever break is their bankroll. and, besides, this is not will's business; he has no right to interfere. you've been decent with him, and he's been nice to you; but i don't think that he's given you any the best of it. now, if you want to leave, and go your own way, and marry any tom, dick or harry that you want to, it's nobody's affair but yours." "but you don't understand--it's john. i can't lie to him," cried laura. "well, that's too bad about you. i used to have that truthful habit myself, and the best i ever got was the worst of it. all this talk about love and loyalty and constancy is fine and dandy in a book, but when a girl has to look out for herself, take it from me, whenever you've got that trump card up your sleeve, just play it, and rake in the pot." taking laura's hand, she added affectionately: "you know, dearie, you're just about the only one in the world i've left to care for." "elfie!" cried laura, taking her companion's hand, sympathetically. her eyes filled with tears, elfie put her handkerchief up to her face to conceal her emotion. under the coarseness and flippancy of the courtesan were glimpses of an unhappy woman, a human being conscious of her own irretrievable degradation. for the first time in years, she was making another the confidant of her life's tragedy, the sad, commonplace story of a woman's ruin. recovering herself, she went on quickly: "since i broke away from the folks up-state, and they've heard things, there ain't any more letters coming to me with an oswego postmark. ma's gone, and the rest don't care. you're all i've got in the world, laura, and i'm making you do this only because i want to see you happy. i was afraid this complication would arise. the thing to do now is to grab your happiness, no matter how you get it, nor where it comes from. there ain't a whole lot of joy in this world for you and me and the others we know, and what little you get you've got to take when you're young, because when those gray hairs begin to show and the make-up isn't going to hide the wrinkles, unless you're well fixed, it's going to be h--ll. you know what a fellow doesn't know doesn't hurt him. he'll love you just the same, and you'll love him. as for brockton, let him get another girl. there are plenty around. why, if this chance came to me, i'd tie a can to jerry so quick that you could hear it rattle all the way down broadway!" she rose, and, leaning over the back of laura's chair, put her arms lovingly around her neck. tenderly, she said: "promise me, dearie, that you won't be a d----d fool. will you promise?" laura looked up at her, and smiled faintly: "i promise." elfie took her gloves and parasol. "well, good-by, dear; i must be going. ta-ta, dearie. give my regards to your charmer." laura accompanied her to the door. "good-by, dear." left alone, laura returned to the parlor. drawing aside the portieres that shut off the maid's quarters, she called out: "annie!" "yassum!" "i'm expecting a gentleman, annie. when he comes, ask him in." chapter xviii. the new york central railroad terminus in manhattan is not exactly a spot which one would be apt to select for a rest cure, although a famous nerve specialist has expressed the learned opinion that such little disturbances in the atmospheric envelope as the shrieking of steam whistles, the exploding of giant firecrackers, the bursting of pneumatic tires, the blasting with dynamite, the uproar of street traffic, the shouts of men and boys, the screams of women and the wailing of babes are soothing, rather than harmful, to the human nervous system. all these sounds and others even more discordant, greeted the tired passengers of the buffalo express, as, arriving from the west, they emerged from the train-shed into the deafening turmoil of forty-second street. john madison, tanned and weather-beaten, suitcase in hand, stood hesitating on the curb, as if dazed. after long months spent amid the loneliness and comparative quiet of the nevada desert, the rush and bustle of the colossal metropolis was bewildering and confusing. a hackman hailed him. "cab, sir?" "yes," he answered, throwing his traveling grip on the seat. "drive to the waldorf." as the jehu flourished his whip, and the hack rattled along on its way to the hotel, madison gazed idly out of the windows, watching with interest the luxurious shops and the crowds of busy people hurrying along the sidewalks. how different it all looked to-day than when he was last in new york! now, he viewed the scene with different eyes. then he was a penniless reporter, obliged to stint and count before he ventured to spend a dollar. to-day he was a successful miner, one of those lucky individuals to whom fortune has been more than kind. he was suddenly possessed of more money than he knew what to do with. he could stop at the best hotels, throw gold around him by the handfuls. for the first time in his life he was tasting the sweets of wealth. every one treated him with deference, all were eager to render service. people who formerly affected to be ignorant of his very existence, now fawned upon him and asked him to their houses. he was a rich man. it meant not only immediate creature comforts, but freedom from care, independence for life. and what he prized most of all, it meant happiness, both for himself and the girl he loved, the girl who had waited so faithfully and so patiently. he could hardly restrain his impatience to see her. what rapture would it be to clasp her to his heart and cry: "your long wait is over! i've come to make you happy! henceforth you won't have to work. you'll leave the stage for good." and in his mind's eye, he saw laura's joy, and heard her happy, girlish laugh, as he sat down before her and signed a blank cheque, telling her to fill in the rest for any amount she wished to spend. yes--that was the greatest joy of success and being rich--the power of making happy the girl you loved. thank god, he had won out! to-day, he was a rich man. he had entirely forgotten the doubts and morbid fancies which had seized him in the wilderness. when he had recovered from his terrible experiences, he wondered how he could ever have permitted his mind to haunt such strange, unpleasant paths. the suffering and mental torture he went through was doubtless responsible for his unreasoning suspicions. he would never tell laura; she must never know that he had harbored such thoughts. she would never forgive him. how delighted she would be to see him! probably she was already anxiously on the lookout. by this time she had certainly received his telegram, which he had sent in care of her manager. he wondered where she was stopping. his last letter to her had been returned by the post office authorities marked "address unknown." she was in new york. he was sure of that, for he had read in the chicago papers of her success in the new play. he was glad she had made good at last, because it meant more comforts for her. no doubt she had left the boarding-house, of which she wrote him discouraging accounts early in the winter, and was now installed in some fashionable hotel. the best and quickest way to find her would be to telephone the burgess office. he wondered if she would be willing to throw up at once everything--the theatre, her future contracts and all--to marry him without delay. if he could have his way, he would like to return west with her that same day. they could leave on the limited and get married in chicago. in less than fifteen minutes the waldorf was reached, a room engaged, and madison already had the office of burgess & co. on the telephone. "hello! can you give me the private address of miss laura murdock?" "we don't give private addresses," was the curt reply. this difficulty madison had not foreseen, but his quick wit came to his aid, and in his most persuasive tone, he said: "i'm sure you will, when you know the circumstances. i am a personal friend--i might say, relative, of miss murdock. i've just got in from chicago. she expects me, but i've mislaid her address." "oh--that's different," said the voice more civilly. "there's so many johnnies around that we have to be careful. miss murdock is at the pomona, west ---street." madison did not wait to eat or anything else. jumping into the first taxicab he saw, he said: "west ---street." a few minutes later the cab drew up before the rather imposing entrance of the pomona apartments. dismissing the taxi, he turned to the uniformed attendant, who stood surveying the weather-tanned six-footer with some respect. judging by his clothes, the new arrival looked as if he had done some traveling. "is miss murdock in?" "i'll see, sir. who shall i say?" "mr. madison." airily, he added: "miss murdock expects me." a moment later the man returned, and politely ushered him into an elevator lined with mirrors, and luxuriously upholstered in red satin. at the fifth floor, the smooth-running car stopped, and the attendant pointed to an apartment across the corridor. before madison could reach the door, it was thrown wide open. there was a wild rush of rustling silks and white lace, a woman's stifled sob, and laura was in his arms. "oh, john!" she cried almost hysterically, as the door closed behind him. "i'm so happy!" for a moment he held her clasped tightly to him, as if afraid some one else might appear in this strange apartment to rob him of her. this was the supreme moment for which he had toiled and waited all these cruel, weary months. when at last, all red under his kisses, she released herself from his embrace, he took her face in his hands and held it up towards his. tenderly, he said: "i'm not much on the love-making business, laura, but i never thought i'd be as happy as i am now. i've been counting mile-posts ever since i left chicago, and it seemed like as if i had to go round the world before i got here." following close behind, as she went into the sitting room, he gave an exclamation of surprise as he took in the beautiful gilded furniture and rich furnishings. his eye seemed to ask questions he found no words for. she caught the look, and she trembled. nervously waving him to a seat, she said: "you never told me about your good fortune. if you hadn't telegraphed, i wouldn't even have known you were coming." "i didn't want to," he replied, smiling. "i'd made up my mind to sort of drop in here and give you a great big surprise--a happy one, i knew--but the papers made such a fuss in chicago that i thought you might have read about it--did you?" "no, tell me," she said eagerly. he sat down and began the story of his wanderings. he told her of his adventures in the search for gold, of his sufferings, and his narrow escape from death. in those dark hours, he had only had one thought, one hope--that he might be spared to see her once again. "it's been pretty tough sledding out there in the mining country," he said. "it did look as if i never would make a strike; but your spirit was with me, and i knew if i could only hold out that something would come my way. i had a pal--a fine fellow. we started out to find gold. the first thing we knew we were lost--lost in the howling wilderness. we nearly perished of cold and hunger. it was a close call, little girl. i never thought i should see you again. but one day, when we were about all in, we struck gold--quantities of it, nuggets as big as my fist. we staked our claims in two weeks, and i went to reno to raise enough money for me to come east. now, things are all fixed, and it's just a matter of time." he took the girl's delicate hand in his big brown ones, and looked fondly into her eyes. "so you're very, very rich, dear?" she murmured. he released her hand, and leaned back carelessly in his chair. "oh, not rich; just heeled. i'm not going down to the wall street bargain counter and buy the union pacific, or anything like that; but we won't have to take the trip on tourists' tickets, and there's enough money to make us comfortable all the rest of our lives." "how hard you must have worked and suffered!" he smiled, and, rising from his chair, stood looking down at her from the other side of the table. "nobody else ever accused me of that, but i sure have to plead guilty to you. why, dear, since the day you came into my life, hell-raising took a sneak out the back door, and god poked his toe in the front, and ever since then i think he's been coming a little closer to me. i used to be a fellow without much faith, and kidded everybody who had it, and i used to say to those who prayed and believed, 'you may be right, but show me a message.' you came along, and brought that little document in your sweet face and your dear love. laura, you turned the trick for me, and i think i'm almost a regular man now." she turned her head away, unwilling that he should see her face, afraid that he might read there the whole miserable truth. as he spoke, his words brought to her a full realization of all she was to this man, and she became more and more unnerved. it was more than she could bear. feebly she murmured: "please, john, don't. i'm not worth it." rising suddenly from the sofa, she went to the window. the air of the room was hot and stifling. she felt herself growing faint. "not worth it?" he exclaimed lightly, going up to her. "why, you're worth that and a whole lot more. and see how you've got on! brockton told me you never could get along in your profession, but i knew you could." he walked around the room, inspecting the furnishings and knickknacks. finally, he turned, and, with an interrogative note in his voice, said: "gee! fixed up kind o' scrumptious, ain't you? i guess you've been almost as prosperous as i have." she forced a laugh. with affected carelessness, she said: "you can get a lot of gilt and cushions in new york at half-price, and, besides, i've got a pretty good part now." "of course, i know that," he smiled; "but i didn't think it would make you quite so comfortable. great, ain't it?" "yes." taking her by the shoulders, and shaking her playfully, he went on: "i knew what you had in you, and here you are. you succeeded, and i succeeded, but i'm going to take you away; and after a while, when things sort of smooth out, we're going to move back here, and go to europe, and just have a great time, like a couple of kids." she turned and looked up at him. slowly, she said: "but if i hadn't succeeded, and if things--things weren't just as they seem--would it make any difference to you, john?" he took her in his arms and kissed her, drawing her onto the sofa beside him. "not the least in the world. now, don't get blue. i should not have surprised you this way. it's taken you off your feet." looking at his watch, he jumped up, and, going behind the sofa, he got his overcoat. "but we've not any time to lose. how soon can you get ready?" laura knelt on the sofa, leaning over the back. "you mean to go at once?" she asked. "nothing else." "take all my things?" "all your duds," he smiled. "can't you get ready?" "why, my dear, i can get ready most any time." he came over and stood by her chair, looking down at her affectionately. with a smile, he said: "well, are you ready?" she looked up quickly, a faint flush on her pale face. "for what, dear?" "you know what i said in the telegram?" "yes." her head dropped forward on his shoulder. in a low tone, she murmured: "yes." "well, i meant it," he said tenderly. "i know," she whispered. he took a seat on the other side of the table facing her. "i've got to get back, laura, just as soon as ever i can. there's a lot of work to be done out in nevada, and i stole away to come to new york. i want to take you back. can you go?" "yes--when?" "this afternoon. we'll take the eighteen-hour train to chicago, late this afternoon, and connect at chicago with the overland, and i'll soon have you in a home." he hesitated a moment; then he said: "and here's another secret." "what, dear?" "i've got that home all bought and furnished, and while you wouldn't call it a fifth avenue residence, still it has got something on any other one in town." looking into the bedroom, he asked: "is that your maid?" "yes--annie." "well, you and she can pack everything you want to take; the rest can follow later." putting his coat on, he went on: "i planned it all out. there's a couple of boys downtown, one's glenn warner--you know him--he introduced me to you that night--the other is a newspaper man. i telephoned them when i got in, and they're waiting for me. i'll just get down there as soon as i can. i won't be gone long." "how long?" she demanded. "i don't know just how long, but we'll make that train. i'll get the license. we'll be married, and we'll be off on our honeymoon this afternoon. can you do it?" she went up to him, put her hands in his, and they confronted each other. "yes, dear," she said. "i could do anything for you." he took her in his arms and kissed her again. looking at her fondly, he said: "that's good. hurry now. i won't be long. good-by." "hurry back, john." "yes. i won't be long." the next instant the door banged behind him. chapter xix. for several minutes after john's departure, laura stood motionless. every vestige of color had left her face; her large lustrous eyes stared blankly into vacancy. she looked as if she had been suddenly petrified into stone. yet, inert as she seemed, her brain was working hard. perhaps all was not yet lost! john knew nothing, suspected nothing. she might still be happy. why should he know what had occurred during his absence? there was no one to enlighten him. a life of happiness with the one man she truly loved, might still be hers. instantly she was galvanized into action. there was no time to be lost. she must get away from new york and be safely married before brockton or any one else had a chance to ruin her life. she must pack her things at once, so as to be ready for john when he returned. feverishly, she began her preparations. going rapidly over to the dresser, she picked up a large jewel case, and, taking down a doll that was hanging on the dresser, put them on her left arm. with her disengaged hand, she picked up her black cat and carried it over to the center-table. then, opening the door leading to the kitchen, she called out: "annie! annie! come here." the negress entered the room. "yassum." "annie, i'm going away, and i've got to hurry." "going away!" exclaimed the maid in blank astonishment. her mistress had already begun to pile things in the center of the room. hurriedly, laura said: "yes--i want you to bring both my trunks out here--i'll help you--and start to pack. we can't take everything, but bring all the clothes out, and we'll hurry as fast as we can." they entered the sleeping apartments together, and in a short time reappeared, carrying a large trunk between them. pushing the sofa back, they laid it down in the center of the room. "look out for your feet, miss laura!" exclaimed the maid. "i think i'll take two trunks," said her mistress thoughtfully. [illustration: laura commenced to pack the trunk. _page 307._] the negress pushed the table out of the way, and, in her flurry, nearly fell over the armchair. "golly, such excitement!" she exclaimed. "wheah yuh goin', miss laura?" "never mind where i'm going," snapped her mistress. "i haven't any time to waste now talking. i'll tell you later. this is one time, annie, that you've got to move. hurry up!" giving the maid a push, she hustled her out of the room, and followed closely behind herself. presently they returned with a smaller trunk. "look out fo' yo' dress, miss laura," exclaimed the maid. the trunks were set down, side by side. laura opened one and commenced to throw the things out, while annie stood watching her. soon the actress was down on her knees in front of the trunk, humming "_bon bon buddy_" packing for dear life, while the maid watched her in amazement. "ah nevah see you so happy, miss laura." "i never was so happy!" cried laura almost hysterically. giving the girl a push, she exclaimed impatiently: "for heaven's sake, girl, go get something! don't stand there looking at me. i want you to hurry." thus admonished, annie ran helter-skelter in the direction of her mistress' room. "i'll bring out all de fluffy ones first," she cried as she disappeared. "yes, everything!" cried laura, who was on her knees busy laying the things neatly away in the trunk. presently the maid returned laden with an armful of dresses and a hat-box. the box she placed on the floor, the dresses on top of the trunk. going out again for more, she asked: "yuh goin' to take dat opera cloak?" "yes, everything--everything!" answered laura, breathless from the speed at which she was working. annie reëntered with more dresses. there seemed no end to them, each more beautiful and costly than the other. the maid put them on the sofa; then, picking up the opera cloak, she laid it out on top of the dresses in the trunk. even the humble colored menial was spellbound by the beauty of these adjuncts of feminine loveliness. "my, but dat's a beauty! i jest love dat crushed rosey one." laura looked up impatiently. the girl's chatter made her nervous. sharply, she said: "annie, go and put the best dresses on the foot of the bed. i'll get them myself. you heard what i said?" the girl ran. she stood in awe of her mistress when she was in ill-humor. "yassum!" while the negress was in the inner room taking the garments from the cupboards, laura continued busily arranging the contents of the trunk, placing garments here, and some there, sorting them out. while she was thus engaged, with her back to the door, the door leading to the outer corridor opened, and brockton appeared. he entered quietly, without disturbing laura, and for a minute or two stood watching her in silence. then, suddenly, he said: "going away?" startled, laura jumped up and confronted him. "yes," she said, with some confusion. "in somewhat of a hurry, i should say," he said dryly. "yes." "what's the plan?" he inquired. "i'm just going--that's all," she said calmly. "madison been here?" he asked in the same even tone. "he's just left," she answered. "of course you are going with him?" "yes." "west?" "to nevada." "going--er--to get married?" he demanded. "yes, this afternoon." he looked at her keenly, and said significantly: "so he didn't care then?" flushing, she flared up: "what do you mean, when you say 'he didn't care'?" "of course you told him about the letter, and how it was burned up, and all that sort of thing, didn't you?" "why, yes," she replied, averting her eyes. "and he said it didn't make any difference?" "he--he didn't say anything. we're just going to be married, that's all." "did you mention my name, and say that we'd been--rather companionable for the last two months?" "i told him--you'd been--a very good friend to me." she spoke with hesitation, at moments with difficulty, as if seeking to gain time, to find answers for his awkward questions. but she did not deceive him. brockton was too much the man of the world to be easily hoodwinked. he knew she was lying, and his face flushed with anger. "how soon do you expect him back?" he demanded. "quite soon," she replied, with an effort to be calm. "i don't know just exactly how long he'll be." she turned her back and proceeded with her packing. he came nearer and stood overlooking the trunk. "and you mean to tell me that you kept your promise and told him the truth?" he persisted. she stammered confusedly, and then, her patience exhausted, she broke out into open defiance. "what business have you got to ask me that? what business have you got to interfere, anyway?" rising and going to the bed in the alcove, she took the dresses and carried them to the sofa. brockton followed her, his fists clenched. "then you've lied again!" he cried furiously. "you lied to him, and you just tried to lie to me now. you're not particularly clever at it, although i don't doubt but that you've had considerable practice." with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, he walked over to the chair at the table and sat down, still holding his hat in his hand, and without removing his overcoat. laura came back laden with more things. seeing brockton sitting, she stopped, and, turning on him, laid the dresses down. "what are you going to do?" she demanded. "sit down here and rest a few moments; maybe longer," he replied coolly. she looked at him in dismay. "you can't do that!" she exclaimed. "i don't see why not. this is my own place." "but don't you see that he'll come back here soon and find you here?" "that's just exactly what i want him to do." laura looked at him helplessly. with suppressed emotion, almost on the verge of hysteria, she broke out: "i want to tell you this. if you do this thing, you'll ruin my life. you've done enough to it already. now, i want you to go. i don't think you've got any right to come here now, in this way, and take this happiness from me. i've given you everything i've got, and now i want to live right and decently. he wants me to marry him. we love each other. now, will brockton, it's come to this. you've got to leave this place, do you hear? you've got to leave this place. please get out!" brockton was white and determined looking. for the first time in his life, he was really angry. leaving his chair and advancing towards her, he said menacingly: "do you think i'm going to let a woman make a liar out of me? i'm going to stay right here. i like that boy, and i'm not going to let you put him to the bad." "i want you to go!" she cried. shutting the trunk-lid down, she went over to the dresser and opened the drawer, to get more things out. "and i tell you i won't go," he retorted furiously. "i'm going to show you up. i'm going to tell him the truth. it isn't you i care for--he's got to know." slamming the drawer shut, she turned and faced him, almost tiger-like in her anger. "you don't care for me?" she cried. "no." "it isn't me you're thinking of?" "no." "who's the liar now?" "liar?" "yes, liar. you are! you don't care for this man, and you know it." "you're foolish." "yes, i am foolish, and i've been foolish all my life, but i'm getting a little sense now." kneeling in the armchair facing him, her voice shaking with anger, she went on: "all my life, since the day you first took me away, you've planned and planned and planned to keep me, and to trick me and bring me down with you. when you came to me i was happy. i didn't have much, just a little salary and some hard work." he shrugged his shoulders, and smiled skeptically. ironically, he said: "but, like all the rest, you found that wouldn't keep you, didn't you?" ignoring his taunt, she went on: "you say i'm bad, but who's made me so? who took me out night after night? who showed me what these luxuries were? who put me in the habit of buying something i couldn't afford? you did." "well, you liked it, didn't you?" "who got me in debt, and then, when i wouldn't do what you wanted me to, who had me discharged from the company, so i had no means of living? who followed me from one place to another? who, always entreating, tried to trap me into this life? i didn't know any better." "didn't know better?" he echoed derisively. "i knew it was wrong--yes; but you told me everybody in this business did that sort of thing, and i was just as good as any one else. finally you got me and you kept me. then, when i went away to denver, and for the first time found a gleam of happiness, for the first time in my life----" "you're crazy," he said contemptuously. "yes, i am crazy!" she cried hysterically. her patience was at an end. she felt that if he stayed there another minute to taunt and torture her, she would go stark, raving mad. a choking sensation rose in her throat. seized with a sudden fury, she swept the table cover off the table, and, making one stride to the dresser, knocked all the bottles off. then she turned on him furiously. almost screaming, she shouted: "you've made me crazy! you followed me to denver, and then when i got back you bribed me again. you pulled me down, and you did the same old thing until this happened. now, i want you to get out, you understand? i want you to get out!" he turned to pacify her. more gently, he said: "laura, you can't do this." but she refused to listen. walking up and down the room, gesticulating wildly, she kept crying: "go--do you hear--go!" he took a seat on a trunk. instantly she turned on him like an infuriated tigress, attempting to push him off by sheer strength. "no, you won't," she screamed; "you won't stay here! you're not going to do this thing again. i tell you, i'm going to be happy. i tell you, i'm going to be married. you won't see him! i tell you, you won't tell him! you've got no business to. i hate you! i've hated you for months! i hate the sight of your face! i've wanted to go, and now i'm going. you've got to go, do you hear? you've got to get out--get out!" such an exhibition of rage in this usually mild girl was something so strange and uncanny that it suddenly aroused in him a feeling of disgust. after all, why should he care? he ought to be glad to get out and be through with her. as she pushed him again, he rose, and threw her off, causing her to stagger to a chair. with a gesture of impatience, he went towards the door. "what the hell is the use of fussing with a woman?" he exclaimed. the door slammed noisily behind him. sinking down on her knees, laura started to pack with renewed vigor, crying hysterically: "i want to be happy! i'm going to be married, i'm going to be happy!" chapter xx. two hours later, laura, fully dressed for a journey, sat on a trunk, nervously watching the clock, patiently awaiting john's return. annie was still on her knees, struggling with the key of an obstinate suitcase. a remarkable transformation had been effected in the apartment. the entire place had been dismantled, and the elegantly appointed sitting room was now littered with trunks, grips, umbrellas and the usual paraphernalia that accompanies a woman when she is making a permanent departure from her place of living. all the _bric à brac_ had been removed from the sideboard and tables. some of the dresser drawers were half open, and pieces of tissue paper and ribbons were hanging out. on the armchair was a small alligator bag, containing toilet articles and a bunch of keys. the writing-desk had all its contents removed, and was open, showing scraps of torn-up letters. lying on the floor, where it had been dropped, was a new york central timetable. between the desk and the bay-window stood a milliner's box, inside of which was a huge picture hat. under the desk were a pair of old slippers, a woman's shabby hat and old ribbons. the picture frames and basket of flowers had been removed from the pianola, while the music-stool was on top of the instrument, turned upside down. between the legs of this stool was an empty _white rock_ bottle, with a tumbler turned over it. the big trunk stood in front of the sofa, all packed, and it had a swing-tray, in which lay a fancy evening gown. on top of the lid was an umbrella, a lady's traveling-coat, hat, and gloves. on the sofa was a large gladstone bag, packed and fastened, and close by a smaller trunk-tray with lid. in the end of the tray was a revolver wrapped in tissue paper. the trunk was closed, and apparently locked. the room had the general appearance of having been stripped of all personal belongings. old magazines and newspapers were scattered all over the place. pale and perturbed, laura sat nervously, starting at each little sound she heard from the street. every now and then she consulted the small traveling clock which she held in her hand. why didn't john come. she was all ready. everything was packed. all they had to do now was to call a cab and drive to the railroad station. thank god, she had got rid of brockton! that danger, at least, was removed. john knew nothing, could hear nothing now until they were safely married. if afterwards he heard things and demanded an explanation, she would tell him everything and he would forgive her. "ain't yuh goin' to let me come to yuh at all, miss laura?" asked the maid with a pout. "i don't know yet, annie. i don't even know what the place is like that we're going to. mr. madison hasn't said much. there hasn't been time." "why, ah've done ma best for yuh, miss laura; yes, ah have. ah've jest been with yuh ev'ry moment of ma time, an' ah worked for yuh an ah loved yuh, an, ah doan wan' to be left 'ere all alone in dis town er new york." laura turned to the door for a moment, and, while her back was turned annie stooped, grabbed up a ribbon, and hid it behind her back. "ah ain't the kind of culled lady knows many people. can't yuh take me along wid yuh, miss laura? yuh all been so good to me." getting up from the trunk, laura went to the outer door and listened. hearing nothing, she returned with a gesture of disappointment. with some irritation, she said: "why, i told you to stay here and get your things together, and then mr. brockton will probably want you to do something. later i think he'll have you pack up, just as soon as he finds i'm gone. i've got the address that you gave me. i'll let you know if you can come on." hiding the ribbon inside her waist, the negress said suddenly: "ain't yuh goin' to give me anything at all, jes' to remembuh yuh by? ah've been so honest----" "honest?" echoed her mistress scornfully. "honest, ah have." "you've been about as honest as most colored girls are who work for women in the position that i am in. you haven't stolen enough to make me discharge you, but i've seen what you've taken." "now, miss laura!" protested the girl. "don't try to fool me!" cried laura indignantly. "what you've got you're welcome to, but for heaven's sake don't prate around here about loyalty and honesty. i'm sick of it." "ain't yuh goin' to give me no recommendation?" laura shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "what good would my recommendation do? you can always go and get another position with people who've lived the way i've lived, and my recommendation to the other kind wouldn't amount to much." overcome by emotion and disappointment, annie collapsed on a trunk. "ah can just see wheah ah'm goin'!" she cried; "back to dat boa'din-house fo' me." "now, shut your noise," cried laura impatiently. "i don't want to hear any more. i've given you twenty-five dollars for a present. i think that's enough." "ah know," replied the negress, putting on a most aggrieved appearance, "but twenty-five dollars ain't a home, and i'm losin' my home. dat's jest my luck--every time i save enough money to buy my weddin' clothes to get married, i lose my job." laura paced nervously from window to door, from door to window, listening for every footstep. "i wonder why he doesn't come," she murmured anxiously. "we'll never be able to make that train!" picking the timetable off the floor, she sat down in a chair and began to study it intently. while thus engaged, she heard the elevator stop on their floor. she jumped to her feet. there he was! after a few seconds' interval, the bell rang. yes--that was he. without waiting for annie, she rushed to open the door, and fell back, visibly disappointed. it was not john, after all. "how-dy-do, miss laura?" the visitor was her old friend, jim weston. the advance agent was neatly dressed in black, and he had about him an appearance of prosperity which she was not accustomed to see. he looked different, more staid and respectable, but his drollness of speech and kindly manner were the same as ever. he held out his hand to laura, who invited him in. he came at an inopportune time, but she could not forget his kindness to her during those terrible days at mrs. farley's. "i'm mighty glad to see you, jim," she said cordially. "looks as if you were going to move," he grinned, looking around. "yes, i am going to move, and a long ways, too. how well you're looking--fit as a fiddle." "yes; i am feelin' fine. where yer goin'? troupin'?" "no, indeed." "thought not. what's comin' off now?" "i'm going to be married this afternoon," she said proudly. "married?" he exclaimed in astonishment. "and then i'm going west." leaving the trunks, which he had been inspecting, he walked toward her and held out his hands. "now, i'm just glad to hear that," he said warmly. "ye know when i heard how--how things was breakin' for ye--well, i ain't knockin' or anythin' like that, but me and the missis have talked ye over a lot. i never did think this feller was goin' to do the right thing by yer. brockton never looked to me like a fellow who would marry anybody, but now that he's going through just to make you a nice, respectable wife, i guess everything must have happened for the best." he looked at her, and paused, as if expecting she would take him more into her confidence, but she made no reply, and averted her eyes. sitting on the trunk beside her, he went on: "ye see, i wanted to thank you for what you did a couple of weeks ago. burgess wrote me a letter, and told me i could go ahead of one of his big shows if i wanted to come back, and offered me considerable money. he mentioned your name, miss laura, and i talked it over with the missis, and--well, i can tell ye now when i couldn't if ye weren't to be hooked up--we decided that i wouldn't take that job, comin' as it did from you, and the way i knew it was framed up." "why not?" she asked in surprise. "well, ye see," he said with some embarrassment, "there are three kids, and they're all growing up, all of them in school, and the missis, she's just about forgot the show business, and she's playing star part in the kitchen, juggling dishes and doing flip-flaps with pancakes; and we figured that as we'd always gone along kinder clean-like, it wouldn't be good for the kids to take a job comin' from brockton--because you--you--well--you--you----" laura rose hastily, and her face reddened. "i know. you thought it wasn't decent. is that it?" "oh, not exactly; only--well, you see i'm gettin' along pretty good now. i got a little one-night stand theatre out in ohio--manager of it, too. the town is called gallipolis." "gallipolis?" she echoed, puzzled. "oh, that ain't a disease," he smiled. "it is the name of a town. maybe you don't know much about gallipolis, or where it is." "no." "well, it looks just like it sounds. we got a little house, and the old lady is happy, and i feel so good that i can even stand her cookin'. of course, we ain't makin' much money, but i guess i'm getting a little old-fashioned around theatres, anyway. the fellows from newspapers and colleges have got it on me. last time i asked a man for a job he asked me what i knew about the greek drama, and when i told him i didn't know the greeks had a theatre in new york, he slipped me a laugh and told me to come in again on some rainy tuesday. then gallipolis showed on the map, and i beat it for the west." noticing that his words had hurt her, he stopped, and in an embarrassed kind of way went on: "sorry if i hurt ye--didn't mean to; and now that yer goin' to be mrs. brockton, well, i take back all i said, and while i don't think i want to change my position, i wouldn't turn it down for--for that other reason, that's all." "but, mr. weston, i'm not going to be mrs. brockton!" she cried hastily, with a note of defiance in her voice. "no?" he exclaimed in surprise. "no." "oh--oh----" "i'm going to marry another man, and a good man." "the h--ll you are!" she rose and put her hand on his shoulder. gently, she said: "it's going to be altogether different. i know what you meant when you said about the missis and the kids, and that's what i want--just a little home, just a little peace, just a little comfort, and--and the man has come who's going to give it to me. you don't want me to say any more, do you?" "no, i don't," he said emphatically, in a tone of hearty approval; "and now i'm just going to put my mit out and shake yours and be real glad. i want to tell ye it's the only way to go along. i ain't never been a rival to rockefeller, nor i ain't never made morgan jealous, but since the day my old woman took her make-up off for the last time and walked out of that stage door to give me a little help and bring my kids into the world, i knew that was the way to go along; and if you're goin' to take that road, by jiminy, i'm glad of it, for you sure do deserve it. i wish yer luck." "thank you." "i'm mighty glad you sidestepped brockton," he went on. "you're young, and you're pretty, and you're sweet, and if you've got the right kind of a feller, there ain't no reason on earth why you shouldn't jest forgit the whole business and see nothin' but laughs and a good time comin' to you, and the sun sort o' shinin' every twenty-four hours in the day. you know the missis feels just as if she knew you, after i told her about them hard times we had at farley's boarding-house, so i feel that it's paid me to come to new york, even if i didn't book anything but 'east lynne' and 'uncle tom's cabin'." rising and moving towards the door, he added: "now, i'm goin'. don't forget--gallipolis's the name, and sometimes the mail does get there. i'd be awful glad if you wrote the missis a little note tellin' us how you're gettin' along, and if you ever have to ride on the kanawha and michigan, just look out of the window when the train passes our town, because that is about the best you'll get." "why?" "they only stop there on signal. and make up your mind that the weston family is with you, forty ways from the jack, day and night. good-by, and god bless you!" "good-by, jim," she said, with some emotion. "i'm so glad to know you're happy." "you bet," he grinned. "never mind, i can get out all right. good-by again." "good-by," she said very softly. the door closed behind him, and once more she took up her solitary vigil at the window. if john would only come! the precious minutes were slipping away. they would never be able to make that train. she wondered what had detained him. suddenly, a cold chill ran through her. suppose he had met some one downtown who had told him about her and brockton. then he would never come back again, or, if he did, it would be only to wreak his vengeance. in spite of herself she trembled at the mere idea. to change her thoughts, she began to busy herself about the room, collecting the small packages, counting the trunks, showing annie how to close the apartment when they had gone. suddenly the front doorbell rang. she gave a joyful exclamation. "hurry, annie--there's mr. madison!" the girl passed into the corridor and a moment later her voice was heard saying: "she's waitin' for yuh, mr. madison." laura hastened forward to greet him. john came in, hat in hand, followed by annie. he stopped short as he entered, and looked long and searchingly at laura, who had hurried joyously to embrace him. instinctively she felt that something had happened. that look of suspicion and distrust was not in his eyes when he left her that morning, she trembled but remained firm. annie disappeared and laura took his hat and coat and placed them on a trunk. "aren't you a little late, dear?" she said timidly. he remained gloomily silent for a moment. then, he said: "i--i was detained downtown a few minutes. i think that we can carry out our plan all right." "has anything happened?" she inquired, trying to conceal her anxiety. "no," he replied hesitatingly. "i've made all the arrangements. the men will be here in a few minutes for your trunks." feeling in his pocket, he added: "i've got the railroad tickets and everything else, but----" "but what, john?" he went over to her. instinctively she understood that she was about to go through an ordeal. she seemed to feel that he had become acquainted with something which might interfere with the realization of her long-cherished dream. he looked at her long and searchingly. evidently he, too, was much wrought up, but when he spoke it was with a calm dignity and force which showed the character of the man. "laura," he began. "yes?" she answered timidly. "you know when i went downtown i said i was going to call on two or three of my friends in park row." "i know." "i told them who i was going to marry." "well?" "they said something about you and brockton, and i found that they'd said too much, but not quite enough." "what did they say?" "just that--too much and not quite enough. there's a minister waiting for us over on madison avenue. you see, then you'll be my wife. that's pretty serious business, and all i want now from you is the truth." she looked at him inquiringly, fearfully--not knowing what to say. "well?" she stammered. "just tell me what they said was just an echo of the past--that it came from what had been going on before that wonderful day out there in colorado. tell me that you've been on the level. i don't want their word, laura--i just want yours." the girl shrank back a moment before his anxious face, then summoned up all her courage, looked frankly into his eyes, and with as innocent an expression as she was able to put on, said: "yes, john, i have been on the level." he sprang forward with a joyful exclamation: "i knew that, dear, i knew it!" he cried. taking her in his arms, he kissed her hotly. she clung to him in pitiful helplessness. his manner had suddenly changed to one of almost boyish happiness. "well," he went on joyfully, "now everything's all ready, let's get on the job. we haven't a great deal of time. get your duds on." "when do we go?" "right away. the idea is to get away." "all right," she said gleefully. getting her hat off the trunk, she crossed to the mirror and put it on. he surveyed the room and laughed. "you've got trunks enough, haven't you? one might think we're moving a whole colony. and, by the way, to me you are a whole colony--anyway, you're the only one i ever wanted to settle with." "that's good," she laughed lightly. taking her bag off the bureau, she went to the trunk and got her purse, coat and umbrella, as if ready to leave. hurriedly gathering her things together and adjusting her hat, she said, almost to herself, in a low tone: "i'm so excited. come on!" madison went to get his hat and coat, and both were about to leave, when suddenly they heard the outer door slam. instinctively both halted and waited. who could it be? john looked questioningly at laura, who stood, pale as death and as motionless as if changed into marble. a moment later brockton entered leisurely, with his hat on and his coat, half-drawn off, hanging loosely on his arm. he paid no attention to either of them, but walked straight through the room, without speaking, and disappeared through the _portières_ into the sleeping apartments beyond. his manner was that of a man who knows he is at home and has no account to render to anyone either for the manner of his entrance or what rooms he may enter. laura, who at first had made a quick movement forward, as if to bar his further progress, fell back, terrified. putting her coat, bag and umbrella down on a chair, she stood, dazed and trembling, powerless to avert the crisis which she realized was at hand. madison, who had watched the broker's actions with amazement, suddenly grew rigid as a statue. his square jaw snapped with a determined click, and one hand slipped stealthily into his hip pocket. no one spoke. the tense silence was ominous and painful. it seemed like an hour, but less than a minute had elapsed when brockton reëntered, with coat and hat off. carelessly picking up a newspaper, he took a seat in the armchair, and, leisurely crossing his legs, looked over at the others, who still stood motionless, watching him. greeting john lightly, he said: "hello, madison, when did you get in?" slowly john seemed to recover himself. suddenly his hand went swiftly to his hip pocket and he drew out a revolver. eyeing the broker with savage determination, he deliberately and slowly covered him with the deadly weapon. brockton, who had seen the movement, sprang quickly to his feet. laura, terror stricken, screamed loudly and threw herself right in the line of fire. "don't shoot!" she pleaded hoarsely. madison kept his rival covered, but he did not shoot. there was an uncertain expression in his face, as if he was wavering in his own mind as to whether he would kill this man or not. slowly his whole frame relaxed. he lowered the pistol and quietly replaced it in his pocket, much to the relief of brockton, who, notwithstanding the danger that confronted him, had stood his ground like a man. turning to laura, the westerner said slowly: "thank you. you said that just in time." there was an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of laura weeping half hysterically. finally brockton, who had recovered his self-possession, said: "well, you see, madison--what i told you that time in denver----" john made another threatening gesture which brought him face to face with the broker. "look out, brockton," he said. "i don't want to talk to you----" "all right," rejoined the broker, with a shrug of his shoulders. madison turned to laura. peremptorily he said: "now get that man out of here." "john--i----" she protested cheerfully. "get him out!" he almost shouted. "get him out before i lose my temper, or they'll--or they'll take him out without his help!" the girl laid a supplicating hand on the broker's arm. "go--go! please go!" she pleaded. "all right," he replied. "if that's the way you want it, i'm willing." he turned and went into the inner room to get his hat and coat, while john and laura stood facing each other, without speaking. brockton soon reëntered, and without a word moved in the direction of the door. the others remained motionless. as the broker put his hand on the door, laura started forward. turning to madison, she pointed at the man who was leaving. "before he goes," she cried, "i want to tell you how i learned to despise him. john, i know you don't believe me, but it's true--it's true. i don't love anyone in the world but just you. i know you don't think that it can be explained--maybe there isn't any explanation. i couldn't help it. i was so poor, and i had to live. he wouldn't let me work. he's let me live only one way, and i was hungry. do you know what that means? i was hungry and didn't have clothes to keep me warm, and i tried, oh, john! i tried so hard to do the other thing--the right thing--but i couldn't." he listened in silence. there was no anger in his eyes, no menace in his attitude. he merely appeared dumbfounded, crushed; there was in his face a look of mute, helpless astonishment, as a child might look when it saw an edifice of sand carefully and lovingly erected, levelled to the ground by the first careless wave. almost apologetically he said: "i--i know i couldn't help much, and perhaps i could have forgiven you if you hadn't lied to me. that's what hurt." he turned fiercely on brockton, and approaching close so he could look him straight in the eyes, he said contemptuously: "i expected you to lie; you're that kind of a man. you left me with a shake of the hand, and you gave me your word, and you didn't keep it. why should you keep it? why should anything make any difference to you? why, you pup, you've no right to live in the same world with decent folks. now you make yourself scarce, or take it from me, i'll just kill you, that's all!" "i'll leave, madison," replied the broker coolly; "but i'm not going to let you think that i didn't do the right thing with you. she came to me voluntarily. she said she wanted to come back. i told you she'd do that when i was in colorado; you didn't believe me. i told you that when she did this sort of thing i'd let you know. i dictated a letter to her to send to you, and i left it, sealed and stamped, in her hands to mail. she didn't do it. if there's been a lie, she told it. i didn't." madison looked at laura, who hung her head in mute acknowledgment of her guilt. as he suddenly realized how she had tricked him he turned pale, and with a smothered cry sank down on one of the trunks. until this very moment he still believed in her. he could have forgiven her returning to brockton, everything; but she had deliberately lied to him and deceived him. that he could never forgive. there was a moment's silence, and brockton advanced towards him. "you see! why, my boy, whatever you think of me or the life i lead, i wouldn't have had this come to you for anything in the world. no, i wouldn't. my women don't mean a whole lot to me because i don't take them seriously. i wish i had the faith and the youth to feel the way you do. you're all in and broken up, but i wish i could be broken up just once. i did what i thought was best for you because i didn't think she could ever go through the way you wanted her to. i'm sorry it's all turned out bad. good-bye." he looked at john for a moment, as if expecting some reply, but the big westerner maintained a dogged silence. with a shrug of his shoulders and without so much as glancing at laura, brockton strode to the door and slammed it shut behind him. [illustration: john stood looking at her in silence. _page 337._] madison stood looking at her in silence. there was nothing more to say or do. the broker was right. he had been a poor fool; he had taken this woman too seriously. she was no better than all of her kind. yet it seemed as if there was something wrong somewhere. it had ended so differently to what he expected. he would never believe in womankind again. slowly he made his way toward the door, while she, her heart breaking, her face white as death, the hot tears streaming down her cheeks, stood still, not daring to say a word or make a movement. his drawn face and haunted eyes looked as though some great grief had suddenly come into his life, a grief he could not understand. but he gave her no chance to speak. he seemed to be feeling around for something to say, some way to get out and away without further delay. he went towards the door, and with a pitiful gesture of his hand, seemed to be saying farewell forever. with a stifled sob, she darted forward. "john, i----" he turned and looked at her sternly. "i'd be careful what i said if i were you. don't try to make excuses. i understand." "it's not excuses," she sobbed. "i want to tell you what's in my heart, but i can't; it won't speak, and you don't believe my voice." "you'd better leave it unsaid." "but i must tell," she cried hysterically. "i can't let you go like this." going over to him, she made a weak attempt to put her arms around him; but calmly, dispassionately, he took her hands and put them down. wildly, pleadingly, she went on: "i love you! i--how can i tell you--but i do, i do, and you won't believe me." he remained silent for a moment, and then taking her by the hand, he led her over to the chair and placed her in it. he drew back a few steps, and in a gentle but firm tone, tinged with grief which carried tremendous conviction with it, he said: "i think you do as far as you are able; but, laura, i guess you don't know what a decent sentiment is. you're not immoral, you're just unmoral, kind o' all out of shape, and i'm afraid there isn't a particle of hope for you. when we met neither of us had any reason to be proud, but i believed that you would see in this the chance of salvation which sometimes comes to a man and a woman fixed as we were then. what had been had been. it was all in the great to-be for us, and now, how you've kept your word! what little that promise meant, when i thought you handed me a new lease of life!" she cowered before him, unable to say a word in her own defense, almost wishing he would beat her. "you're killing me--killing me!" she cried in anguish. he shrugged his shoulders skeptically. "don't make such a mistake," he replied ironically. "in a month you'll recover. there will be days when you will think of me, just for a moment, and then it will be all over. with you it is the easiest way, and it always will be. you'll go on and on until you're finally left a wreck, just the type of the common woman. and you'll sink until you're down to the very bed-rock of depravity. i pity you." laura quickly raised her head and looked at him. her eyes were swollen, her face haggard and drawn. madison found himself wondering how he could ever have thought her even good looking. her voice was metallic and hard. "you'll never leave me to do that. i'll kill myself!" she cried hoarsely. "perhaps that's the only thing left for you to do," he replied cynically; "but you'll not do it. it's easier to live." he went to get his hat and coat. then he turned and looked at her. laura rose at the same time. there was an unnatural glitter in her eyes. she breathed hard. her bosom rose and fell spasmodically. "john," she cried exaltedly, "i said i'd kill myself, and i mean every word of it. if it's the only thing to do, i'll do it, and i'll do it before your very eyes!" quickly she snatched up the satchel, opened it, and took out the revolver. then she stood facing him, waiting. "you understand," she cried hysterically, "that when your hand touches that door i'm going to shoot myself. i will, so help me god!" he halted and looked back at her, a covert smile of contempt hovering about his mouth. "kill yourself--before me!" he exclaimed ironically. "you'll wait a minute, won't you?" returning to the inner room, he called out: "annie! annie!" the colored maid came running in. "yessuh!" madison pointed to laura. "you see your mistress there has a pistol in her hand?" the girl, frightened out of her wits, could only gurgle an incoherent: "yessuh!" "she wants to kill herself," said madison. "i just called you to witness that the act is entirely voluntary on her part." turning to the frenzied, hysterical woman, he said indifferently: "now go ahead!" in a state bordering on collapse, laura dropped the pistol on the floor. "john, i--can't----" madison waved the maid away. "annie, she's evidently changed her mind. you may go." "but, miss laura, ah----" "you may go!" he cried peremptorily. bewildered and not understanding, the negress disappeared through the _portières_. in the same gentle tone, but carrying with it an almost frigid conviction, he went on: "you didn't have the nerve. i knew you wouldn't. for a moment you thought the only decent thing for you to do was to die, and yet you couldn't go through. i am sorry for you--more sorry than i can tell." he took a step toward the door. "you're going--you're going?" she wailed. "yes," he replied firmly. she wept softly. between her sobs she cried: "and--and--you never thought that perhaps i'm frail, and weak, and a woman, and that now, maybe, i need your strength, and you might give it to me, and it might be better. i want to lean on you--lean on you, john. i know i need some one." coaxingly she entreated him; in her tenderest, most seductive tones she made a last desperate effort to win him back. "aren't you going to let me? won't you give me another chance?" she pleaded tearfully. he repelled her coldly. "i gave you your chance, laura," he replied. "give me another!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. he struggled with her, disentangling himself from her frantic embrace. pulling away, he said determinedly: "you leaned the wrong way. good-bye." going quickly to the door before she could again stop him, he opened the door and disappeared. an instant later she heard the outer corridor door slam. he was gone--forever! she uttered a shrill scream of despair. "john--john--i----" only a dead silence answered her frenzied, pitiful call. john was no longer there to hear her. he was gone from her--forever. she would never look on his face again. she could not blame him. she alone was at fault. but what a blow! her dream of a life of happiness with the man she loved, her dream of self-redemption and regeneration, all that was blasted at one stroke! and now will brockton was gone also. she had lost them both. abandoned and despised by the man she loved and also by the man to whom she owed everything, her future life was a blank. she must begin her career all over again. she had sunk to what she was before. for several minutes she crouched motionless on the trunk, her entire body shaken by convulsive sobbing. then suddenly she sat up and looked wildly around her. rising in a dazed fashion from the trunk, she staggered a few steps across the room. all at once her eyes caught the gleam of the pistol lying on the floor. with a loud cry of mingled despair and anger, she picked the weapon up, and, crossing to the bureau, threw it in a drawer. then, with a sigh of intense relief, she called out loudly: "annie! annie!" the negress put her head through the _portières_, her eyes as big as saucers. she had heard the loud talking, but had been afraid to come near the room. looking at her mistress with blank astonishment, she exclaimed: "ain't yuh goin' away, miss laura?" [illustration: she crouched down motionless on the trunk. _page 344._] by a supreme effort, laura pulled herself together. she was a fool to show such weakness. why should she allow these men to interfere with her and dictate to her? defiantly she cried: "no, i'm not! i'm going to stay right here. open these trunks. take out those clothes. get me my prettiest dress. hurry up!" going to the mirror, while annie obeyed her orders, she added: "get my new hat! dress up my body and paint up my face--it's all they've left of me." in a lower, agonized tone, to herself, she added bitterly: "they've taken my soul away with them!" "yes'm, yes'm," cried annie, happy at anything which promised a change. opening the big trunk, the negress took out the handsome dresses which had been so carefully packed only a few moments before. then unfastening a box, she lifted out the large picture hat with plumes which her mistress took from her. as laura stood in front of the mirror, putting her hat on and touching up her complexion to hide the traces of recent tears, she forced herself to hum. "doll me up, annie!" she cried lightly, as if by sheer force of will power compelling herself to be light hearted and gay. "yuh goin' out, miss laura?" "yes, i'm going to broadway to make a hit, and to h--ll with the rest!" as she spoke, a hurdy-gurdy in the street under her window began to play the tune of "_bon-bon buddy, my chocolate drop_." laura stopped her humming and listened. there was something in this rag-time melody which at that moment particularly appealed to her. it was peculiarly suggestive of the low life, the criminality and prostitution that constitute the night excitement of that section of new york city known as "the tenderloin." the common tune and its vulgar associations was like the spreading before her eyes of a vivid panorama showing with terrific realism the inevitable depravity that awaited her. rudely torn from every ideal which she had so weakly endeavored to grasp, she had been, thrown back into the mire and slime at the very moment when her emancipation seemed to be assured. standing before the tall mirror, with her flashy dress on one arm and her equally exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, she recognized in herself the type of woman depicted by the vulgar street melody, and the full realization of her ignominy came to her now, perhaps for the first time. the negress, in the happiness of continuing to serve her mistress in her questionable career, picked up the tune as she started to unpack the finery which only a short time before had been so carefully and lovingly laid away in the trunk. shaken by convulsive sobs, resigned to what she was powerless to prevent, laura turned and tottered towards the bedroom. then, as the true significance of her pitiful position dawned upon her, she sank, limp and helpless, on the sofa, gasping pathetically: "oh, god! oh, my god!" in the street below the hurdy-gurdy continued grinding out "_bon-bon buddy, my chocolate drop_," with the negress idly accompanying it. the eddy a novel of today by clarence l. cullen illustrations by ch. weber ditzler g. w. dillingham company publishers new york _copyright, 1910, by_ g. w. dillingham company _the eddy_ [illustration: louise] contents chapter page i. 7 ii. 31 iii. 55 iv. 77 v. 102 vi. 125 vii. 145 viii. 169 ix. 195 x. 218 xi. 237 xii. 257 xiii. 281 xiv. 305 xv. 326 xvi. 348 illustrations page louise _frontispiece_ laura, a woman of thirty-five, had the slender yet well-rounded structural sinuosities of a girl of twenty 20 he'd go over to the house on the drive and get the thing over with 182 "but, why did you never tell me, mother?" 192 he squeaked like a rat; then he went down like a log 324 the eddy chapter i "if only she were a boy!" mrs. treharne almost moaned the words. she tugged nervously at her absurdly diaphanous boudoir jacket, vainly attempting to fasten it with fluttering, uncontrolled fingers; and she shuddered, though her dressing-room was over-warm. heloise, who was doing her hair, juggled and then dropped a flaming red coronet braid upon the rug. the maid, a thin-lipped young woman with a jutting jaw and an implacable eye, pantomimed her annoyance. before picking up the braid she glued the backs of her hands to her smoothly-lathed hips. mrs. treharne, in the glass, could see heloise's drab-filmed grey-blue eyes darting sparks. "i shall resume," croaked the maid in raucous french, "when madame is through writhing and wriggling and squirming." laura stedham--she was relaxing luxuriously in the depths of a chair that fitted her almost as perfectly as her gown--smiled a bit wickedly. "forgive me if i seem catty, tony," said laura in her assuaging contralto, "but it is such a delight to find that there is some one else who is bullied by her maid. mine positively tyrannizes over me." "oh, everybody bullies me," said mrs. treharne, querulously, holding herself rigid in order not to again draw heloise's wrath. "everybody seems to find it a sort of diversion, a game, to browbeat and hector and bully-rag me." "surely i don't, afflicted one--do i?" laura tacked a little rippling laugh to the question. "you do worse, my dear--you laugh at me," plaintively replied the fading woman huddled before the glass. she was haggard as from a trouble that has been unsuccessfully slept upon, and her mouth--not yet made into a crimson bow through heloise's deft artistry--was drawn with discontent. "heaven on high, if only she were a boy!" she broke out petulantly again, after a little pause. this time there was genuine enjoyment in laura's laugh. "don't scowl, antoinette--i know i am a beast for laughing," she said, abandoning her chair and lissomely crossing the room to glance at some new photographs on a mantel. "but, really, you say that so often that it sounds like the refrain to a topical song. 'if only she were a boy--if only she were a boy!'--don't you catch the rhythm of it? i wonder, tony, how many times i have heard you give utterance to that phrase during the past few years--just?" "you haven't heard me say it any oftener than i've meant it, my dear--be very sure of that," said mrs. treharne, without a symptom of a smile. her sense of humor was embryonic, and laura's laughter and words, obviously meant merely in mitigation, jarred upon her. "and a remark is none the less true for being repeated, is it?" she went on in her plaintive monotone. "i _do_ wish louise had been born a boy. you would, too, if you were in my place. you know you would." "but, dear tony, it is such a futile, such a dreadfully childish wish," said laura, striving to erase the smile from her face. "it is like wishing for the fairy prince, or the magic carpet, or the end of the rainbow. worry makes wrinkles, dear. that may sound bromidic, but it's true. why worry yourself through all the years with wishing so impossible--i was going to say so insane--a wish? not only that--forgive me for saying it, dear, won't you?--but it is rather a grisly wish, too; and so unfair to the girl, really. don't you think--don't you know--that it is?" "don't scold, laura--please," said mrs. treharne, almost in a whimper. "you don't know what a miserable mess i am in. you haven't given me time to tell you. louise is coming home immediately." "for the holidays, naturally," said laura. "why shouldn't the poor child come home for the holidays? it will be the first time she has had her holidays at home since she went away to school--nearly four years, i think--isn't it?" "i hope you are not meaning that for a reproach," accused the haggard lady, now being corseted by the lusty-armed heloise. "you are in a shocking humor today; and i did so depend upon you for advice and comfort, if not consolation, when i 'phoned you to come over." "oh, i am in a lark's humor," protested laura, smiling as she rested a gloved hand upon one of the milky shoulders of her troubled friend. "but you puzzle me. why should you make such a catastrophe of it, such a veritable cataclysm, because your pretty and agreeable and, as i recall her, quite lovable daughter announces that she is coming home for the holidays? enlighten me, dear. i seem not to discern the point of your problem." "problem isn't the word for it!" repined the unhappy lady, upon whose nearly knee-length stays heloise now was tugging like a sailor at a capstan. "louise coolly announces--i had her letter yesterday--that she is not returning to miss mayhew's school; that she is coming to remain with me for good." "well?" said laura, murdering the smile that strove to break through her visible mask. "'well?'" wailed mrs. treharne. "is that all you have to say--'well'? can't you see how impossible, how utterly out of the question, how----" "her quitting school now, you mean?" said laura. "really, i think you should be pleased. her announcement shows that louise is a woman--a girl of nineteen who has spent nearly four years at a modern finishing school no longer is a young person, but a woman--that she is a woman with a sense of humor. it is very human, very indicative of the possession of the humorous sense, to tire of school. i did that, myself, a full year before i was through. all of the king's horses could not have dragged me back, either. i hated the thought of graduation day--the foolish, fluttery white frocks, the platitudes of visitors, the moisty weepiness of one's women relatives, the sophomoric speechifying of girls who were hoydens the day before and would be worse hoydens the day after, the showing off of one's petty, inconsequential 'accomplishments'--i loathed the thought of the whole fatuous performance. and so i packed and left a full year in advance of it, resolved not to be involuntarily drawn into the solemn extravaganza of 'being graduated.' that, no doubt, is louise's idea. she is a girl with a merry heart. you should be glad of that, antoinette." laura was simply sparring with the hope of getting her friend's mind off her problem. she knew very well the nature of the problem; none better. the idea of a girl just out of school being plumped into such an environment as that enveloping the treharne household perhaps was even more unthinkable to laura that it was to the girl's mother, a woman who had permitted her sensibilities to become grievously blunted with what she termed the "widening of her horizon." but laura, not yet ready with advice to meet so ticklish a situation, sought, woman-like, to divert the point of the problem by seizing upon one of its quite minor ramifications. of course it was not her fault that she failed. "laura," said mrs. treharne, dismissing her maid with a gesture and fumblingly assembling the materials on her dressing table wherewith to accomplish an unassisted facial make-up, "your occasional assumption of stupidity is the least becoming thing you do. why fence with me? it is ridiculous, unfriendly, irritating." she daubed at her pale wispy eyebrows with a smeary pencil and added with a certain hardness: "you know perfectly well why i dread the thought of louise coming here." laura, at bay, unready for a pronouncement, took another ditch of evasiveness. "i wonder," she said in an intended tone of detachment, "if you are afraid she has become a bluestocking? or maybe a frump? or, worse still, what you call one of the anointed smugs? such things--one or other of them, at any rate--are to be expected of girls just out of school, my dear. louise will conquer her disqualification, if she have one. her imagination will do that much for her. and of course she has imagination." "she has eyes, too, no doubt," said mrs. treharne, drily. "and you know how prying, penetrating the eyes of a girl of nineteen are. you know still better how poorly this--this ménage of mine can stand such inspection; the snooping--wholly natural snooping, i grant you--of a daughter nearly a head taller than i am, whom, nevertheless, i scarcely know. frankly, i don't know louise at all. i should be properly ashamed to acknowledge that; possibly i am. moreover, i believe i am a bit afraid of her." laura assumed a musing posture and thus had an excuse for remaining silent. "additionally," went on mrs. treharne, a little hoarsely, "a woman, in considering her daughter's welfare, must become a trifle smug herself, no matter how much she may despise smugness in its general use and application. what sort of a place is this as a home for louise? i am speaking to you as an old friend. i am in a fiendish predicament. of course you see that. and i can't see the first step of a way out of it. can you?" "for one thing," said laura, mischievously and with eyes a-twinkle, "you might permanently disperse your zoo." mrs. treharne laughed harshly. "one must know somebody," she said, deftly applying the rouge rabbit's-foot. "one can't live in a cave. my own sort banished me. i am _declassée_. shall i sit and twiddle my thumbs? at least the people of my 'zoo,' as you call it, are clever. you'll own that." "they are freaks--impossible, buffoonish, baboonish freaks," replied laura, more earnestly than she had yet spoken. "you know i am not finical; but if this raffish crew of yours are 'bohemians,' as they declare themselves to be--which in itself is _banal_ enough, isn't it?--then give me the sleek, smug inhabitants of spotless town!" "you rave," said mrs. treharne, drearily. "let my zoo-crew alone. we don't agree upon the point." "i thought you had your queer people--your extraordinary sunday evening parties--i came perilously near saying rough-houses, tony--in mind in bemoaning louise's return home," said laura, yawning ever so slightly. "oh, i'd thought of that, of course," said mrs. treharne, artistically adding a sixteenth of an inch of length to the corners of her eyes with the pencil. "but my raffish crew, as you call them, wouldn't harm her. she might even become used to them in time. she hasn't had time to form prejudices yet, it is to be hoped. you purposely hit all around the real mark. louise is nineteen. and you know the uncanny side-lines of wisdom girls pick up at finishing schools nowadays. since you maliciously force me to mention it point-blank, in heaven's name what will this daughter of mine think of--of mr. judd?" "now we are at the heart of the matter," answered laura. "heart, did i say? fancy 'pudge' with a heart!" there was little mirth in her laugh. "you must not call him that, even when you are alone with me, laura," said mrs. treharne, petulantly. "i am in deadly fear that some time or other he will catch you calling him that. you know how mortally sensitive he is about his--his bulk." "well might he be," said laura, drily enough. "is there any particular reason why your daughter should have to meet judd? except very occasionally, i mean?" "how can it be avoided?" asked mrs. treharne, helplessly. "hasn't he the run of the house? you don't for an instant suppose that, even if i implored him, he would forego any of his--his privileges here?" "i am not so imbecile as to suppose any such a thing," said laura, with a certain asperity. "but the man might exhibit a bit of common decency. he knows that louise is coming?" "i haven't told him," said mrs. treharne, fluttering to her feet from the dressing table. "you will hook me, laura? i don't want to call heloise. she only pretends that she doesn't understand english, and she knows too much already. no, i haven't told him yet. he resents the idea of my having a daughter, you know. he will be here directly to take me out in the car. i shall tell him when we are going through the park. then nobody but the chauffeur and i will hear him growl. i know in advance every word that he will say," and the distraught woman looked wan even under her liberal rouge. laura impulsively placed an arm around her friend's shoulder. "tony," she said, gravely, "why don't you show the brute the door?" "because it is his own door--you know that," said mrs. treharne, her eyes a little misty. "then walk out of it," said laura. "this isn't the right sort of thing. i don't pose as a saint. but i could not endure this. come with me. let louise join you with me. you know how welcome you are. i have plenty--more than plenty. you shouldn't have permitted judd to refuse to let you continue to receive the allowance george treharne provided for louise. that wasn't fair to yourself. it was more unfair to your daughter. you shouldn't have allowed her to get her education with judd's money. she is bound to find it out. she would be no woman at all if that knowledge doesn't cut her to the quick. but this is beside the mark. i have plenty. she is a dear, sweet, honest girl, and she is entitled to her chance in the world. i am sure i don't need to tell you that. what chance has she in this house? the doors that are worth while are closed to you, my dear. you know i say that with no unkind intent. it is something you yourself acknowledge. the same doors would be closed to your daughter if she came here. she could and would do so much better with me. neither you nor she would be dependent. we are too old friends for that. and i know george treharne. he would renew the allowance that you permitted judd to thrust back at him through yourself and his lawyer. leave this place, this sort of thing, once and forever. i want you to--for your own sake and your daughter's." mrs. treharne wept dismally, to the sad derangement of her elaborately-applied make-up. but she wept the tears of self-pity, than which there are none more pitiful. the reins of a great chance, for herself and her daughter, were in her hands. perhaps it was the intensity of her perturbation that did not permit her to hold them. very likely it was something else. but, at any rate, hold them she did not. "you are a dear, laura," she said, fighting back her tears for the sake of her make-up. "it was what i might have expected of you. of all the friends i used to have, you are the only one who never has gone back on me. but you must see how impossible it all is. i am in over my head. so what would be the use?" "you speak for yourself only, antoinette," said laura, a little coldly. "what of your daughter?" "oh, if only she were a boy!" the wretched woman harped again. laura stedham removed her arm from her friend's shoulder and shrugged a bit impatiently. "that refrain again?" she said, the warmth departing from her tone. "i must be going before i become vexed with you, tony. your own position would be quite the same in any case--if you had a son instead of a daughter, i mean. for my part, i fail to perceive any choice between being shamed in the eyes of a son of in the eyes of a daughter. true, a son would not have to tolerate so humiliating a situation. a son could, and unquestionably would, clap on his hat the moment he became aware of the state of things here, and stamp out, leaving it all behind him. a son could and would shift for himself. but a girl--a girl just out of school--can't do that. she is helpless. she is at the mercy of the situation you have made for her. i fear you are completely losing your moorings, tony. when is louise arriving?" "tonight," replied mrs. treharne, who had subsided into a sort of apathy of self-pity. "at nine something or other. i shall meet her at the station in the car." laura turned a quizzical, slitted pair of eyes upon her friend, now busy again with her tear-smudged make-up. "not in judd's car, surely, tony?" she said, in earnest expostulation. "why do that? why not let the girl in upon your--your tangled affairs a little more gradually? how could she help wondering at the extravagant, vulgar ornateness of judd's car? for of course she knows perfectly well that your own finances are not equal to such a whale of a machine as that." "it will not take her long to find out everything," said mrs. treharne, a little sullenly. "she need not be uncommonly observant to do that. and you remember how embarrassingly observant she was even as a child." "give her a chance to observe piecemeal, then," said laura, laconically. "i shall be with you at the station. one of my poor accomplishments, you know, is the knack of ameliorating difficult situations. and i was always so fond of the child. i am stark curious to see how she has developed. she was a starchy miss of fifteen when last i saw her. we'll fetch her home in a taxicab. that will be better. it is arranged, then?" "everything that you suggest is as good as arranged,' laura," replied mrs. treharne, with a wan smile. "your gift of persuasion is irresistible--i wish i knew the secret of it. it is extremely good of you to want to meet the child. if i could only meet her with--with such clean hands as--well, as i should have!" "never mind--there'll be a way out of it," said laura, cheerily. "i am off." she grazed the adeptly-applied artificial bloom of the other woman's cheek with her lips. as they stood side by side in the juxtaposition of a caress--they were friends from girlhood--the contrast between the two women was sufficiently striking. laura stedham, a woman of thirty-five, had the slender yet well-rounded structural sinuosities of a girl of twenty who passes all her days in the open air--minus the indubitable blowsiness which some open-air young women can't help but reveal to the dissecting eye. unusually tall, she had the gliding grace of movement which so many women of uncommon stature lack. even in the cluttered dressing room of her friend she made nothing of the obstacles that barred her path, but, walking always with a sort of nervous swiftness, passed around them to her point of destination--a mantel, a table, a hanging picture--with a threading ease of locomotion that made it seem oddly doubtful if she were dependent upon the ground at all for a base. there are tall women who, if they do not collide with stationary objects when they undertake a tour of a room, at least arouse the fear that they will infallibly do so. laura possessed an eye for the measurement of distances, and the litheness perfectly to follow her measurement. her complexion was that of a woman to whom a long tramp, even in the city, in the mist or in the blinding rain, was not a task, but a delight. her hair, all her own, yet worn in the final perverse mood of exaggeration of the coiffure "artist," was of an incredible burnished black, in unusual contrast with her full, kindling, celtic-grey eyes. a certain irregularity in the outline of her features--especially of her nose, which, far from being aquiline, was too short by the merest fraction--lent a certain piquancy to her expression, even when her face was in repose. she had the habit, growing rare in a world of social avoidances and white lies, of looking the person addressing her straight in the eye. it was not an impaling, disquieting gaze, but one that fairly demanded truthfulness and candor; a gaze unconsciously calculated to cause the liar to stutter in the manufacture of his lie. [illustration: laura, a woman of thirty-five, had the slender yet well-rounded structural sinuosities of a girl of twenty.] mrs. treharne, four years older than laura, had the somewhat hollow-eyed plumpness of an indoor woman who wars fiercely but hopelessly and unequally upon ever-threatening _embonpoint_. her triumphs over the enemy never were better than drawn battles; she was compelled to devote at least three hours a day to her determined, almost hysterical warfare upon the natural process of accretion, solely that she might not gain; long before she had abandoned hope of achieving the fragility of outline she pined for. the nostrums she employed in this incessant conflict had made her fragile, however, in at least one respect: her health; besides imparting a certain greenish-yellow tint to her skin which made her make-up box almost as necessary a part of her equipment as the hands wherewith she applied the mitigating tints. five years before she had been a fresh-skinned, clear-eyed, naturally pretty woman of a somewhat inconsequential type; but the necessity--the hideous duty, as she deemed it--of banting without cessation or intermission had left her merely her regular features upon which artificially to create the illusion of a youthfulness she was far from feeling. with the final touch added for an appearance in a company, she still looked dainty, certainly of impeccable grooming. but she had learned to be uneasy under the scrutiny of eyes that she felt to be unfriendly, and she had become exceptionally partial to veils. her hair, originally a light, unaggressive red, had been "done over" into a sort of vivid, brittle "titian." there were occasional reddish gleams in her slightly furtive, small eyes of hazel. she had a child's foot, and she was inordinately proud of her tiny, waxy, too-white hands. in a company she smiled continuously in order to display her teeth, which were perfectly assembled and of an almost porcelain whiteness. mrs. treharne was called a pretty woman even by those who perhaps entertained unexpressed misgivings as to how she might look at her rising hour. after laura had gone mrs. treharne tried, before her glass, the effect of a smile--somewhat frozen and quickly obliterated--upon her carefully studied and artfully executed make-up mask; then sighed drearily as she sank into a chair and began polishing her nails upon her palms. "of course laura is right, as usual--it wouldn't help matters particularly if louise were a boy," she mused with puckered brows. "a boy might be longer in finding out how affairs stood here; but when he did find out--what a storm, what heroics, what juvenile reproaches, what a stagey to-do there would be! perhaps, after all, it is as well that louise is--louise. she can adapt herself to--to things as they are. she must. there's no other way. she can't have lost the tact she possessed as a child. i wish i knew her better, so that i could have some sort of an idea just what to expect from her. i hope she understands the good sense of closing one's eyes to things that can't be improved by looking at them. perhaps i shall be lucky enough to marry her off quickly. that would be almost too easy a solution for me, with my vile luck, to expect." she rang for heloise to have her furs in readiness. "it was thoroughly decent of laura," she thought on, finger at lip, "to advise me to bolt all this and take refuge with her. but i haven't the nerve--that's the plain truth of it. how could i ask treharne to renew the allowance? what a triumph it would be for him if i were to do that! he would be too quixotic to view it as a triumph, but that wouldn't alleviate my humiliation in asking him. and what would the three or four thousand a year be in comparison with--" "the car is at the door, madame," announced heloise, appearing with the sables. mrs. treharne smiled at herself before the glass to smooth out the wrinkles of her musing, tripped lightly down the stairs, and was humming blithely when she nodded indulgently at the ponderous, shaggy-furred man who was waiting to help her into the huge, over-lavish, pulsing car. "you take your time, don't you?" grumbled judd, his breath vaporing into broken clouds in the raw december air. "does that monkey-chattering maid of yours sleep all the time, or has she a case on with the butler? i've been tooting here for ten minutes." his tone was snarling, and his thin lips were drawn away from gnarled teeth. judd was one of those physical anomalies, a man of falstaffian girth with sharp, peaked, predatory features. he pulled off his fur cap to readjust it before stepping into the car, showing a head wholly bald except for crinkly wisps of mixed red and gray hair at the sides and back. there was a deep crease at the back of his neck where the scant hair left off, and his deep-set, red-rimmed little watery-blue eyes were alert and suspicious. mrs. treharne laughed so carelessly that it almost seemed as if she deliberately sought to intensify his irritation. "still in your villanous humor?" she asked him, a taunt in her tone. "i believe this is one of the days--they grow rather frequent--when you should be allowed--required, i should say--to ride alone." "well, that's easy enough to do," grumbled judd in a voice curiously high-pitched for so vast a man. "see here, perhaps you are conceited enough to think--" very deliberately, and still smiling, mrs. treharne rose to leave the car. judd looked blankly nonplussed. "oh, stop this infernal nonsense, tony," he said in a tone tinged with alarm. then his ruddy face expanded into a grin behind which there seemed to be little mirth. "d'ye know, i believe you would be cat enough to step out, before we start, and--" "no names, if you please," mrs. treharne interrupted, choppily. "decidedly i shall leave the car if you feel that it is impossible for you to behave yourself like a human being. i have ceased to extract enjoyment from your growling humors." it was a tone she might have taken in addressing a menial. obviously, however, it was the tone required for the proper subjugation of judd. he exuded a falsetto laugh and patted her hand, at the same time motioning the chauffeur to start. "i don't complain of your hellish moods, do i, tony?" he asked her, still chuckling unpleasantly. "in fact, i believe i rather like the feel of your claws. all the same, there may come a day when--" "when i shall enjoy the sight of your back," calmly interrupted the apparently complaisant woman at his side. "speed the day!" judd's face took on a half-chagrined, half-worried look. it generally did when mrs. treharne was operating upon him what she privately called her "system." this "system," in essence, consisted in her invariable habit of quarreling with him and reducing him to abjectness by more or less veiled threats of abandoning him to a lonesome fate whenever she had something to ask of him, or to tell him, that she knew quite well would arouse his surliness. it was a neatly-devised balancing method, and mrs. treharne as well understood the vital advantage of striking the first blow as she apprehended the extent of her power over him. "i say, tony," said judd, patting her gloved hands again, "you wouldn't really cut and run just because--" "spare me your elephantine sentimentalities, please," she put in, a little less indifferently. "you were never ordained for that sort of thing. anyhow, i would like a sane word or two with you. i've something to tell you." "it's money, of course," said judd, sulkily, leaving off patting her hands with ludicrous suddenness. "more damned extravagance, eh?" "no, it's neither money nor extravagance, beautifully as those two words trot in tandem," she said, airily, yet with a new soothing note in her tone. "it is this: louise is coming home. at once. tonight." "the devil she is!" blurted judd. "what for? who sent for her? how long is she going to stay? what's it all about?" "one question at a time, please," mrs. treharne replied, looking indifferently out toward the bleak river as they shot by claremont. it was a palpably assumed air of indifference; but judd, unskilled at penetrating feminine subtlety, did not discern the nervousness underlying her careless manner. "my daughter is coming home because she wants to. nobody sent for her. she is not going back to school. she announces that in her letter to me; and she is old enough to know her mind and to be entitled to freedom of action. she is remaining permanently with me." she had expected him to storm upon hearing the news in full. judd, however, was an individual who owed a considerable part of his immense success as a man of affairs to his studied and carefully-elaborated habit of never doing the obvious. he leaned back in the car and half-screened his turkey-like eyes with their small, veinous lids. mrs. treharne, surprised at his silence, went on hastily: "i am wretchedly disturbed over it. i know that i have no fit home to offer her. i know that i have completely undermined her chance in life. but what can i do? she can't live alone. and she merely brings the difficulty to a head by coming now. she must come home some time, of course. the child has not spent her holidays or her summer vacations with me for four years. always she has been pushed about among school friends, who, glad as they and their people may have been to have her, surely must have wondered why she did not come home." judd fluttered his eyelids and leaned forward in his seat. "i understand perfectly, of course," he said with a sort of leer. "i understand, you understand, we understand, they understand, everybody understands. then what are you making such a devil of a rumpus about it for?" "well," said mrs. treharne, making the mistake, in dealing with judd, of falling into a slightly apologetic tone, "i thought that perhaps you might----" "wait a minute, antoinette," interrupted judd with suave brutality, leaning back again among the cushions and once more half-closing his eyes. "it doesn't matter a damn what i think. i can stand it if you can. she isn't my daughter, you know. she's your daughter. i suppose she has been taught to mind her own business? very well. i can stand the situation if you can." the slur cut like a rattan, as judd, perceiving a rare advantage, thoroughly intended that it should. he made it worse by patting her hands as he spoke. she hated him with an almost virtuous intensity as he uttered the sneer. but she said no more about her daughter's impending arrival during the remainder of the ride. chapter ii the chair car was well filled when louise somewhat misty-eyed from parting with the doleful group of school intimates who convoyed her to the little station, walked down the aisle just as the train began to move. not in the least sorry because she was finally leaving school, she was affected by the glumness of the girls who had insisted upon bidding her goodbye at the train; but she had not actually wept at any stage of the parting. perhaps the tear-reddened eyes and noses of her school friends had slightly touched her risibles; for her by no means latent sense of humor invariably struggled to the surface when she found herself figuring in anything of the nature of a "scene." she was not lacking in what the iron-jowled dowagers call "becoming sensibilities;" but she was habitually self-contained, and tears were unusual with her. nevertheless, she found difficulty in properly discerning objects, even at close range, as she searched for her place; and it was due to her filmed vision that she took a chair that did not correspond to the number on her pullman ticket. women as well as men pivoted about in their chairs for a second glance at louise. her unusual height was emphasized by the loose-fitting fur-lined cloth coat which fell straight from her shoulders to her skirt's hem. when she removed the coat her simple one-piece gown of blue cloth caused cogitating men in surrounding chairs to marvel as to how she had ever contrived to get into it, and, worse, how she would possibly manage to get out of it. the guimpe of the dress was of a creamy embroidery that dissolved bafflingly into the whiteness of her neck. louise might have reminded an imaginative traveler, had there been such in the car, of a freshly-blown, firm-petalled chrysanthemum. there are women in whom you first discern an utter, convincing wholesomeness; later you become aware of their beauty. their wholesomeness, you think upon your first comprehensive glance, is like that of an early vernal breeze, of dew upon clean grass; then the contributing elements of their beauty emerge upon your consciousness as through a succession of lifted veils. louise treharne was of this type. unusually tall, she had none of the raw-boned angularities of the over-trained young woman who makes a fad of gymnasium or out-of-doors activities and who thoughtlessly sacrifices the beauty of contour on the profitless altar of over-athleticism. slender, yet well rounded, the fine amplitude of her proportions caused her to look several years older than her age. her face contributed to this effect. it was a face such as the imaginary imaginative traveller might vaguely have associated with the faces of women stamped upon roman coins. there is a sort of creamy, vivid pallor that, equally with ruddiness, denotes perfect health and vigor. this was louise's; and the uncommon regularity of her features was tempered and softened by varying phases of expression that spoke of an habitual serenity and a searching common sense. her hair, of the darkest shade of lustrous auburn, waved back loosely and often a bit rebelliously to the great knotted coil in which it was caught at the back of her finely-lathed head. her eyes, the corners of which had an almost indistinguishable slant that only became agreeably noticeable when she smiled, were wide and full, and of so dark a brown that, at night or in shadowed rooms, they were often supposed to be black. she had barely settled herself, chin in palm, to gaze out of the window at the blurred landscape of ice-crusted snow, before she became somewhat confusedly conscious of a loomful figure standing patiently in the aisle beside her. when she suddenly turned her head and surveyed him with calm, questioning eyes, he pulled off his cap of plaid a bit awkwardly and smiled. she mentally observed that his mouth was a trifle over-large; but his smile, for all of that, she thought, was the smile of a man. with the woman's mystifying ability mentally to absorb innumerable details at a mere glance, she noticed (without in the least seeming to notice) that he was of unusual stature and of the type called by women, in their between-themselves appraisals, "delightfully scrubbed-looking;" that he was perhaps a little above thirty; that he had a closely-shaven rugged jaw and somewhat jutting chin, huge, well-cared-for hands, rather closely-cropped brown hair slightly greying at the sides, candid grey eyes with tiny lines of humor and experience running away from their corners. she noticed, too, that he was not wearing gloves, which was satisfying. all of the other men in the over-warm car were wearing their heavy cold-weather gloves, and she was slightly contemptuous of this as an unmasculine affectation. finally, in the same single glance, she perceived his visible embarrassment.... "pray don't disturb yourself," he said, fumbling his cap with both hands. ("why don't all men talk basso?" thought louise.) "i can reach it without your moving at all, if you will permit me. my bag, you know. there are some papers in it that i want to go over, and----" he stopped dead and looked quite wretched when louise came to her feet. "i am in your chair," she said, as he stooped to pick up a bag that, she now noticed for the first time, was wedged by the seat she had unwittingly taken. she was about to remove her coat to the back of the chair in front--her rightful place, as she quickly remembered when she saw the number on the panel--when he put out a determinedly detaining hand. "don't make me feel such a disgraceful nuisance, i beg of you," he said with an earnestness that was out of keeping with his twinkling eyes. "one chair is as good as another--better, in fact, when one already has possession of it. this bag is my only gear. you'll keep the seat, won't you? that's immensely kind of you," as louise resumed the chair. "i wouldn't have had you move for----" "of course," she interrupted him with a quietly frank laugh, "i hadn't the slightest intention of moving. it is more than good of you to suppose that i meant to be so agreeable." "that," he pronounced, again with his liberal smile, "is probably a neat, quickly-conceived way of letting me down easily, for which i am nevertheless grateful;" and, bowing, he took the chair in front of her, dug into his bag and quickly became immersed in a batch of formidable looking documents. louise, again leaning back in her chair, decided that the rear of his head was decidedly shapely. the excessive warmth of the car was making her sleepy, and she closed her eyes and surrendered herself to dozing reflections. she was dubious as to the reception her mother would give her. she had not heard from her mother since writing the letter in which she had calmly announced, as something settled and therefore not open to debate, that she was through with school and would not return to miss mayhew's after the holidays. laura had been only partly right as to louise's reason for quitting school. louise, it was true, was glad enough to escape the nightmare of "commencement exercises" by leaving half a year in advance of her graduation. but she had a far deeper reason for quitting the school without consultation with her mother. she wanted to be at home; any sort of a home. she had no very pleasurable recollections of the places--there had been many of them, and they had not been homes--in which she had lived with her mother before being sent to the finishing school in central new york. her young girlhood had been a period of aimless drifting, at seashore and mountain resorts in summer, and in tiny but by no means snug apartments in new york in the winter; her mother's restlessness and her frequently expressed dislike of "smug domesticity" had combined against her ever establishing anything even approximating a genuine home for herself and her daughter. louise only vaguely remembered her father; the separation, followed by a divorce, had taken place when she was only nine years old. at fifteen she had been trundled off to the up-state finishing school; and the school had been the only home she had known for close upon four years. her mother had visited her twice a year, taking her to the seaside for a week or so during the summer vacation and to lakewood for a brief stay during the holidays. her mother had always been provided with some sort of an excuse for not taking louise to her home--louise knew that she must have some sort of a home--in new york. the place was being overhauled, guests had unexpectedly swooped upon her, she was about to start upon a journey; louise had listened, mystified, so often to these reasons her mother gave for not having her daughter with her in the city at times when nearly all the other girls were leaving the school for home visits that she at length came to believe that her mother was treating her with somewhat humiliating disingenuousness. this feeling, however, aroused less resentment in the girl than it did a feeling of distress; she could not avoid, as she grew older, the conviction that she was being neglected. the feeling became intensified when, year after year, she was shunted, as she considered, on visits to the homes of her schoolgirl friends. it was natural enough, when she observed how cherished the other girls were in their homes, how the arms of strong affection constantly were thrown around them, that she should compare her own thrust-aside state with theirs and that she should develop the intense longing of a normal, affectionate young woman for similar love and protection. she had no sense of resentment against her mother; it was rather a feeling of regret that the curious aloofness between them, which she had no possible way of understanding, had ever risen. she hoped that perhaps, after all, her mother might really need her as sorely as she felt that she herself needed a mother and a home. she was returning to her mother with an open mind; no longer a child to be shunted and evaded, but a woman to be treated with frankness. there were some points in connection with her mother's affairs that she did not understand but as to which she had no undue curiosity. but she was intensely glad to be at least on her way home--on her way to her mother, at any rate--for good and all; and she formed plans for drawing nearer to her mother, wistfully hoping that the plans would have the fruition she longed for. louise's reflections gradually, with the purring movement of the train, became merged into dreams. she awoke with a start when the train came to a grinding stop at a station. she began cutting the pages of a magazine when, glancing up, she saw the man with whom she had held the little colloquy a while before striding down the aisle of the car. in his hand was an unopened telegram. she noticed that he was looking at her as he approached her seat, and that he was knitting his brow in a puzzled, serious sort of way. he stopped when he came to her chair and held out the telegram. "the boy paged the dining car, where i happened to be," he said to her, "and, thinking that you might still be asleep, i took the liberty of signing for your telegram." the telegram was addressed to "miss louise treharne." it was from one of louise's girl friends at the school, telling her that a piece of hand-baggage that louise had absent-mindedly left at the station was being forwarded. louise scarcely glanced at the contents of the telegram, so great was her astonishment over its method of reaching her. "you grant, of course, that i have reason to be puzzled," she said to him, unconstrainedly but entirely in earnest. she noticed that he was far from being unconstrained, and that a certain seriousness sat upon his strong features which she had not before observed. "it is plain that you knew this telegram was for me." "otherwise, of course," he replied, a little huskily, "i should not have presumed to sign for it. i should not have signed for it in any case had i not supposed you to be asleep. i feared, you see, that you might miss it." "but you do not in the least appease my curiosity," said louise, smiling somewhat nervously. "if you knew me--as it seems of course you do--i cannot understand why you did not reveal yourself when we had our little conversation a while ago." "but i did not know--i should say i did not recall you then," he said, plainly flustered. "you only add to the mystery," said louise. "you will enlighten me, of course?" he whirled his chair about so that, sitting back on the arm of it, he could face her. "it is simple enough," he explained, with a hesitancy which louise did not fail to note. "when the lad with the telegram came through the dining car, calling out your name, i could not fail, with that startling reminder, to remember----" he broke off as if reluctant to proceed. "yes?" put in louise, a bit proddingly. "well, i could not fail to remember your father's daughter," he said in a low tone, obviously striving to regain some ease of manner. "you know my father?" said louise, her sense of the mystery of it all increasing rather than abating. "yes," he replied, still struggling, as louise could see, to conquer a trouble that was visible on his features. "i am your father's attorney. i know your mother quite well, too. but this is the first time i have seen you since you were a little girl in pigtails and highly-starched skirts." he strove to make his laugh sound natural and easy, but it was a failure. some worry, as to the nature of which louise could of course not even guess, was in his voice as well as on his face. louise impulsively held out her hand. "the mystery is cleared," she said, brightly, "and it is delightful to meet so old a friend, no matter how oddly. won't you sit down and tell me all about my father and my mother and myself and yourself and--and everybody? or is it permissible for one to cross-examine so solemn and cautious a person as an attorney?" he sat down in the chair facing hers and studied, constrainedly, the pattern of the cap which he held out before him. then he glanced at his watch. "i am leaving the train at peekskill," he said, "so there is not much time. you are to be home for the holidays?" "for the holidays and for all time," she replied with a certain eagerness. "you have visited my mother's home? because, you know, i never have." she had not meant to say that so baldly, and she was sorry for the slip as soon as the words were out. "it is on riverside drive. therefore it must be lovely; the view, at any rate. it is lovely, isn't it?" he deliberately evaded the question. "you are not returning to school at all?" he pointedly counter-questioned her instead. "does your mother know this? i hope i don't seem inquisitive. but i am really interested in knowing." "you trap me into a confession," replied louise, smiling. "i simply announced to my mother that i was through with school, and here i am on my way home. i am hoping that she will not be excessively angry with me. do you think she will be?" louise was finding him decidedly difficult, in spite of her efforts to put him at his ease. he became so immersed in cogitations which louise could see were of the troubled sort that he seemed scarcely to listen to what she was saying. "you have not answered my question, you know, mr.--mr.--you see i do not even know your name," said louise, after a pause, pretending to be aggrieved. "oh, pardon the rudeness, won't you?" he said, hastily. "blythe is my name--john blythe. and forgive me for not having caught your question, miss treharne. you don't mind asking it again?" "oh, it doesn't matter," said louise, appeased, but still curious as to the cause of the perturbation he had exhibited ever since he had brought her the telegram, and which had become more pronounced since she had told him that she was on her way to her mother's home to remain there. she had not failed to notice his quite manifest unwillingness to speak of her mother. not of a prying nature, she concluded, without framing the thought in words, that, if he had a reason for that unwillingness, it was decidedly his privilege to keep the reason to himself. but her curiosity as to her father was not so easily repressed. she had not heard him spoken of--her mother forbade the subject--for many years, nor had he ever communicated with her directly; but her childish recollections of him were very sweet. she could not resist the temptation to speak of him to this newly-revealed friend. why should she not, she thought, since he seemed to be so well acquainted with her parents--and was her father's attorney besides? "mr. blythe," she found herself saying in a tone of unusual hesitation for her, a young woman of perfect frankness, "i feel that i may ask you about my father, seeing that you know--well, everything concerning him and my mother and--myself. it has been so many, many years since i have even heard him mentioned. where is he? when did you see him last?" "he lives in hawaii, miss treharne--i saw him in honolulu a few years ago," replied blythe, promptly enough. louise pondered. there was nothing specific she wanted to ask about her father. but she considered that blythe had not told her very much. "is he--well, nice?" she asked him. blythe, disturbed as he was, could not help but smile at the naïve question. but he sobered before he replied. "he is almost, if not quite, the finest man i ever knew," he said. "i hope to be allowed to tell you all about him some time. i shall be writing to him presently. tut! here is peekskill. i am dropping off here for a few hours," and he thrust his arms into his overcoat. "you will send my love to my father in your letter?" said louise, her eyes slightly filmed, touching him upon the sleeve. he looked gravely down upon her; her words touched him keenly. "i am glad you have asked me to do that, miss treharne," he said. "and he will be more than glad--depend upon that. goodbye--not for very long, i hope. i am overjoyed to have come upon you again--especially at this time," and he took her two hands in his huge palms for an instant and was gone. "'especially at this time'--i wonder what he meant by that?" thought louise. he waved at her as he passed beneath her car window. she was conscious that his smile in doing so was slightly forced; an instant before he caught sight of her through the window she had noticed that his face was clouded with worry. * * * * * an hour later louise was weaving her way through the rushing, holiday-chattering crowd toward the exit gate at the grand central station. peering toward the gate, and able, with her unusual height, to see over the heads of the hurrying women and most of the men, she espied her mother, looking somewhat petitely stodgy beside the stately laura, gazing rather wearily through the iron lattice. "i think i see myself being sent to bed without any supper," whimsically thought louise, considering, as she drew nearer, her mother's bored expression. louise was glad laura was with her mother; when a mere growing girl she had become gratefully familiar with laura's self-styled "ameliorating knack." she had become very fond of her mother's handsome, superbly-capricious but sunny-natured friend before being packed off to school; and now her eyes became slightly blurred at the thought that laura had remembered her and had thought enough of her to be with her mother at her home-coming. "here is our blossomy, bronze-haired boadicea!" louise heard laura say as she was taken into the older woman's arms and heartily kissed. then laura thrust her away with assumed annoyance. "but, minx, you are taller than i am; a full inch, maybe two, taller! how do you ever expect me to forgive you that, child?" and she smiled, drawing louise toward her again, and hugged her once more. louise's mother brushed the girl's cheek with her lips, her daughter bending toward her. "you _are_ grotesquely tall, aren't you, dear?" said mrs. treharne, not very good-naturedly. her petulance over louise's return was by no means allayed; and her masseuse had told her that evening that she had gained two pounds in a week! "you will have to get clothes that will reduce your shocking stature." then, swept by a momentary compunction, "you are well, dear? you are looking excessively well." louise was not hurt by the tone of her mother's greeting. she was well acquainted with her parent's irritableness, and even more familiar with her indurated indifference. the main thing was that she was back with her mother, and with a chance to strive for a better understanding. "but aren't you a mite thinner, mother?" louise asked, thoroughly meaning it; for there wasn't an ounce of sycophancy in louise's make-up, and she noticed her mother's hollowness of eye and generally distraught air and so concluded that she was losing in weight. mrs. treharne flared instantly. "you are not to make game of me, my dear, whatever else you do," she said, icily, to her astonished daughter. laura laughed outright and caught louise's arm in her own as they started through the station. "don't be absurd, antoinette--the dear is not making game of you, as you call it," said laura. "you know she is incapable of that." "but i am all at sea," said louise, still mystified over her mother's inexplicable outbreak. "what is it? what did i say that was wrong?" her mother looked at her and saw that the girl was wholly innocent of the sarcasm she had hastily attributed to her. "you know very well, louise," she said, in a tone meant to be appeasing, "that i am hideously, scandalously, shockingly fat; and you cannot expect me to be cheerful when you begin to taunt me with it before you have had more than one glance at me." "but you are anything but stout, mother dear, and i really meant what i said," put in louise. "why, it perfectly stuns me to think you could suppose that i----" "tut-tut--can't we find something more engaging to talk about than what the weighing scales do or do not tell us?" broke in laura, gaily. "antoinette, dear, won't you see if you can attract that taxicab man's attention?" when mrs. treharne walked over to the curb to summon the chauffeur of the taxicab laura seized the moment to say to louise in a low tone. "some things have occurred to disturb your mother, dear; so don't mind if she seems a bit _difficile_ tonight, will you? she is a little annoyed over your intention not to return to the school; but i shall help you out there. i am going home with you now for a little while. you'll depend upon your old friend laura?" louise, watching her mother, furtively pressed laura's hand. "you know how i always loved you as a little girl?" she said simply. laura's eyes became suddenly suffused with tears. she knew the girl's need of affection; and she vowed in her heart, then and there, crowding back the tears when she saw mrs. treharne beckoning to them, that she would stand in the place of the girl's mother if the time ever came--and she more than dimly apprehended that come it would--when such a thing need be. laura forced the conversation and strove to give to it a note of gayety as the taxicab sped through the icy streets. once, in addressing her, louise called her "mrs. stedham." instantly laura assumed a mighty pretence of annoyed hostility. "mrs. hoity-toity, child," she said, severely, to louise. "you are not supposing, i hope, that i shall permit a woman a full two inches taller than i am to call me any such an outlandish name as 'mrs. stedham'? great heaven, am i not old enough as it is? i am laura to you, dear; flatter me at least, by making me believe that you consider me young enough to be called by my christened name; the aged have so few compensations, you know," and louise, not without initial difficulty, however--for laura had always been a woman to her--called her laura thenceforth and was pleased to imagine that the elder woman was her "big, grown-up" sister. on the ride to the riverside drive house louise, suddenly remembering, mentioned blythe. she described the incident through which he had made himself known to her, but forbore, out of a certain diffidence which she always felt in her mother's presence, saying anything about blythe's allusions to her father. she omitted that part altogether. "how extraordinary!" commented laura. "but john blythe's practice is always sending him prowling about the country on trains. everybody who knows about such things tells me what an enormously important personage he is becoming in the dry-as-dust legal world. i am sure he does astonishingly well with my hideously complicated affairs--you know he is my legal man, louise. isn't it odd that you should have met him in such a way? didn't you find him rather--well, _distingué_, we'll say, louise?" "i thought him very fine and----" louise strove for a word haltingly. "and with an air about him--of course you did, my dear; everybody does," laura aided her. "if he wasn't such a perfectly wrong-headed, wrapped-up-in-the-law sort of a person he would have fallen in love with me long ago, even if i am old enough to be his grandmother; he is thirty-two, i believe, and i am bordering upon thirty-six; but he barely notices me in that way," with an acute emphasis on the "that," "though we are no end of first-rate friends; pals, i was going to say; for i've known him ever since----" laura came to a sudden stop. she had been upon the brink of saying "ever since blythe had helped her to get her divorce from rodney stedham;" but she recollected in time that that was not exactly the sort of a chronological milestone that should be reverted to in the presence of a girl just that day out of school. "louise, did you tell mr. blythe that you were to remain with me--permanently?" asked mrs. treharne, constrainedly, suddenly joining in the conversation. louise reflected a moment before replying. "why, yes, mother, i did; he asked me about it, i recall now," she said. "did he have any comment to make?" asked her mother in a reduced tone. "why, no, dear," said louise. "in fact, he appeared to be considerably worried about something, and so----" louise felt herself being furtively prodded by laura, and she left off suddenly. opportunely, the taxicab drew up in front of an ornate house on the drive. "do you live here, mother?" louise inquired, innocently. "i wonder how i managed to form the impression that you were living in an apartment?" mrs. treharne pretended not to have heard her. the door was silently opened by a man in livery. laura was watching louise keenly as the girl's eyes took in the splendor of the foyer and hall. the magnificence was of a pittsburgesque sort, in which beauty is sacrificed to a mere overwhelming extravagance; but, for its extravagance alone, not less than for its astonishing ornateness, it had a sort of impressiveness. "why, how dazzling!" louise could not refrain from commenting. "how delightfully different from what i expected! i am so glad that i am home--home!" she lingered lovingly upon the word. it was a difficult moment for laura. but she was prepared for it. in addition to the "ameliorating knack" she had a way of being ready for contingencies. "antoinette," she said, mainly to stop louise, "i have one of my headaches coming on. can't we have some tea in your rooms?" "i was just about to suggest that," said mrs. treharne, drily, and presently the three women were in her sumptuous sitting room, overlooking the twinkling lights of the hudson. a butler spread the cloth and brought a fowl and salad and jams, while louise roamed about exclaiming over the beauty of the rooms, and laura fought desperately against her inclination to brood. laura contributed whatever of merriness there was to the home-coming feast. mrs. treharne confined herself to occasional questions directed at louise, and the girl saw that her mother was tired and out of sorts; she remembered what laura had told her at the station of her mother's state of mind "over matters," and she made the allowances that she had been accustomed to make for her mother since her earliest years. the three women were still at the table, beginning to make allusions to bed--laura had summoned her car by 'phone, for it was close upon eleven--when a great-girthed man, in a sealskin coat that fell almost to his heels, an opera hat set rakishly on one side of his bald head, and his turkey-like eyes still more reddened with the libations that his lurching gait made still more obvious, lumbered into the room without the least attempt at knocking on the door. "hay-o, folks--having a little party?" said judd, lurching toward the table. "am i in on it?" and he plumped himself drunkenly into a chair. laura rose at the first sight of him. mrs. treharne kept her seat but gazed at him vitriolically. louise looked at him quietly enough. she was intensely mystified, but quite willing to wait for any information as to the intrusion. no information, however, was forthcoming. "your mother will show you to your room, dear," said laura, placing an arm around louise's waist and guiding her to the door. under her breath she said: "no questions, dear heart. he is an--an adviser of your mother. we are going to be great cronies, are we not?" she kissed louise and went. her mother conducted louise to a sleeping room done in white and silver, and kissed the girl good night with a sort of belated rush of affection. but she said nothing to her in explanation of judd. toward midnight john blythe, after striding up and down his solitary bachelor apartment for two hours in lounging robe and slippers, went to the telephone in his study and called up laura. "is that you, laura?" he said, quietly, into the transmitter when she answered the call. "what time tomorrow forenoon will you be fit to be seen?" "by noon," laura's voice came back to him quietly. "i know what you want to see me about, john." "do you? i doubt that." "it is about louise treharne." "i'll be there by noon. goodnight." "goodnight." chapter iii heloise's intentional noisiness in rearranging the toilet articles on the dressing table aroused louise. the brilliant sunlight of a sparkling winter morning was pouring into the room. half-awake and the brightness of the room filtering through her still-closed eyelids, she was obsessed for an instant with the fear that, over-sleeping, she was late for the exercises attending the beginning of a day at miss mayhew's school. she smiled at the thought, in spite of a brooding, indefinable trouble that had burdened her sleep, when, with wide eyes, she quickly sensed the lavishness of the room and saw the invincibly trig heloise moving about. "mademoiselle is awake at last?" said heloise in french, a trace of irritation in her tone. "one considered that mademoiselle contemplated sleeping until the end of time." louise disarmed her with a laugh. "perhaps i should have," she said, lightly, but on her guard with her french in the presence of so meticulous a critic, "had i not just this moment dreamt of coffee. am i too late for breakfast?" of course mademoiselle should have her coffee instantly, said the appeased heloise, ringing. the maid mentally pronounced that louise's finishing-school french was almost intelligible to one understanding that language. mrs. treharne had sent heloise to look after louise until a maid should be obtained for her. louise, sitting up in bed, her fresh, clear-colored face aureoled by her agreeably awry mass of bronzed hair, the nocturnal braids of which she already had begun to unplait, laughed again at the thought of being attended by a maid. "i shall have to be trained for that," she said to the mollified heloise. "i never had a maid. i doubt if i should know how to behave with a maid doing my hair. i think i should find myself tempted to do the maid's instead; especially if her hair were as pretty as yours." heloise was louise's sworn, voluble, tooth-and-nail, right-or-wrong, everlasting friend from that moment. she 'phoned to the butler, demanding to know why mademoiselle's coffee had not been sent, although she had only called for it three minutes before, and she buzzed about the tractable louise, arranging her hair with expert fingers, cheerful and chirpful, nothing whatever like the austere, croaking heloise who scowled so threateningly over the slightest unruliness of her actual mistress. heloise was prepared to give an enthusiastic recommendation of louise to the maid who should be engaged to attend her mistress's daughter. and she began already to be envious of louise's unobtained maid. when heloise had finished with her louise, inspecting herself in the glass with frank approval, decided that never before had she looked so astonishingly well at that hour of the morning. but, when the garrulous maid had gone, louise, sipping her coffee, sat in the streaming sunlight of the bowed window, watching the sparkling ice floes drift down the bleak hudson, and the trouble that had weighted her sleep returned upon her, slowly taking shape with her consciousness. she had been too tired the night before to engage in much reflection, before losing herself in sleep, upon the incidents--one incident particularly--of the previous night. now she was face to face with the gravamen of her depression, with an alert morning mind to sift over its elements. it was characteristic of her that she did not seek to thrust aside her consciousness of conditions which she imperfectly understood. she understood them, however, sufficiently to grasp at least the essentials of the situation. louise, whose native shrewdness was tempered by an innate and unconquerable tendency to look upon the bright side of the world and of such of the world's people as she came into contact with, was far better acquainted with her mother than her mother was with her; which was natural enough, considering that she had the receptive mind of youth, and that her mother's major trait was a sort of all-inclusive indifference. many things in connection with her mother's manner of life, her almost hysterical love of admiration, her restlessness and her habitual secretiveness with louise during the girl's early girlhood years, had become all too plain to the daughter as she developed into womanhood at the finishing school. perhaps it may be added that a twentieth century finishing school for young women commonly is an institution wherein all of the pupils' deductions are not made from their text books nor from the eminently safe premises laid down by their instructors. the young woman who has spent four years at such a school does not step through a nimbus of juvenile dreams when she enters into the world that is waiting for her. it is true that, when she takes her place in the uncloistered world, she has a great deal to unlearn; but this is balanced by the indubitable fact she has not very much to learn. those who expect her to be utterly surprised over the departures that she sees from the rules of the social game are merely wasting their surprise. it is mere futility to suppose that several hundreds of young women of the highly intelligent and eager type who attend exclusive schools of the so-termed finishing kind, thrust constantly upon each other for companionship and the comparison of notes, are going to occupy all of their leisure in discussing the return of halley's comet, or the profounder meaning of wagner, or even the relative starchiness of their hair ribbons. louise, participating in the whispered precocities of the school, had often caught herself on the defensive in her mother's behalf. to seek to brush away imputations that seemed to fit her mother's personality and way of life had become almost a habit with her. the habit, however, was availing her little on this her first morning after leaving school in her mother's sumptuous home--"that is, if it is mother's home." she flushed when she found herself saying that. but the doubt propelled itself through her consciousness, and she resolutely refused to expel it, once it had found lodgment in her mind, merely because it caused her cheeks to burn. her mother's favorite word, in contemptuously denominating people who lived in accordance with convention, was "smug;" mrs. treharne considered that she had pilloried, for the world's derision, persons to whom she had adverted as "smug." of the smugness of the kind mrs. treharne meant when she employed the word, there was not an atom in louise's composition. her nature, her upbringing, were opposed to the thought of a narrow, restrained, buckram social rule. but here was a situation--the investiture of almost garish splendor in which she found her mother living, considered in connection with subconscious doubts as to certain quite visible flaws in her mother's character which had been forming themselves in the girl's mind for years--here, indeed, was a situation with respect to which louise's unquietude had no need of being based upon mere smugness. the girl knew quite well that, up to the time of her going away to school at any rate, her mother's income had been a limited one--some three thousand a year voluntarily contributed by the father for his daughter's support and education. it had not been, in fact, her mother's income at all, but louise's; and it had been voluntarily contributed by the father because, as he had been the plaintiff in the divorce suit, the decree had not required him to aid his detached wife or his daughter at all; the court had given him the custody of the child, and he had surrendered that custody to the mother out of sheer pity for her. how, then, had her mother provided herself, on an income which, with a daughter to educate, called for frugality, if not positive scrimping, with such a sheerly extravagant setting? and judd! louise flushed again when she remembered judd. she did not know his name. she had never seen or even heard of him before. she only remembered him--and the thought caused her to draw her negligée more closely about her, for she experienced a sudden chill--as the girthy, red-eyed individual who, with the proprietary arrogance of an intoxicated man who seemed perfectly to know his position under that roof, had lurched into her mother's apartments on the previous night without the least attempt at announcing himself. how would her mother explain these things? would she, indeed, explain to her daughter at all? in any case, louise formed the resolve not to question her mother. she possessed, what is unusual in woman, an instinctive appreciation of the rights of others, even when such rights are perversely altered to wrongs. she considered that her mother's affairs were her own, in so far as they did not involve herself, louise treharne, in any tacit copartnership; and as to this point she purposed ascertaining, before very long, to just what extent she had become or was expected to become involved. for the rest, she was conscious of a distinct sympathy for and a yearning toward her mother. in her reflections she gave her mother the benefit of every mitigating circumstance. turning from the window, louise saw her mother standing before the dresser glass studying her haggard morning face, now lacking all of the sorely-required aids to the merely pretty regularity of her features, with a head-shaking lugubriousness that might have had its comic appeal to an unconcerned onlooker. louise, however, was scarcely in a mood of mirth. "i knocked, my dear, but you were too much absorbed," said mrs. treharne, offering her daughter her cheek. "you were in a veritable trance. did you get enough sleep, child? was heloise in a scolding humor? she makes my life a misery to me with her tongue. what beautiful hair you have! and what a perfect skin! a powder puff would mar that wonderful pallor. yet you are not too white. it becomes you, with your hair. appreciate these things while you have them, dear; look at your mother, a hag, a witch, at thirty-nine! but, then, you will keep your looks longer than i; you pattern after the women of your----" she came perilously close to saying "your father's family," but adroitly turned the phrase when she caught herself in time. louise, putting on a cheerful mask, replied to her mother's trivialities and devised some of her own. her mother had not lost her banting-killed bloom when louise had last seen her at such an hour in the morning; and the girl was inwardly pained to note how all but the mere vestiges of her remembered prettiness had disappeared. mrs. treharne caught her looking at her with a certain scrutinizing reflectiveness, and she broke out petulantly: "don't pick me apart with your eyes in that way, louise! i know that i am hideous, but for heaven's sake don't remind me of it with your criticizing, transfixing gazes!" she was of the increasing type of women who, long after they have the natural right to expect adulation on account of their looks, still hate to surrender. louise quickly perceived this and provided unguents for her mother's sensitiveness. they chatted upon little matters, mrs. treharne so ill at ease (yet striving to hide her restlessness) that she found it impossible to sit still for more than a minute; she fluttered incessantly about the room, her wonderful negligée of embroidered turquoise sailing after her like the outspread wings of a moth. after many pantheress-like rounds of the room, during which louise somehow felt her old diffidence in her mother's presence returning upon her, mrs. treharne, after her evident casting about for an opening, stopped before louise and pinched her cheek between dry fingers. "at any rate, my dear," she said with a trace of her old amiability and animation, "you are not a frump or a bluestocking! there was a time when i had two fears: that you would not grow up pretty and that you would become bookish. and here i find myself towered over by a young princess, and you don't talk in the least like a girl with crazy notions of keeping up her inane school studies." then, after a slight pause: "are you religious, my dear, or--er--well, broad-minded?" louise smothered her mounting laugh, for fear of offending her mother in her mood of amiability; but her smile was eloquent enough. "is there any incompatibility between those two states of mind, mother?" she asked. "don't dissect my words, child; you quite understand what i mean," said the mother, with a slight reversion to peevishness. "your father, you know, was--no doubt still is--shockingly narrow; he hadn't the slightest conception of the broad, big view; he belonged in this respect, i think, in the middle ages; and i have been tortured by the fear that you might--might--" she hesitated. she had not meant to mention louise's father, much less to speak of him even in mild derogation; and she suddenly recalled how, years before, there had been a tacit agreement between them that louise's father was not to be mentioned. the agreement had been entered into after an occasion when louise, then a child of eleven, with the memory of her vanished father still very keen in her mind, had rushed from the room, in blinding tears, upon hearing her mother speak of him in terms of dispraise. "i did not have much time at school for self-analysis, mother," said louise, coming to her mother's aid. "i suppose i am normal and neutral enough. i am not conscious of any particular leaning." she flushed, swept by a sudden sense of the difficulty, the incongruity, of such a conversation with her mother amid such surroundings. "mother," she resumed, hastily, "i am so keen to see new york again that i am hardly capable of thinking of anything else just now. are we to go out?" "the car is yours when you wish it, louise," said mrs. treharne, absently. "i rarely go out until late in the afternoon." "the car?" said louise. "you have a car, then?" her mother glanced at her sharply. it was sufficiently obvious that she was on the lookout for symptoms of inquisitiveness on louise's part; though louise had not meant her question to be in the least inquisitive. "i have the use of a car," said mrs. treharne, a little frigidly. "it belongs to mr. judd." instinctively louise felt that "mr. judd" was the sealskinned falstaff whose unceremonious appearance the night before had startled her. but she remained silent. nothing could have induced her to ask her mother about mr. judd. her mother did not fail to notice her silence, which of course put her on the defensive. "mr. judd," she said, "is--a--" she hesitated painfully--"my business adviser. he has been very good and kind in making some investments in--in mining stocks for me; investments that have proved very profitable. he is alert in my interest. it was mr. judd, my dear, whom you saw last night. he was not quite himself, i fear, or he would not have made his appearance as he did. he has helped me so much that of course it would be ungrateful of me not to permit him the run of the place." she rambled on, as persons will who feel themselves to be on the defensive. "in fact, he--he--but of course, if you have formed a prejudice against him on account of last night, there will be no occasion for you to meet him except occasionally." louise caught the hollowness, the evasiveness, of the explanation. not one word of it had rung true. louise had never felt sorrier for her mother than she did at that moment. she noticed a certain hunted expression in her mother's face, and it cut her to the quick. she placed a long, finely-chiselled arm, from which the sleeve of the negligée had slipped back to the shoulder, around her mother's neck. "but i haven't the least use for a car, dearie," she said. it was not with deliberation that she ignored altogether what her mother had been saying as to judd; it was simply that she could not bring herself to offer any comment on that subject. "i am a walker; every day at miss mayhew's i did ten miles--even in rain and snow, and it is clouding for snow now, i think. you will not mind my going out for a long walk? i am wild for air and exercise." mrs. treharne was grateful to the girl for turning it off in that way even if, by so doing, louise indicated that she was of more than one mind with respect to what had been told her regarding judd. and mrs. treharne, careless and indifferent as she was, could not visualize her daughter in the gigantic yellow-bodied judd car without being swept by a feeling that was distinctly to her credit. * * * * * laura stedham, over her cocoa, was weaving with careless rapidity through her morning mail when john blythe arrived shortly before noon. laura's apartment overlooked the west side of the park. its dominant color scheme now was based upon a robin's egg blue; but there was a jest among laura's friends that they never had seen her apartment look the same on two visits running; they declared that every time laura left the city for as long a period as a fortnight, she left orders with her decorator to have her apartment completely done over so that even she herself quite failed to recognize it when she returned. blythe, throwing his snow-sprinkled stormcoat over the extended arm of laura's brisk maid, strolled over to a window and watched the still, unflurried flakes sift through the bare branches of the park trees. his hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his eyes were so unusually meditative that laura, used to his absorption as she was, laughed quietly as she turned from her escritoire. "yes, john, it is snowing," she said, thrusting away a heap of still-unopened letters. blythe turned to her with a twinkling look of inquiry. "i thought perhaps you might not have noticed it," chaffed laura, "seeing that you were looking right at it. you require an excessive amount of forgiveness from your friends. i believe you have not even seen me yet, although i've employed a good hour that i might have spent in bed in devising additional fascinations in anticipation of your coming." "meaning, for one thing, i suppose," said blythe with rather an absorbed smile, "that--that--" "don't you dare call it a kimono," interrupted laura. "it's a mandarin's coat--a part of the peking loot. of course you are crazy over it?" it was a magnificent pale blue, ermine-padded garment, with a dragon of heavy gold embroidery extending from nape to hem down the loose back. blythe studied it for a moment and then glanced significantly at the faint-blue walls and ceiling of the room. "i presume," he said, solemnly, "you had your rooms done this last time to match the mother hub--i mean the mandarin's coat?" they did not need thus to spar, for they were (what, unhappily, is so unusual between men and women in a world devoid of mid-paths) close friends; even comrades, in so far as blythe's hard work permitted him to assume his share of such a relationship; and they understood each other thoroughly, with no complication differing from a genuine mutual esteem to mar their understanding. nevertheless, both of them found it a trifle difficult to undertake the lead on the subject that was uppermost in their minds and the occasion of blythe's forenoon visit. laura with her customary helpfulness, finally gave him an opening. "she told us of having met you on the train," said laura, as if in continuation of a conversation already begun on the theme. "an odd chance, wasn't it? i wonder if you were so enormously struck with her as i was?" "you met her at the station, did you not?" said blythe, quietly. "that was like you; like your all-around fineness." "thanks," said laura, appreciatively. "but you evade my question. isn't she a perfect apparition of loveliness?" "i wish she were less so," said blythe, not convincingly. "no, you don't wish that," said laura. "i know what you wish; but it is not that." blythe was silent for a space and then he fell to striding up and down the room. "did you ever come upon such an unspeakable situation, laura?" he broke out, stopping to face her. "what is antoinette treharne thinking of? is she utterly lost to any sense of--" "i wouldn't say that, john," put in laura, holding up a staying hand. "it is natural enough, i know, for you to reach such a conclusion; on a cursory view the case seems to be against her; but you must remember that louise came home without warning. antoinette had no opportunity to devise a plan. she is horribly humiliated. i know that." "your usual method of defending everybody--and you know how i like you for that as for so many other things," said blythe. "but, laura, louise's mother knew that the girl must leave school in half a year at all events. she must have considered some way out of the hideous mess?" "none that she ever mentioned to me," said laura. "you know her habit of procrastination. i grazed the subject two or three times in talking with her. she dodged, or was downright brusque. she has no plan, i am sure. but she is sorely distressed over it all, now that the situation has come to a head. i am very sorry for her." "but the girl?" said blythe, a slight note of irritation in his tone. "how about her?" "i should be more worried if i were not so entirely confident that louise is amply competent to take care of herself," said laura. "she is no longer a girl, john. she is a woman, and a woman with more than her share of plain sense. her position, of course, is positively outrageous, heartrending. but i am at a loss to suggest a single thing that her friends--that you or i, or both of us--could do just now to better it." "that," said blythe, a little hoarsely, "is just the devil of it." "i should like to have louise with me," laura went on, "but i doubt if she would come, although i believe she is fond of me. not just yet, at any rate. she would not care to leave her mother after her long separation from her. louise will find out the situation herself. no doubt she already has sensed a part of its sinister aspect. i am horribly sorry for her. but, as i say, she is a woman of character. she will know what to do. all that we can do, for the present at any rate, is to be on guard for her, without seeming to be. of course she shall know that we are her friends. she already knows that i am her friend. did you, on the train--" "yes," put in blythe, apprehending what laura was going to ask. "i told her that i knew her father. the matter came about in an odd way. i wish, laura, that you'd make it clear to her, if you have the chance, that she--that i--" he halted embarrassedly. "i quite understand," laura aided him, smiling. "that you mean to be her friend, too--of course i shall tell her that," and laura looked reflective when she observed how blythe's face brightened. it soon clouded again, however, when he broke out: "she will find out, of course, sooner or later, that she has been taken care of and educated for the past five years and odd with judd's money," he said, worriedly. "you can imagine how intense her mortification will be over that discovery. judd, you know, in contempt of george treharne, forced mrs. treharne to return to me the quarterly checks that treharne sent me from hawaii for louise--for of course i sent the checks to antoinette. i explained this to treharne when i saw him in honolulu a few years ago. he was badly cut up over it but of course he was powerless to do anything about it. he refused to take the checks back, though, and directed me to deposit the money to louise's account. i have nearly fifteen thousand dollars--five years' accrued checks, for treharne has never stopped sending them--on deposit for louise now. don't you think she had better be told this?" "wait a while," advised laura. "wait until she discovers how the land lies. then she will be coming to you. if you told her now it would involve your telling her also that she had been educated with judd's money. i think it better that she discover that for herself--if she must discover it. then she will know what to do. she will be seeking you out then," and laura smiled inwardly when again she noted how blythe's face cleared at her last words. "there is only one thing to do, of course, and that is to follow your advice and let the matter stand as it is for the present," said blythe, preparing to go. "but the thing is going to sit pretty heavily upon me. i have been treharne's legal man ever since my senior partner died, as you know, and, although it isn't of course expected of me, i can't help but feel a certain responsibility for his daughter when she is thrust into such a miserable situation as this. i wonder," catching at a new and disturbing idea, "if her mother will expect louise to meet the wretched crew of near-poets, maybe-musicians and other rag-tag-and-bobtail that assemble at what antoinette calls her sunday evening 'salon?'" "antoinette's 'zoo,' i call it," laughed laura. "what if louise does meet them? they can't harm her. they, the unfortunate make-believes, will only appeal to her risibles, if i mistake not. louise must have got her sense of humor from her father. antoinette hasn't a particle of humor in her composition. if she had how long do you suppose she would continue her absurd 'salon?" laura, in extending her hand to blythe, who had resumed his stormcoat, gazed quizzically into his rugged face. "john," she said, "is your solicitude for louise solely on account of the--er--sense of responsibility you feel toward her father?" blythe caught the twinkle in her eyes. "humbug!" he ejaculated, striding out to the obligato of laura's laugh. * * * * * when they were settled in the car for their snowy ride that afternoon, mrs. treharne turned in her seat to face judd. "you will understand," she said in a tone quite as hard as it was meant to be, "that i am not wasting words. if you repeat your grossness of last night in my daughter's presence, our--our friendship is at an end. that is understood?" "now, now, shush, shush, tony," said the gargantuan judd, soothingly, and resorting to his habit of patting her hands, "not so severe, not so terrifically severe, you know. how did i know that your daughter would be there? didn't know the least thing about it--forgot, i mean, that she was coming. got a bit screwed at the club, and--" "i don't elect to listen to that sort of an explanation," interrupted mrs. treharne, with cold deliberation. "i am unutterably weary of your porcine manners. it is bad enough that i have permitted myself to endure them. you are not imbecile enough to suppose that my daughter is to endure them, too? you are to meet her only when it is absolutely necessary; be good enough to remember that. while she is with me--i don't now know how long that is to be--you are to curtail your visits; and if you come even once again in the sodden condition that you were in last night, i am done with you from that instant. i make myself plain, i hope?" "'pon honor, tony, you are horribly severe," blurted judd, whiningly. "you know very well that if you were to cut and run i'd blow my head off." he felt that he meant it, too; for judd was tremendously fond of the fading woman seated beside him, as he had been for years. he was blind to her departing prettiness; to him she was the one woman in the world--his prim, elderly wife, the mother of his family of grown children, being utterly negligible in his view; and mrs. treharne knew her complete power over him as well as she knew the lines of her face. "i wish," she said, with a cutting way of dwelling upon each word, "that you had blown your head off before ever i met you. i might then have been able to cling to at least the shreds of self-respect." judd had no reply to make to that, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. chapter iv by mid-january louise had completed her inventory of the situation. she faced her position without flinching and with no visible sign of the distress the gradually unfolding picture caused her, save a certain silent preoccupation from which laura vainly sought to rouse her by taking her on incessant rounds of the theatres, whisking her off on short up-state and long island motor tours, and providing other means of distraction and excitement. laura's heart ached for louise. her own girlhood had been clouded by trouble. orphaned at sixteen, an heiress with no disinterested advisors save those who were the legal guardians of her person and estate, she had yielded shortly after leaving school to a girlish infatuation and entered upon a surreptitious marriage with a man who, with his child-wife's large wealth at his disposal, had surrendered to one dissipation after another until, eventually becoming a drug fiend, he had, in his treatment of her, developed into such an utterly savage and irresponsible brute that she was compelled to divorce him, after which he had been put under permanent restraint. it had taken laura long years to recover her natural equipoise after her bitter disillusionment. louise's trouble, laura could not help apprehending, was even more grievous than her own had been, intensified as she knew it must be by the girl's carefully-screened feeling of humiliation. laura admired louise beyond words for her uncomplaining acceptance of her bitter bolus. "i never saw such pluck," she told john blythe time and again. "it is the pluck of a thoroughbred. i believe she thoroughly understands everything now, except that she is in judd's debt for her education. her loyalty to her mother is wonderful, beautiful; far greater than antoinette really deserves. i don't remember ever meeting a girl or woman whom i admired so much as i do louise treharne." laura could not fail to note how blythe's clear grey eyes would glisten when thus she praised the girl. "louise is like her father," he would say in reply to laura's enthusiasm. "you know what a fine, game man george treharne was and is. i'll never forget how generous he was in his treatment of me--and he tried to prevent me from knowing it, too--when, as a cub lawyer, i was first starting out on my own hook; and there wasn't the least reason in life why he should have been so decent to me, either. you remember how he never whimpered when antoinette dragged his--oh, well, no use in referring to that. but, when i first met the grown-up louise on the train--after i accidentally discovered her identity, i mean--i couldn't help but observe how her resemblance to her father--" "to whom," laura watched him with twinkling eyes, "your sense of responsibility is so great that--er--that--" whereupon blythe would flush hotly and proceed to shrivel laura with whatever in the way of polite invective occurred to him in his confusion. the thought of leaving her mother for the sake of extricating herself from a difficult and taxing situation never entered louise's mind. her mother, she felt, needed her. it was not, she considered, a problem for her interposition; she shrank from the thought of even mentioning it. she knew that it was an utterly impossible situation; she had a profound belief that it was not, from its very nature, destined to last; but she preferred that her mother should take the initiative in casting off the evil. she clearly saw how, from day to day, her mother was becoming increasingly conscious of the grave trouble she was heaping upon her daughter's young shoulders; she perceived how her mother, not inherently vicious, simply was in the bondage of an ingrained, luxury-loving selfishness, and that, having been cast out of the social realm in which she formerly had moved, she was now possessed by a sort of despair which, more than anything else, prevented her from making the attempt to extricate herself from the slough. louise, then, schooled herself to wait. it was a sort of waiting that drew heavily upon her natural store of equanimity. but she could see no other course, and hopefulness is the tandem mate of youth. "i have lived long enough," laura said to her one afternoon, when they were driving, during this trying period when louise was testing her adaptability to the utmost, "to have discovered that nothing matters very much except one's own peace of mind. if one have that, the rest is all a mirage. i don't mean the peace of mind that proceeds from a priggish sense of superiority to human weaknesses. that, i am pleased to say, is a sort of mental peace that i haven't yet experienced, and i hope i never shall. but when one's hands are just decently clean, and one at least has tried to shake off the shackles forged by one's own little meannesses, a sort of satisfying mental quiet ensues that is worth, i think, more than anything else one finds in life." "but one's worry for others?" quietly suggested louise, putting it in the form of a question. laura pressed the girl's hands between her own. "all of us, dear, must know the meaning of solicitude--often painful solicitude--for others at some period of our lives," she said, tenderly. "i know what you mean. you are carrying yourself nobly through a difficult ordeal. let that consciousness suffice. you will have the right to feel proud, in the coming time, to remember that you stood the test--as we are proud of you now." "'we?'" said louise, puzzling. "we," repeated laura, steadfastly. "i think you scarcely understand, dear, how profoundly interested--yes, and chivalrously interested, too--john blythe is in your--your problem." louise felt the blood rushing to her face. "does mr. blythe know?" she asked, her cheeks tingling. "how could he avoid knowing, dear?" rejoined laura, gently. "he is your father's lawyer. he is an occasional visitor at your--" she hesitated; "--visitor on riverside drive," she resumed. "and so of course he knows--everything. you may be glad of that, dear. there is no man in the world whose friendship i value more highly than that of john blythe. i think he would like to have you feel--i know, in fact, that he would--that he is interested in your--your concerns; that, indeed, in a way, he is standing guard for you." louise studied for a little while. "i should have understood, of course, that he knew," she said, hesitatingly. "but it did not occur to me. i am afraid that i should have been a little reluctant to meet him on those two or three occasions at your home if i had known that he--" she paused. "why, dear child, should you have such a feeling when a man of innate nobility, who knew you when you were a little girl----" "it is wrong, i know," put in louise, hastily. "but i find it so hard to regard him as--as just a lawyer, you know, laura. he is not like a lawyer at all--at least i have not found him so. he is----" laura pointed a teasing finger at her, which caused the color to reappear on louise's face. "don't try to tell me what he is, louise," said laura, smiling. "don't you suppose i know? but you don't know how intensely glad i am to hear that you can't regard mr. blythe as--as 'just a lawyer.' i shall tell him that you are going about criticizing his professional ability." "don't do that--please!" said louise in such an obvious panic that laura pinched her cheek reassuringly. the meetings with blythe to which louise referred were casual ones in laura's apartment. blythe was in the habit of dropping in occasionally for coffee--he abominated tea--and a chat at laura's tea hour in the late afternoon; and laura duly noted, not without slyly chaffing him over it, that he had made this an almost daily habit since his discovery that he stood a pretty fair gambling chance of finding louise there almost any afternoon. once, when laura and louise came in from a drive which had been prolonged rather later than usual, they entered the library quietly, to find blythe, looking decidedly glum, browsing among the books without the least seeming of being interested in any of them, for his hands were thrust deep into his pockets and they caught him yawning most deplorably. but at sight of the two women--one woman, laura said, accusingly, to him after louise had gone home in laura's car--he had brightened so suddenly and visibly that laura had to profess that her rippling laugh was occasioned by something she had seen during her drive. on these occasions laura had found it imperatively necessary to leave them together in order to confer with her servants. louise and blythe had talked easily on detached, somewhat light matters, finding an agreeable mutual plane without effort. louise, remembering his somewhat sober preoccupation on the train, had been surprised and pleased--though she could not have told why--to note his possession of a rather unusual social charm. she was pleased, too, that, except in the matter of a remarkable physique, he was not to be rated as a handsome man. his features were too rugged for that. strength, keenness and kindliness shone from his masterful countenance; but he was anything but handsome judged from the magazine-cover standard. louise had amused laura one day by saying that she found blythe's face "restful." she had not the least partiality for men of the generally-accepted straightout handsome type of features; she was, in truth, a little inclined to be contemptuous of an excessive facial pulchritude in men. but--again for a reason which she could scarcely have explained--she was glad that blythe was perhaps two inches more than six feet in height, that he was as straight as a lance, and that he found it necessary to walk sidewise in order to get his shoulders through some of laura's lesser doors. on her last meeting with blythe louise had asked him, with a certain hesitancy which he noticed, if he had written to her father. "yes," blythe had replied, simply, "and i sent him your love." he had not offered to become more communicative; and louise, concluding that his reticence on the subject might be based on a considerateness for her which it might be unfair for her to seek to fathom, did not mention the matter to him again. she had an oddly resolute confidence in him, considering how short the time had been since he had come into her life; and she felt that, if he now exhibited a taciturnity which puzzled her, it would be explained in due time. louise treharne belonged to that rare (and therefore radiant) type of women who know how to wait. * * * * * louise's life at the house on the drive quickly resolved itself into a daily programme tinctured with a monotony that could not but wear upon the spirits of a young woman of a naturally cheerful and gregarious temperament. her mother, generally in a state of feverish unrest that marked her strained incertitude over a situation which, in a way, was more intolerable to her than to her daughter because she was guiltily conscious that she was the maker of it, usually dropped into louise's room for an hour's chat during the forenoon. she was alternately affectionate, stilted, indifferent and petulant in her attitude toward her daughter. she did not seek, in her brooding self-communings, to thrust aside the keen consciousness that she was utterly and hopelessly in the wrong; but this consciousness did not serve to allay her irritation, even if it was directed against herself. like most women, she hated to be in the wrong; and she particularly loathed the thought of confessing herself in the wrong. she was less immoral than unmoral; her descent had been due to a sort of warped view as to forbidden relationships, nourished by an inborn and intense dislike for the sovereignty of convention--"the tyranny of the smug," she habitually called it--and based essentially upon her love of luxurious and extravagant living. but a consciousness of these facts only made her self-contempt the more keen. she measured and despised her sordidness. she was not, she fell into the habit of reflecting after her daughter's return, the victim of anybody but herself; her days of ardor had slipped away; she well knew that she had not even the excuse of a fondness for the man who had made her a social pariah. if she had ever experienced any such a fondness that fact might have mitigated, at least in her own self-view, the rawness of her course. but she cared nothing for judd, which made her case abominable, and she knew it. yet her weakened will, her character rendered flaccid by years of careless self-indulgence, made it acutely difficult for her to contemplate the thought of abandoning her way of living, even for the sake of her daughter. her prettiness was now purely a matter of meretricious building up; she would soon be forty; she fumed inwardly at the thought of middle age, which now, for her, was only around the corner, so to speak; she had been cast off by her own kind; and the terminal idea of her self-communings always was that, since there was no hope for her in any event, no matter what she might do, she might as well finish the scroll. she pushed aside louise's involvement in the difficulty as something that would--that would have to--adjust itself. a way out for louise must present itself sooner or later; but the way out for her daughter must be one that would not demand too great a sacrifice--if any sacrifice at all--on her own part. perhaps a good marriage could be contrived for louise; that would be the easiest and most natural solution; and she would cast about in her mind for eligibles on whose sensitive social concepts perhaps her own method of life would not grate. her dreary meditations usually terminated with futilities of this sort. louise, fighting back the oppressiveness that had clutched her ever since her return from school, was cheerful and sunny when her mother was with her. she made no allusion of any sort to the conditions of her environment. her mother, noticing this, was grateful for it, and she was conscious of a genuine and growing admiration for the mingled dignity and delicacy of her daughter's behavior. on one of her forenoon visits to louise's dressing room the mother herself, swept by a feeling of remorse in the contemplation of the girl's fragrant, pure-eyed beauty, could not refrain from touching impulsively upon the nub of her own unrest. "my dear," she said to louise, passing a white and still prettily rounded arm around her daughter, "do you hate your little mother?" louise fought back the tears that suffused her eyes. "why do you ask such a thing, dear?" she asked in a voice the hoarseness of which she strove to disguise. her mother did not reply to the question, but went on, turning her head away: "because there are circumstances, conditions that you can't have failed to notice here that maybe--" she struggled for words. "it has never been in my heart to do anything except what was right and fair by you, child, but one drifts, drifts, always drifts----" she could not proceed. louise wrapped her arms about her mother. neither spoke for a space. "nothing can ever change me, dear," said louise then in her quiet tone. "it is not for me to judge or condemn. i can--wait. we shall not speak of it again, shall we, mother?" her mother, haggard and with pain-drawn features, smoothed louise's face with her hand for a little while and went away without another word. the girl's eyes were swollen when laura came for her in her car an hour later. but laura did not ask her why. louise went nowhere with her mother. mrs. treharne made it plain from the beginning that this was her intention. louise, for her part, required no reason. she understood. nor did louise seek to re-establish the friendships she had formed with girls at miss mayhew's school, many of whom now were living in new york or visiting their homes there during the holiday vacation. one afternoon, at an opera matinée, louise, strolling out the entr'acte in the foyer with laura, came face to face with bella peyton, a girl who had been graduated from the finishing school with the class ahead of louise's. miss peyton was with her mother, a stony-eyed, granite-featured dowager who had often met louise on her frequent visits at the school; for her daughter and louise had been school inseparables. bella rushed up cordially to louise and kissed her enthusiastically. "you darling!" she exclaimed in the abandonment of her delight at coming upon the chum of her school days so unexpectedly. "when did you reach town? and why didn't you come to see me the very instant you returned?" mrs. peyton, who, at sight of louise, had purposely lagged in the rear, and whose adamantine countenance reflected intensifying degrees of frozenness with each word that her daughter was saying to louise, drew her adipose person into a posture of icy rigidity, and croaked: "bella!" mrs. peyton had not so much as nodded to louise. "why, mamma," bella broke out, "don't you remember louise treharne, my sworn and subscribed and vowed and vummed chum at miss mayhew's?" "bella!" this time it was not merely an adjuration, it was a command. bella, perceiving then that something was wrong, flushed. but she was loyal to her friend. "you are coming to see me immediately, dear?" she said, hurriedly shaking hands with louise in order to obey her mother's command. "bella! come to me at once!" mrs. peyton croaked with cutting, unconscionable rudeness, seizing her daughter by the arm and incontinently marching her off. louise, crimsoning, took the stab without a word. "the tabby!" broke out laura, her eyes flashing with indignation. "gracious heaven, is it any wonder that men privately sneer at the way women treat each other? don't you mind the shocking old cat, louise; she'll tear herself to pieces with her own claws some day;" and laura was unusually tender and kind in her treatment of louise for the remainder of the afternoon. but, after that encounter, louise learned to avoid meeting her school friends when, as occasionally happened, she saw them before they caught sight of her. she felt that they all "knew" or "would know," and she did not elect to take chances on additional snubs. her first formal meeting with judd had been a trial. it had been an accidental encounter, happening about a week after louise's return from school, and at a time when mrs. treharne was in more than one mind as to whether she would permit louise to meet judd at all. mrs. treharne and judd were stepping out of the huge yellow car at the close of their late afternoon ride just at the moment when louise, alone, was returning in laura's car. their meeting on the pavement was inevitable. for a moment louise hoped that her mother would permit her to lag behind on pretense of returning to laura's car to find some imaginary forgotten article; but mrs. treharne, suddenly deciding that the meeting had best be over with, since no way of avoiding it, sooner or later, had suggested itself, called to her; and louise, very beautiful with her cold-ruddied cheeks nimbussed by her breeze-blown hair of bronze, walked erect to where her mother stood with the bulky, red-eyed judd, who regarded louise with a stare of disconcerting admiration. "my dear louise," said mrs. treharne, obviously quelling a certain tremulousness in her tone, "permit me to present mr. judd; mr. judd, my daughter louise." judd, his mouth still unpleasantly agape, started the preliminary gesture toward extending his hand. but he made no further progress with the hand, for he was quick to notice that louise, at that very instant, was inserting her loose right hand in her muff. louise bowed and then returned to laura's car in quest of the imaginary article; she desired to give judd time to resume his place in his car before she joined her mother on the steps. "demmed handsome, that daughter of yours," judd commented on louise to mrs. treharne when he saw her the next afternoon, "but--er--uppish, what?" "i can dispense with your generalities on that subject," mrs. treharne had replied. after that louise had met judd casually in the wide, fire-lit down-stairs hall on two or three occasions, and once at the only one of her mother's extraordinary sunday night receptions--the "salon" which at once provoked and amused laura--which she attended; but she had exchanged no word with him. she was not lacking in diplomacy, but there were some stultifications that she found to be wholly beyond her; and she was conscious of a certain previously unexperienced difficulty with her neck when she even inclined her head to judd. * * * * * "would you care to meet some of my sunday night people, louise?" her mother had asked her. "i dare say laura has told you they are freaks. perhaps some of them are. but there are clever ones among them, and one must take the gifted with the mediocre. it would not harm you to meet a few of them. they are not wicked. they only think they are; some of them, that is. their wickedness is an amiable abstraction. shall you be down?" it was on a sunday morning, in louise's apartments, that mrs. treharne made the suggestion. louise was conscious of the need of a laugh, even if it were a politely smothered one; and laura had comically depicted her mother's "salon" to her. she told her mother that she had been waiting for that invitation, which caused mrs. treharne to glance sharply at her to ascertain if louise already had adopted laura's point of view as to the sunday evening gatherings. "do you entertain your people yourself, mother, or is there a--" louise stumbled on the word "host." but her mother was quick to catch her meaning. "i should not ask you down, else, my dear--you should credit me that far," she had replied, a tinge of reproach in her tone. and so, an hour or so after dinner on sunday night, louise, willowy yet full-blossomed and splendid in a simple princesse dress of white broadcloth, a gardenia nestling in an embrasure of her velvety auburn hair, and a tiny-linked chain of gold, with aquamarine pendants--a gift from laura--around her firm white neck, went, for the first time since she had been in the house, to the already crowded main floor. louise, in her inexperience, could not know that the gathering really was little less than an apotheosis of the _declasée_; she merely found some of the people agreeable, others of them unconsciously naïve in their ebullient enthusiasm over their imaginary achievements or accomplishments, still others frankly laughable for their indurated habit of self laudation. it was in the main, so far as its social side went, an assemblage of persons, men and women, who, thrust outside the genuine social breastworks for various and more or less highly-tinctured lapses, thus foregathered in response to an instinct of gregariousness--an instinct around which the "birds of a feather" aphorism no doubt was framed. having no choice in the matter, these persons were willing to accept the shadow for the reality. it might almost be said that on every uptown square of new york there is at least one common meeting point for similar assemblages of social exiles. nearly all of the figurantes in mrs. treharne's sunday evening affairs were _divorcées_ of more or less note; the "cases" of some of whom had been blazoned in huge red block type in the yellow newspapers, and "illustrated," in default of genuine portraits, with blurred "cuts" of no less benevolent or redoubtable females than the late mrs. pinkham or carrie nation. the men in the company who had not already rocketed through the divorce court were willing, it appeared from their frank method of expressing themselves, to make that by no means perilous passage; though there was a sprinkling of younger men, still factors in a social world from which there are no voluntary expatriates, who attended mrs. treharne's sunday evening affairs in a spirit of larkishness and glad of the chance to forsake, for a little while, regions more austere and still under the domination of at least a tacit repression. for the rest, there were poetasters who fidgetted until they were called upon, out of pure sympathy, to read their own verse--some of the latter obviously "lifted;" temperamental musicians, male and female, who preferred to sway at or with their instruments with the rooms darkened while they performed; manufacturers and proselytizers of personally-conducted and generally quite unintelligible cults, physical, moral or ethical, all of the cults extending a maximum of "freedom of action" to the individual; devisers of impromptu or extemporaneous religions or near-religions, none of which boasted so inconvenient a restriction as a decalogue; fashionable or striving-to-be-fashionable palmists and chiromancers, "swamis," "yogis;" burnoosed, sullen, white-robed exploiters, from the near or far east, of women who mistook their advanced symptoms of neuresthenia for a hankering for the occult; and the other unclassified, sycophantic factors of a "bohemianism" whose seams were perfectly visible to the naked eye and whose sawdust was only held in place with the all-together co-operation of the whole artificial assemblage. louise's entrance upon the scene created a stir which caused her to feel distinctly uncomfortable. she longed for laura; but laura had "sworn off" attending mrs. treharne's sunday evening parties; not from any selfish motives of caution--for laura was in keen demand in the social circle in which she had been born and reared; but simply because she had at length ceased to extract amusement from the self-idolizing vagaries of mrs. treharne's crew; more briefly still, because they bored her to extinction. when the word was buzzed around among the slowly-moving, chattering assemblage to whom the entire lower floor of the house, including the conservatory, had been thrown open--that "the tall girl with the air and the hair" was mrs. treharne's daughter--the more privileged ones adverted to their hostess as tony--there was a sudden cluttering of the passageways leading to the room in which louise was standing with her mother. in their keenness to catch a glimpse of the "just-bloomed daughter of tony" many of them even forsook the long and generously-provided buffet, than which no greater sign of a consuming interest or curiosity could be given; for not a few of the raffish guests appeared to be so patently in need of nourishment--and stimulant--that they spent the major portion of the evening at the buffet. a woman whose vision seemed to be slightly filmed from her inordinate devotion to the punch lifted her glass, after studying louise in a sort of open-mouthed daze for a moment or so, and sang out, in a tone that she apparently had some difficulty in controlling: "to tony's daughter--the empress louise!" the men and women in her neighborhood grabbed for glasses to fill from the punchbowls and took up the refrain: "the empress louise!" louise felt the blood swirling to her head, but she braced herself to stand the volleying of eyes. her mother was intensely annoyed and made not the least effort to conceal her annoyance. when the incident had been merged in a diversion afforded by a recitation of a portuguese madrigal in another room by a man with unkempt hair and untidy fingernails, mrs. treharne glided away from louise's side for a moment and found the woman who had proposed the toast. she was still absorbedly busy at the buffet. "you are to leave at once, ethel," she said in a low but determined tone to the toast-proposer, a woman whose divorce story in the newspapers had been remarkable for the detailed account of liquid refreshments she had consumed up and down the world, at foreign hotels and on board yachts, for a number of years at a stretch. "i shall never forgive you if you make another scene here." "all right, tony," the woman replied, with a vacuous smile. "not angry at me, are you, for wishing luck to your little girl--your big girl, i mean; she _is_ an empress, you know, and--" mrs. treharne guided her to the cloak room and stayed by her side until she bade her goodnight at the door. louise, in the meantime, had been approached by a man whose eyes, she had noticed with a certain vague disquietude, had been following her about since her entrance upon the scene. he was a handsome man of the florid type, with a sweeping blonde mustache and oddly-restless light brown eyes in which louise, catching him devouring her with his gaze at frequent intervals, nervously thought that she detected certain felinely-topaz glints. he was tall and a trifle over-heavy; but there was a certain slow-moving, easy air of adventitious distinction about him which might have been in part lent by the immaculateness of his evening clothes and his facile way of disposing of his hands without requiring any article to give them employment; an art in which even practiced courtiers and carpet knights occasionally are deficient. louise did not like his face; she observed, when she saw, not without a certain vague trepidation, that he was approaching her, that his over-red and over-full lips, from which the sweeping mustache was brushed away, were curved in a sort of habitual sneer which by no stretch of charity could be called a smile; though that, no doubt, was the desired intent of it. he bowed low, keeping his eyes upraised on louise's face, when he reached her side, and said: "miss treharne?" louise, used to more formal methods of meeting new men, inclined her head. "you will condone, i hope, miss treharne, my seeming breach of formality in presuming to address you without a presentation," he said, even his intensified smile failing to efface the sneering curve from his too visible lips. "but your mother is generous enough to permit her guests at times--on such occasions as these, for example--to forego formality. i have been ineffectually trying to reach her for an hour in order to--" "in order to ask me to do that which you have already done," said mrs. treharne, with quite unusual affability, coming up at that moment and catching his final words. "louise, dear, permit me--mr. langdon jesse. don't expect her to know, mr. jesse, that you are a cotton king. i doubt if her routine at school permitted her to read the newspapers, even if they interested her; which i sincerely hope they did not and will not." louise had not often seen her mother in so gracious a humor toward any man; but this fact did not in any sense serve to quell the instinctive dislike which she immediately felt for jesse, the "cotton king" of her mother's somewhat too purposely-significant introduction. she noticed that his hands were small and obtrusively white; that there was a wave in his burnished blonde hair; that his large clear-cut features were of a chiselled regularity; and her natural aversion to the merely handsome man promptly asserted itself. the sneer of his mouth, and his fixed way of gazing squarely into her eyes as if his own eyes were forming a question, disquieted her. she replied in purposed monosyllables to his rather trivial yet studied questions about her school life. she knew perfectly well that he was in no wise interested in her school life, but that he merely was seeking what he considered might be the most engaging method of capturing her attention. five minutes after his meeting with her she devised an excuse and went to her apartments. she threw her windows wide and let the wintry air bulge the curtains when she reached her sleeping room; perhaps it was her subconsciousness that told her that she needed some such a bath of purifying air to obliterate what intangible traces there might remain of her brief contact with langdon jesse. that night she dreamt persistently of a leopard with large, blazing eyes of topaz; and an hour after she awoke a large basket of superb orchids, with langdon jesse's card attached, was brought to her. laura was with her at the time. "from langdon jesse?" said laura, knitting her brow. "did you meet him last night, louise?" "yes. i disliked him intensely." "if i were you, dear," suggested laura, "i should send these orchids to a hospital. they can of course have no sinister effect upon those who have not met their donor. but i should be afraid to have you keep any flowers sent you by langdon jesse. they might poison the air. the bald impudence of him in sending you flowers at all!" a footman was carrying the orchids to a nearby hospital five minutes later. chapter v langdon jesse and his one-time associate and co-partner in lamb-shearing "deals," frederick judd, met at luncheon in a restaurant in the financial district a few days later. judd, one of the powers of "the street," was past fifty-five, and he had no great toleration for the vacuities of young men. this fact, however, placed no inhibition on the admiration--it could scarcely be called a liking--which he felt for langdon jesse; for jesse, whatever else he may have been, certainly was not vacuous in the matter of business; and it was from the angle of their success in business that judd exclusively judged men. jesse, well under forty, already was a veteran of the stock market; and on at least one occasion he had deftly "trimmed" no less a person than his former associate, mr. judd; wherefore judd, with the breadth of vision of the financial general in considering the strategy of the general who has beaten him, admired jesse, who had been virtually his pupil, all the more; resolving, at the same time, not to permit his quondam pupil to "trim" him again. jesse, accepting the nodded invitation, took a seat at the table at which judd, alone, was eating his heavy luncheon. they exchanged market talk in brief, brittle phrases, for a while. then jesse, his too-prominent lips curving, and seeming to be gazing over the top of judd's bare poll, said: "sumptious, isn't she?" judd, used to jesse's adversions to the sumptuosity of women--many women--went on doggedly eating. after a space he replied with a monosyllable: "who?" jesse did not answer for a moment; nor did judd seem to be particularly worried over that fact. "i dropped into your--er--your place on the drive on sunday night," said jesse, fastening an abnormally long cigarette into a remarkably long cigarette holder of amber and gold. judd, his fork poised in the air, looked up at jesse. there was a question in his red-rimmed eyes; but judd made it a point not to submit questions of any consequence until he had turned them over in his mind several times. "so i heard," said judd, with no obvious interest, pronging away again with his fork. "who told you," asked jesse, with a sharp glance at judd. "not----" "how the devil should i remember who told me?" replied judd in a matter-of-fact tone. "what's the difference who told me, anyhow?" but it made considerable difference, as a matter of fact, to jesse; his self-satisfaction and his serene belief in his ability to make an immediate "impression" were very great; and when judd told him he had "heard" he had been at the riverside drive house he took it for granted that judd had "heard" it from the person on whom his thoughts were dwelling; louise treharne, that is to say. "oh, no particular difference," said jesse, blowing a cloud of acrid turkish cigarette smoke at judd, which caused judd to scowl. "i thought perhaps----" judd knew perfectly well what he thought; but judd often failed even to mention things that he knew perfectly well. "you take in those bear-garden affairs at tony's--at mrs. treharne's," catching himself, "right along, don't you?" said judd. "how the devil you can endure that pack of imbecile, loquacious what-are-theys is more than i can make out. one of those sundays nights cured me." jesse, however, had not the least intention of being side-tracked. "well, she is--er--well, ripping; isn't she?" he said, after a pause. judd, perceiving the futility of evasion, gave way. "yes--if that's what you want me to say--and all ice, besides," said judd. "you're up against it there, son," he went on, judicially. "or are you looking for a death by freezing? why, i'm afraid that she's going to fracture one of her upper vertebrae even when she nods to me! and that's all the recognition she ever gives me--a nod." "she doesn't strike me as being so hopelessly arctic as all that," said jesse, inordinately proud of what he considered his keen judgment of women. "did you ever happen to meet a woman with auburn hair who possessed a--er--a frozen or freezing temperament? and, by the way, why do you dwell upon her rigidity, so to speak, when she nods 'even to you?' why 'even to you?'" judd, a little choler showing in his purpling face, broke out: "because a man naturally expects a little manners, a little common politeness, from people he's taking care of, doesn't he? she's living in my house, by god!" "that," said jesse, quietly, "is precisely what i am getting at: since she is living in your house--if she knows it is your house--she can't be so--er--well, stupendously straight-laced, can she? and, by frozen, of course you meant straight-laced." "i meant exactly what i said," replied judd, sulkily. "stop twisting my words around, will you? i said that she was ice, and that is what i meant to say. you're on a blind trail, jesse, if that's what you're getting at. take it from me. you're a hit with 'em, i know, and all that sort of rot. but this one is more than your match. she'll shrivel you good and plenty if you try anything on with her. at that, why can't you let her alone? there are plenty of the other kind--your kind. what's the matter, anyhow? have all the show girls moved out of new york?" jesse didn't relish the slap. it was not exactly a truthful slap, moreover. jesse had withdrawn his devotions to "show girls" several years before; since doing which he had quarried in entirely different quarters. "let the girl alone--that's my advice," went on judd, seized for the moment by a flickering sense of fairness. "i don't fancy her particularly--because she's so damned haughty with me, i suppose, and looks down upon me from a mountain. but she's all right. i know that, and i'm telling it to you for your information. better forget it. there isn't a chance on earth for you, anyhow." jesse didn't appear to be in the least thrown off the quest by the advice. "are you sure," he inquired of judd after a short silence, "that she knows just where you figure in the riverside drive establishment?" "well, you could see for yourself that she is more than seven years of age, couldn't you?" briefly replied judd. "but," observed jesse, obviously seeking to get hold of all of the threads of the situation, "she is only recently out of school, i understand, and perhaps she hasn't yet fully grasped----" "i don't know what she has grasped, and i don't care a damn," thrust in judd, tired of the colloquy. "she must know a good deal about the way things stand or she wouldn't treat me as if i were rubbish. i can see how i stick in her throat. when it comes to that, why shouldn't i? she's only a schoolgirl, if she is a head taller than i am. her mother made an idiotic mistake in having the girl around the place. but that's none of my affair. i take the game as it stands. only i advise you to stand clear. you might as well be decent for once in your life. unless, of course," and judd shot a glance of inquiry at jesse, "you mean to turn respectable--it's about time--and go in for the marrying idea?" jesse's somewhat waxy, excessively smooth face flushed at judd's afterthought. "i marry?" he said, with a distinctly disagreeable laugh. "well, it may come to that, some day or other. but can you see me marrying the daughter of your acknowledged----" he fumbled for the word; "mistress" was what he wanted to say, but he discarded it out of sheer timidity; "--your acknowledged companion?" he finished. "be good enough to keep out of my personal affairs, jesse," said judd, coldly. "i don't dip into your private concerns. you may take my advice or leave it. but you want to go pretty slow, if you're asking me. nobody has yet forgotten that west indian affair of yours; just remember that." with judd, one shot called for another. jesse gave a start and paled slightly at judd's allusion to "the west indian affair." judd waited only long enough to see that the shot found its mark; then, with an amused leer, he rose from the table, his luncheon finished, and lumbered away with a nod. jesse, discarding his cigarette, bit off the end of a cigar and fumed. the "west indian affair" was a sore subject with him solely because the world knew all about it. he had not the least feeling of self-condemnation over it; it was the thought that, for once, he had been found out that caused him to rage internally when the matter was adverted to; for the newspapers had been full of it at the time of the occurrence. "the west indian affair," jesse well knew, had not been forgotten, as judd had said, nor was it likely to be forgotten. it threw a raking light upon his general attitude toward and his treatment of women. a year before, after one of his periodical triumphs in the cotton market, in which, to quote the newspapers' way of putting it, he had "cleaned up millions," jesse had made a midwinter cruise of the west indies on his yacht. a girl of unusual beauty, whom he had met by accident on an automobile tour on long island, had been his companion on the cruise. she was inexperienced, of humble parentage, and he had overborne her objections by vaguely intimating something as to a marriage when they should arrive in the west indies. she had protested when, upon the yacht's touching at many ports, he had of course shown not the least inclination to make good his merely intimated promise; and, in his wrath over her attitude, he had not only committed the indefensible crime, but he had made the stupendous mistake, viewed from the politic point of view, of deserting the girl in a west indian city, without money or resources, without even her clothing, and sailing back to new york alone. the girl, thus stranded amid new and unfriendly surroundings, had but one resource--the american consul. the consul provided for her passage back to new york. the correspondents of the new york newspapers in the west indian city had got hold of the details, adding a few neatly whimsical touches of their own, and for days the newspapers had reeked with the story. there had been talk of prosecuting jesse for abduction, but he had employed the underground method, rendered easily available to him owing to his wealth, to smother that suggestion. but the grisly affair had thrown a cloud over jesse from which he knew, raging as he knew it, there was no emerging. several of his clubs--the good ones--had dropped him; men and women of the world to which he aspired, and in which he had been making progress, cut him right and left; his name had been erased from most of the worth-while invitation lists; and the hole in his armor was wide open to the shafts of the kind judd had just discharged at him. jesse sat at the table and gnawed angrily at his unlighted cigar for a long time after judd had gone; it was characteristic of him that his compunction was all for himself. he had been found out and pilloried. that was what cut him. he never gave a thought to the young woman whose life he had destroyed. jesse had been instantly struck by the beauty of louise treharne. he surmised that it was through no complaisance on her part, but purely because she had been helpless in the matter, that she had found herself living with her ostracised mother in the house on the drive. that situation, he was confident, had been thrust upon her. but this consideration, and the additional one that she was, as he could not have failed to note, nobly undergoing the ordeal, which might have aroused the admiration and excited the sympathy of a man of merely average fairness, had touched no compassionate chord in langdon jesse. adopting the trivial and far-fetched methods of analysis which are employed by men who consider themselves expert in their knowledge of women, he had calmly concluded that in all likelihood louise treharne's manner was a skillfully-studied pose. at any rate he meant to find out. he meant to "know her better." it was thus that his determination framed itself in his mind; he would "know her better." in gaining the attention of women, he believed in the gentle siege and then the grand assault; it was, in truth, the only "system" with which he had any familiarity, and it had generally proved successful. jesse returned to his office, summoned his car, went to his suite at the plaza, gave himself over to the grooming activities of his man for an hour; then, resuming his car, he went to the house on riverside drive. * * * * * louise, in brown walking suit and brown turban, her cheeks ruddy from a long and rapid walk from one end of the park to the other, had just returned when jesse's card was brought up. she was studying the card, trying to devise an excuse--for she shrank from the thought of seeing him--when her mother, ready for her motor airing, entered the room. "i just caught sight of mr. jesse's car from my window," said mrs. treharne to louise. louise observed that her mother was in the same fluttered state that she had been in when she had found jesse talking to her on the previous sunday night. "he has sent his card to you? of course you are going to see him?" "i think i shall not see him, mother," said louise, ringing for heloise with the purpose of sending word that she was indisposed, not at home--anything. mrs. treharne looked annoyed and there was irritation in her question: "why not, my dear?" "i don't care for him, mother," said louise, frankly. "in fact, i believe i rather dislike him. do you think he is the sort of man i should meet?" louise was intensely disappointed that her mother should care to have her meet jesse. she tried to assure herself that her mother did not know or realize the character of the man as she herself had heard it briefly described by laura; but she found that a bit difficult to believe. "tell me, please, louise, why you ask me such a question as that," said mrs. treharne, irritatedly. "what do you know about mr. jesse? who has been telling you things about him?" louise, remaining silent, plainly showed that she did not care to answer her mother's question. "it was laura, no doubt," went on mrs. treharne. "laura, i begin to fear, is growing garrulous. you must not permit her to put absurd ideas into your head, my dear. i must speak to her about it." "pray do not, mother," said louise, earnestly. "she is one of the dearest women in the world, and everything that she tells me, i know, is not only perfectly true, but for my good. it is not anything said to me by laura that makes me dislike the idea of receiving mr. jesse. it is simply that i don't like him. there is a boldness, an effrontery, a cynicism, about him that make me distrust him. i don't care for his type of man. that is all." "you must not fall into the habit of forming sudden prejudices, my dear," said her mother, diplomatically assuming an air of grave persuasiveness. "mr. jesse no doubt has had his fling at life. what worth-while man of his age hasn't? but he is a man of mark. he has made his way as few men have. of course you found him handsome, _distingué_? most women do, my dear. and i could see that he was greatly struck with you. you will soon be twenty, louise; and mr. jesse, perhaps i should remind you, is a great _parti_." louise felt herself crimsoning. her mother did know jesse's record, then. that was manifest from her words. and yet she was calmly exalting him as an "eligible!" the girl so shrank from having any further conversation with her mother on the subject just then that she turned to her and said: "i would not see him of my own volition, mother; but if you very much wish it, i shall see him." "for heaven's sake, louise, don't look so terribly austere and crushed over it!" broke out mrs. treharne. "the man will not kidnap you! i very much wish that you should be sensible and receive eligible men, of course. isn't that a perfectly natural wish?" louise, without another word, not stopping to remove her turban or even glance in the glass, went down-stairs to receive jesse. her mother fluttered past the drawing-room door a moment later, merely stopping for a word of over-effusive greeting to jesse before joining the waiting judd in his car. jesse, whether by accident or from foreknowledge, had timed his visit well. he was quite alone on the floor with louise treharne. she caught the gleam of his upraised eyes and noted the bold persistence of the question in them when, still in his fur overcoat, he turned from the contemplation of a picture to greet her. "ah," he said with an attempt at airiness, slipping out of the overcoat and extending his hand, "our empress already has been out?" glancing at her turban and her wind-freshened cheeks. "that is unfortunate. i was about to place my car at her disposal----" he withdrew his hand, not seeming to notice that louise had failed to see it. "yes, i have been walking," put in louise, in no wise stiffly, but with an air of preoccupied withdrawal which she genuinely felt. "as to what you call me, i believe i should prefer to be known by my name." jesse, remembering what judd had said as to the likelihood of his being frozen or shrivelled, laughed inwardly. he rather enjoyed being rebuffed by women--at first. it made the game keener. none of them, he remembered now with complaisancy, continued to rebuff him for very long. "pardon me, miss treharne," he said, with a certain languishing air which louise found even more offensive than his initial familiarity. "i thought, when the title was so spontaneously applied to you on sunday night, that perhaps you found it agreeable. but it is difficult to gauge--women." he dwelt upon the word "women," thinking that, considering how recently she had left school, it might flatter her. louise chose to talk commonplaces. her bed-rock genuineness made it impossible for her to affect an interest in a visitor which she did not feel. and her lack of interest in jesse was complicated by her growing dislike for him. "i am doubly disappointed," said jesse after a pause which he did not find embarrassing. nothing embarrassed jesse when he had his mind definitely set upon a purpose. "first, i had hoped, as i say, that, not having been out, you would honor me by accepting the use of my car. second, i am desolated because you are wearing a hat. i had been promising myself another glimpse of your superb hair. is it _banal_ to put it that way? i am afraid so. but consider the temptation! was it aspasia or cleopatra whose hair was of the glorious shade of yours--or both?" "mr. jesse," said louise, now quite _dégagé_, facing him squarely and speaking with the greatest deliberation, "i seem to find, from my two limited conversations with you, that you are suffering under some sort of a misapprehension as to me. you will discover that yourself, i think, if you will take the trouble to recur to several things you already have said to me after an acquaintanceship, all told, of perhaps ten minutes. suppose we seek a less personal plane? i am too familiar with my hair to care to have it made a subject of extended remarks on the part of men whom i scarcely know. there are less pointed themes. permit me to suggest that we occupy ourselves in finding them." "by god, a broadside!" said jesse to himself, not in the least abashed; his admiration always grew for women who trounced him--at first. "i didn't think she had it in her! and judd, the fat imbecile, called her an iceberg! she is a volcano!" aloud, he said, with a neatly-assumed air of subjection and penitence: "well delivered, miss treharne. but i merit it. i have made the error of supposing--" "that my comparatively recent return from school, and the open-mindedness naturally associated with that," louise quietly interrupted, "made me a fair target for your somewhat labored and not particularly apt compliments. yes, you erred decisively there." "again!" thought jesse, bubbling with finely-concealed delight. "she _is_ an empress right enough, whether she likes to be called that or not! what a prize!" aloud, he said with an air of chastened gravity: "you do me scant justice there, miss treharne, but that is easily passed, seeing how chagrinedly conscious i am that i deserved your rebuke in the first instance. you are fond of motoring?" changing the subject with no great deftness. "no," replied louise, sufficiently out of hand. "i don't in the least care for it." the conversation was irksome to her and she would not pretend that it was not. "i inquired," said jesse, looking chapfallen though he did not in the least feel so, "because i had been hoping you might do me the honor to accept the use--the steady use--of one of my cars. i have several," this last with an ostentation that rather sickened louise. but she could not allow the carefully veiled suggestion in his words to pass. "mr. jesse," she said, reverting to her tone of deliberation and again gazing straight at him, "aside from the fact that, as i have told you, i don't in the least care for motoring, will you be good enough to suggest to me just one fairly intelligible reason why i should accept your proffer of the use--'the steady use'--of one of your cars? it may be that you will have some reason to offer for what, otherwise, i should deem a distinct impertinence." jesse's eyes gleamed with the joy of it. "what a prize!" he thought again. "i seem, miss treharne," he said with a laugh which he purposely made uneasy, "to be stumbling upon one blunder after another. there is no reason for my having offered you the use of one of my cars--and i hasten to withdraw the offer, since it seems to offend you--other than my friendship of long standing with your mother and my desire--my hope, i was about to say--that you, too, might consider me worthy of your friendship." it was rather adroitly turned, but it completely missed fire. "i don't seem to recall that it is necessary for one to adopt one's mother's friends as one's own," said louise, without the least hesitancy. his assumption of an easily-penetrated ingratiating manner had thoroughly disgusted her; she wanted him to take his departure; and she chose the most straightout means to that end. there was no possible way for her to know that jesse enjoyed the early taunts of some women much as he relished the cocktails with which he preceded his dinners, and for very much the same reason--they were appetizers. he rose with an air of irresolution which he was far from feeling. "i fear," he said, resignedly, "that something has happened--or perhaps that something has been said--to predispose or prejudice you against me, miss treharne. it is a conclusion to which i am driven." he paused, then faced her with an appearance of frankness which he was adept at assuming. "miss treharne," he went on, cleverly adopting a tone with a tremolo note in it, "you will grant, i think, that men--men, that is to say, who cut any sort of figure in affairs"--a flourish here--"often are misjudged. without in the least desiring to pose as one who has been a victim of such misjudgment, i feel, nevertheless----" here he stopped, having carefully calculated his stopping point, and, with impulsively extended hands, he went on with a beautifully acted semblance of real feeling: "miss treharne, i merely ask you to give me a chance to prove myself; a chance at least to wear the candidate's stripes for your friendship." despite her youthfulness and her utter inexperience with men of jesse's type, louise, aided by an unusually subtle intuition, and mindful of what she had heard of jesse, caught the hollow ring in his tone, detected the false shifty light in his now furtive, eager eyes. she rose. "you are quite overpoweringly in earnest over what seems to me a very trivial matter, mr. jesse," she said with a little laugh that sounded harsh even to her own ears. "you gravely underestimate the value of your friendship in calling it trivial, miss treharne," said jesse, rising also; for at length he was ready to accept the dismissal which a less thick-skinned man, even of his type, would have taken long before. "i have not been in the habit of placing any sort of an appraisal upon the value of my friendship," she replied, succinctly. he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat of fur and strolled, with a downcast air, to the drawing-room door. "this is not your normal mood, miss treharne," he said, turning upon her a smile that he meant to be wan. "you see what unresentful justice i do you. there are to be other days. i shall find you in a humor less inclined to magnify my candidly professed demerits. i hope to have an opportunity to prove to you that i have at least a few merits to balance the faults." the hint was sufficiently broad, but louise appeared to be momentarily obtuse. at any rate she did not extend the invitation he too patently fished for. her reticence in that respect, however, did not in the least abash jesse. "at least i have the cheering knowledge that this door is open to me," he said, entering the foyer on his way out. "have i not?" unavailingly louise strove to steady herself in order to thrust back the color which she felt mounting to her face. "it is not my door," she said in a low tone; and instantly was keenly sorry for having said it. "oh, i quite understand that," he said, with an air of lightness, though at the moment he did not dare to turn and look at her. "but it is all the same, since it is your mother's, is it not?" she made no reply. she felt that she deserved the barb for having given him the opportunity to discharge it. he bowed low, essayed the smile that he considered his most engaging one, and went out to his waiting car. for the second time after having been in the presence of langdon jesse, louise went to her rooms and threw all the windows wide; then stood in the wintry eddies and permitted the cold, sweet air to enwrap and purify her. * * * * * when mrs. treharne, after leaving louise and jesse together, stepped into the car with judd, she found that adipose man of finance chuckling softly to himself. she deigned not to inquire of him the reason for his chuckling--knowing, of course, that presently he would be volunteering that information himself. "that was jesse's car in front of the house, wasn't it, tony?" he asked her, still chuckling unpleasantly as the car pulled away from the curb. "yes," she replied, alert of a sudden, but disdaining to appear so. "jesse is calling to see--er--your daughter, eh?" judd asked, continuing his rumbling manifestations of joviality. "he is," replied mrs. treharne, carefully screening her impatience to catch judd's drift. "but i fail to see why that fact should incite you to give vent to such a harrowing series of low comedy chuckles." "quite so, quite so, my dear antoinette," said judd, soothingly, but not in the least diminishing his choppy cachinnatory performance. mrs. treharne, with an air of disgust which merely screened her worried curiosity, permitted him to continue for a while. then she said, with an air of gravity intended to drag him back to his naturally sullen state, but assumed also for the purpose of sounding him: "jesse was plainly struck with louise on sunday night last. her position now, of course, is hideous. jesse may be the solution." judd straightened himself in his seat and suddenly stopped chuckling. then he glanced with quizzical keenness out of slitted eyes at his companion. "meaning, i suppose," he said, "that you have an idea that jesse might take it into his head to marry her?" "what else could i mean?" she asked him huskily. "quite so, quite so, my dear antoinette," said judd, leaning back in his seat again. "of course. certainly. i fully understand you," and he closed his eyes as if about to lapse into a refreshing nap. mrs. treharne, distinctly wrought up, grasped one of the lapels of his seal-lined greatcoat and shook him determinedly. "be good enough to explain to me, and at once, precisely what you mean," she said rapidly, a growing hoarseness in her tone. judd, for his part, promptly relapsed into his chuckling. "it is nothing, my dear--nothing at all, i assure you," he said, between wheezes. "only it strikes me as rather diverting that anybody should consider jesse in the light of a matrimonial eligible. when, by the way, did you gather the idea that jesse was a marrying man? since that--er--somewhat widely-exploited little affair of his in the west indies last year? or more recently?" judd generally won in the little skirmishes they had in the motor car. the fact that he had won again was plainly indicated by the fact that she remained silent for the remainder of the ride. chapter vi louise, still bound by the discipline of school, was not a late sleeper. as early as seven o'clock on the morning following langdon jesse's call she was lying awake, striving to dispel, by the process of optimistic reasoning, the sinister nimbus that seemed to be enshrouding her, when the telephone bell in her dressing room began to ring persistently. louise sprang up to answer the call. "i know it is a barbarous hour, dear," laura's cheerful contralto came over the wire, "but i've just been aroused from my juvenile slumbers by the telephone, and of course i must have revenge upon somebody. listen, dear: i know that it only takes you about fifteen minutes to dress--of course you are not dressed yet? well, begin this instant. put on something for tramping and fussing around in the country. you must be over here by eight o'clock. we are going to have a romping day in the country. now, hurry, won't you?" "just you and i, laura?" asked louise, delighted. a day in the country! open fields to dispel vapors! the thought of it made her eager and excited. "no, there'll be another," replied laura. "i disregard the axiom, you know, that 'three is a crowd.' three needn't be a crowd if one of the three has a little tact and--and the knack of opportunely vanishing," and louise heard her soft laughter. "a man i know has what he calls a little tumbledown place, with some ground around it, over in jersey. he calls it sullen manor, because he says he always goes over there, in preference to all other places, when he feels the imperative need to sulk. now, there is not another moment to be wasted in 'phoning. start to dress this very instant! will you solemnly promise me to be here on the stroke of eight? very well. i shall be waiting. goodbye." louise, "very trig and complete," as laura remarked, in a suit of grey with a matching fur-trimmed grey toque, was with the astonished laura a good quarter of an hour before eight. "heaven knows how you do it," said laura, still in the hands of her maid. "go into the dining-room and have some coffee, dear. i shall be with you directly." louise, humming happily at the thought of the care-free day ahead of her, sped into the bright dining room. john blythe, sipping coffee at the table, rose to meet her. he looked fine and upstanding in his fresh, rough tweeds, his close-shaven face ruddy and his clear grey eyes showing an agate sparkle from the brisk walk to laura's apartment from his own. louise halted abruptly in her astonishment when she saw him. but she was extremely glad to see him and said so frankly, resting her hand in his muscular but gentle clasp for a moment. "laura packed me off here to take some coffee," she said. "does she know you are here? and how early you are abroad in the world. we are stirring about at this sunrise hour because we are going for a day in the country--and i am mad to get there! in my previous incarnation i must have been a milkmaid, for i dearly love the country." then she added, with a little air of disappointment: "i do wish you were coming with us!" "that," replied blythe, smiling his wide smile as he poured coffee for her, "is precisely what i am going to do." louise, in the act of taking the cup from him, looked into his face with an expression of pleased mystification on her own. "why, what is--how can--" she broke off suddenly and rose from her chair in the intensity of a pleasure which she herself, at that moment, could scarcely have analyzed. "surely," she went on in a lower tone, her face irradiated by a smile which it thrilled him to observe, "surely you are not the man who sulks?" "one of laura's agreeable fictions," he pronounced. "she calls my little place sullen manor, and declares that it is my sulking cave, because i've not had her over there to see it. i've had no chance to ask her until now. do you mean to say she did not tell you that i was the organizer of this expedition?" "the secretive creature did not even hint at such a thing," declared louise, not very successfully pretending to be miffed. "now i call that downright neglect of orders," said blythe, also striving to show a serious face. "i particularly charged laura to tell you who the party of the third part was to be in order that you might have the privilege of refusing to accompany the expedition in case you so desired. a shocking departure from discipline on laura's part." "then it was you," said louise, lighter in spirits than she had been for a long time, "who invited me?" "my dear, don't you know he would say so to you no matter whether it were true or not?" said laura, who had caught louise's question, breezing into the dining-room at that moment. "come on, children. your antique chaperone is impatient to be on her disregarded way. louise, have you had your coffee? and some toast? finish them this instant! even so ascetic and imaginative a person as mr. blythe knows that a girl must have a little breakfast before venturing upon an expedition into the jungles of jersey." laura, perfect in a walking suit of shepherd's plaid and tan walking shoes, had, on this morning, the animation as well as the beauty of a girl. blythe compared the two as they stood side by side, hastily sipping coffee. laura, with her judith-black, glossy hair and fresh, youthful color, and louise with her thick coils of vivid, velvety auburn and glowing ivory pallor--blythe thought, studying them for a moment over the rim of his cup, that he had never seen so splendid a contrast. "_allons!_" laura broke in upon his reflection. "are we to dawdle here until luncheon time? already it is," looking at her watch, "twenty-four seconds past eight!" blythe, slipping into his greatcoat, turned a solemn face upon laura when they had reached the hall, outward-bound. "there is one thing, laura, in connection with this expedition, that i am keenly sorry for," he said, assuming a sepulchral tone. "why, what is that?" asked laura, a little alarmedly, taken off her guard. "well," replied blythe, still solemn, "you'll only be away from here for about fifteen hours, and how are you possibly going to have your apartment completely redecorated, from forepeak to mizzen, alow and aloft, in that space of time?" "tush!" laughed laura. "there will be plenty of time to have the place done over--and it really does sorely need it, now doesn't it?" this with a wistfulness at which blythe and louise laughed, "--when i take louise to europe with me in may--less than three months off." "am i to go to europe with you, dear--really?" asked louise, surprised and pleased; for laura had said nothing about it before. "most assuredly you are," replied laura, entirely in earnest. "if, that is, you can make up your mind to be burdened by the companionship of one so aged." the topic was lost in the excitation of their arranging themselves in laura's car, which was to take them to the ferry. but the thought of it recurred to louise several times during the ride to the ferry. it was an alluring prospect, barring the obstacles. how could she leave her mother, even for a short time, now that she had rejoined her after a separation of years? finally she was able to dismiss such cogitations and yield herself to the enjoyment of the day ahead. it was one of those unseasonably mild days in late february that occasionally "drop in" to point an accusing finger at the harshness of winter. a brilliant sun swam in a cloudless sky, and the soft yet invigorating balminess of late april was, as they noticed when they sped by the park, deluding the buds of tree and hedge into swelling prematurely and even seducing the willows into a vague, timidly displayed elusive green. hardy, pioneering robins, advance couriers sent forth to investigate the senile endurance of winter, hopped about the park sward. school-ward bound boys, out of sight of their homes, were doffing their irksome overcoats, and thrusting them, blanket-wise, at demure little schoolgirls who, in turn, were carrying their stuffy jackets over their