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Half a Rogue

by Harold MacGrath · English · Gutenberg #4790 · 503,539 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Half a Rogue

Author: Harold MacGrath


        
Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4790]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4790

Credits: Produced by Duncan Harrod.  HTML version by Al Haines.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HALF A ROGUE ***




Produced by Duncan Harrod.  HTML version by Al Haines.









Half A Rogue


By

Harold MacGrath




To The Memory Of My Mother




Half A Rogue




Chapter I


It was Warrington's invariable habit--when no business or social
engagement pressed him to go elsewhere--to drop into a certain quaint
little restaurant just off Broadway for his dinners. It was out of the
way; the throb and rattle of the great commercial artery became like
the far-off murmur of the sea, restful rather than annoying. He always
made it a point to dine alone, undisturbed. The proprietor nor his
silent-footed waiters had the slightest idea who Warrington was. To
them he was simply a profitable customer who signified that he dined
there in order to be alone. His table was up stairs. Below, there was
always the usual dinner crowd till theater time; and the music had the
faculty of luring his thoughts astray, being, as he was, fonder of
music than of work. As a matter of fact, it was in this little
restaurant that he winnowed the day's ideas, revamped scenes, trimmed
the rough edges of his climaxes, revised this epigram or rejected this
or that line; all on the backs of envelopes and on the margins of
newspapers. In his den at his bachelor apartments, he worked; but here
he dreamed, usually behind the soothing, opalescent veil of Madame
Nicotine.

What a marvelous thing a good after-dinner cigar is! In the smoke of
it the poor man sees his ships come in, the poet sees his muse
beckoning with hands full of largess, the millionaire reverts to his
early struggles, and the lover sees his divinity in a thousand
graceful poses.

To-night, however, Warrington's cigar was without magic. He was out of
sorts. Things had gone wrong at the rehearsal that morning. The star
had demanded the removal of certain lines which gave the leading man
an opportunity to shine in the climax of the third act. He had labored
a whole month over this climax, and he revolted at the thought of
changing it to suit the whim of a capricious woman.

Everybody had agreed that this climax was the best the young dramatist
had yet constructed. A critic who had been invited to a reading had
declared that it lacked little of being great. And at this late hour
the star wanted it changed in order to bring her alone in the
lime-light! It was preposterous. As Warrington was on the first wave
of popularity, the business manager and the stage manager both agreed
to leave the matter wholly in the dramatist's hands. He resolutely
declined to make a single alteration in the scene. There was a fine
storm. The star declared that if the change was not made at once she
would leave the company. In making this declaration she knew her
strength. Her husband was rich; a contract was nothing to her. There
was not another actress of her ability to be found; the season was too
late. There was not another woman available, nor would any other
manager lend one. As the opening performance was but two weeks hence,
you will realize why Warrington's mood this night was anything but
amiable.

He scowled at his cigar. There was always something, some sacrifice to
make, and seldom for art's sake. It is all very well to witness a play
from the other side of the footlights; everything appears to work out
so smoothly, easily and without effort. To this phenomenon is due the
amateur dramatist--because it looks simple. A play is not written; it
is built, like a house. In most cases the dramatist is simply the
architect. The novelist has comparatively an easy road to travel. The
dramatist is beset from all sides, now the business manager--that is
to say, the box-office--now the stage manager, now the star, now the
leading man or woman. Jealousy's green eyes peer from behind every
scene. The dramatist's ideal, when finally presented to the public,
resembles those mutilated marbles that decorate the museums of Rome
and Naples. Only there is this difference: the public can easily
imagine what the sculptor was about, but seldom the dramatist.

Warrington was a young man, tolerably good-looking, noticeably well
set up. When they have good features, a cleft chin and a generous
nose, clean-shaven men are good to look at. He had fine eyes, in the
corners of which always lurked mirth and mischief; for he possessed
above all things an inexhaustible fund of dry humor. His lines seldom
provoked rough laughter; rather, silent chuckles.

Warrington's scowl abated none. In business, women were generally
nuisances; they were always taking impossible stands. He would find
some way out; he was determined not to submit to the imperious fancies
of an actress, however famous she might be.

"Sir, will you aid a lady in distress?" The voice was tremulous, but
as rich in tone as the diapason of an organ.

Warrington looked up from his cigar to behold a handsome young woman
standing at the side of his table. Her round, smooth cheeks were
flushed, and on the lower lids of her splendid dark eyes tears of
shame trembled and threatened to fall. Behind her stood a waiter, of
impassive countenance, who was adding up the figures on a check, his
movement full of suggestion.

The dramatist understood the situation at once. The young lady had
ordered dinner, and, having eaten it, found that she could not pay for
it. It was, to say the least, a trite situation. But what can a man do
when a pretty woman approaches him and pleads for assistance? So
Warrington rose.

"What may the trouble be?" he asked coldly, for all that he instantly
recognized her to be a person of breeding and refinement.

"I--I have lost my purse, and I have no money to pay the waiter." She
made this confession bravely and frankly.

He looked about. They were alone. She interpreted his glance rather
shrewdly.

"There were no women to appeal to. The waiter refused to accept my
word, and I really can't blame him. I had not even the money to send a
messenger home."

One of the trembling tears escaped and rolled down the blooming cheek.
Warrington surrendered. He saw that this was an exceptional case. The
girl was truly in distress. He knew his New York thoroughly; a man or
woman without funds is treated with the finished cruelty with which
the jovial Romans amused themselves with the Christians. Lack of money
in one person creates incredulity in another. A penniless person is
invariably a liar and a thief. Only one sort of person is pitied in
New York: the person who has more money than she or he can possibly
spend.

The girl fumbled in her hand-bag and produced a card, which she gave
to Warrington--"Katherine Challoner." He looked from the card to the
girl and then back to the card. Somehow, the name was not wholly
unfamiliar, but at that moment he could not place it.

"Waiter, let me see the check," he said. It amounted to two dollars
and ten cents. Warrington smiled. "Scarcely large enough to cause all
this trouble," he added reassuringly. "I will attend to it."

The waiter bowed and withdrew. So long as the check was paid he did
not care who paid it.

"Oh, it is so horribly embarrassing! What must you think of me?" She
twisted her gloves with a nervous strength which threatened to rend
them.

"May I give you a bit of friendly advice?" he asked.

She nodded, hiding the fall of the second tear.

"Well, never dine alone in public; at any rate, in the evening. It is
not wise for a woman to do so. She subjects herself to any number of
embarrassments."

She did not reply, and for a moment he believed that she was about to
break down completely. He aimlessly brushed the cigar ashes from the
tablecloth. He hated a scene in public. In the theater it was
different; it was a part of the petty round of business to have the
leading lady burst into tears when things didn't suit her. What fools
women are in general! But the girl surprised him by holding up
determinedly, and sinking her white teeth into her lips to smother the
sob which rose in her throat.

"Be seated," he said, drawing out the opposite chair.

A wave of alarm spread over her face. She clasped her hands.

"Sir, if you are a gentleman--"

Warrington interrupted her by giving her his card, which was
addressed. She glanced at it through a blur of tears, then sat down.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly; his vanity was touched. There was,
then, a young woman in New York who had not heard of Richard
Warrington.

"In asking you to be seated," he explained, "it was in order that you
might wait in comfort while I despatched a messenger to your home.
Doubtless you have a brother, a father, or some male relative, who
will come at once to your assistance." Which proved that Warrington
was prudent.

But instead of brightening as he expected she would, she straightened
in her chair, while her eyes widened with horror, as if she saw
something frightful in perspective.

What the deuce could be the matter now? he wondered, as he witnessed
this inexplicable change.

"No, no! You must not send a messenger!" she protested.

"But--"

"No, no!" tears welling into her beautiful eyes again. They were
beautiful, he was forced to admit.

"But," he persisted, "you wished the waiter to do so. I do not
understand." His tone became formal again.

"I have reasons. Oh, heavens! I am the most miserable woman in all the
world!" She suddenly bowed her head upon her hands and her shoulders
rose and fell with silent sobs.

Warrington stared at her, dumfounded. NOW what? He glanced cautiously
around as if in search of some avenue of escape. The waiter, ever
watchful, assumed that he was wanted, and made as though to approach
the table; but Warrington warned him off. All distrust in the girl
vanished. Decidedly she was in great trouble of some sort, and it
wasn't because she could not pay a restaurant check. Women--and
especially New York women--do not shed tears when a stranger offers to
settle for their dinner checks.

"If you will kindly explain to me what the trouble is," visibly
embarrassed, "perhaps I can help you. Have you run away from home?"
he asked.

A negative nod.

"Are you married?"

Another negative nod.

Warrington scratched his chin. "Have you done anything wrong?"

A decided negative shake of the head. At any other time the
gesticulation of the ostrich plume, so close to his face, would have
amused him; but there was something eminently pathetic in the diapasm
which drifted toward him from the feather.

"Come, come; you may trust me thoroughly. If you are afraid to return
home alone--"

He was interrupted by an affirmative nod this time. Possibly, he
conjectured, the girl had started out to elope and had fortunately
paused at the brink.

"Will it help you at all if I go home with you?" he asked.

His ear caught a muffled "Yes."

Warrington beckoned to the waiter.

"Order a cab at once," he said.

The waiter hurried away, with visions of handsome tips.

Presently the girl raised her head and sat up. Her eyes, dark as
shadows in still waters, glistened.

"Be perfectly frank with me; and if I can be of service to you, do not
hesitate to command me." He eyed her thoughtfully. Everything attached
to her person suggested elegance. Her skin was as fine as vellum; her
hair had a dash of golden bronze in it; her hands were white and
shapely, and the horn on the tips of the fingers shone rosily. Now,
what in the world was there to trouble a young woman who possessed
these favors, who wore jewels on her fingers and sable on her
shoulders? "Talk to me just as you would to a brother," he added
presently.

"You will take this ring," she said irrelevantly. She slipped a fine
sapphire from one of her fingers and pushed it across the table.

"And for what reason?" he cried.

"Security for my dinner. I can not accept charity," with a hint of
hauteur which did not in the least displease him.

"But, my dear young woman, I can not accept this ring. You have my
address. You may send the sum whenever you please. I see no reason
why, as soon as you arrive home, you can not refund the small sum of
two dollars and ten cents. It appears to me very simple."

"There will be no one at home, not even the servants," wearily.

Warrington's brows came together. Was the girl fooling him, after all?
But for what reason?

"You have me confused," he admitted. "I can do nothing blindly. Tell
me what the trouble is."

"How can I tell you, an absolute stranger? It is all so frightful, and
I am so young!"

Frightful? Young? He picked up his half-finished cigar, but
immediately let it fall. He stole a look at his watch; it was seven.

"Oh, I know what you must think of me," despairingly. "Nobody believes
in another's real misfortune in this horrid city. There are so many
fraudulent methods used to obtain people's sympathies that every one
has lost trust. I had no money when I entered here; but outside it was
so dark. Whenever I stopped, wondering where I should go, men turned
and stared at me. Once a policeman peered into my face suspiciously.
And I dared not return home, I dared not! No, no; I promise not to
embarrass you with any more tears." She brushed her eyes with a rapid
movement.

Warrington's success as a dramatist was due largely to his interest in
all things that passed under his notice. Nothing was too trivial to
observe. The tragic threads of human life, which escaped the eyes of
the passing many or were ignored by them, always aroused his interest
and attention; and more than once he had picked up one of these
threads and followed it to the end. Out of these seemingly
insignificant things he often built one of those breathless,
nerve-gripping climaxes which had, in a few years' time, made him
famous. In the present case he believed that he had stumbled upon
something worthy his investigation. This handsome young woman, richly
dressed, who dared not go home, who had jewels but no money--there
was some mystery surrounding her, and he determined to find out what
it was. And then, besides, for all that he was worldly, he was young
and still believed in his Keats.

"If, as you say, there is no one at your home, why do you fear to go
there?" he asked, with some remnant of caution.

"It is the horror of the place," shuddering; "the horror!" And indeed,
at that moment, her face expressed horror.

"Is it some one dead?" lowering his voice.

"Dead?" with a flash of cold anger in her eyes. "Yes--to me, to truth,
to honor; dead to everything that should make life worth the living.
Oh, it is impossible to say more in this place, to tell you here what
has happened this day to rob me of all my tender illusions. This
morning I awoke happy, my heart was light; now, nothing but shame and
misery!" She hid her eyes for a space behind the back of her hand.

"I will take you home," he said simply.

"You trust me?"

"Why not? I am a man, and can take care of myself."

"Thank you!"

What a voice! It possessed a marvelous quality, low and penetrating,
like the voices of great singers and actresses. Any woman with such a
voice ...

Here the waiter returned to announce that a cab awaited them in the
street below. Warrington paid the two checks, dropped a liberal tip,
rose and got into his coat. The girl also rose, picked up his card,
glanced carelessly at it, and put it into her hand-bag--a little
gold-link affair worth many dinners. It was the voice and these
evidences of wealth, more than anything else, that determined
Warrington. Frauds were always perpetrated for money, and this
exquisite creature had a small fortune on her fingers.

Silently they left the restaurant, entered the cab, and went rolling
out into Broadway. Warrington, repressing his curiosity, leaned back
against the cushions. The girl looked dully ahead.

What manner of tragedy was about to unfold itself to his gaze?

The house was situated in Central Park, West. It was of modern
architecture, a residence such as only rich men can afford to build.
It was in utter gloom; not a single light could be seen at any window.
It looked, indeed, as if tragedy sat enthroned within. Warrington's
spine wrinkled a bit as he got out of the cab and offered his hand to
the girl.

Mute and mysterious as a sphinx, the girl walked to the steps, not
even looking around to see if he was coming after her. Perhaps she
knew the power of curiosity. Without hesitance she mounted the steps;
he followed, a step behind. At the door, however, she paused. He could
hear her breath coming in quick gasps. Oddly enough, the recollection
of some detective stories flashed through his mind.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing, nothing; only I am afraid."

She stooped; there was a grating sound, a click, and the door opened.
Warrington was a man of courage, but he afterward confessed that it
took all his nerve force to move his foot across the threshold.

"Do not be frightened," she said calmly; "there is nothing but ghosts
here to frighten any one."

"Ghosts?"

"Yes."

"Have you brought me here to tell me a ghost story?" with an effort at
lightness. What misery the girl's tones conveyed to his ears!

"The ghosts of things that ought to, and should, have been; are not
those the most melancholy?" She pressed a button and flooded the
hallway with light.

His keen eyes roving met nothing but signs of luxury. She led him into
the library and turned on the lights. Not a servant anywhere in sight;
the great house seemed absolutely empty. Not even the usual cat or dog
came romping inquisitively into the room. The shelves of books stirred
his sense of envy; what a den for a literary man to wander in! There
were beautiful marbles, splendid paintings, taste and refinement
visible everywhere.

Warrington stood silently watching the girl as she took off her hat
and carelessly tossed it on the reading-table. The Russian sables were
treated with like indifference. The natural abundance of her hair
amazed him; and what a figure, so elegant, rounded, and mature! The
girl, without noticing him, walked the length of the room and back
several times. Once or twice she made a gesture. It was not addressed
to him, but to some conflict going on in her mind.

He sat down on the edge of a chair and fell to twirling his hat, a
sign that he was not perfectly at his ease.

"I am wondering where I shall begin," she said.

Warrington turned down his coat-collar, and the action seemed to
relieve him of the sense of awkwardness.

"Luxury!" she began, with a sweep of her hand which was full of
majesty and despair. "Why have I chosen you out of all the thousands?
Why should I believe that my story would interest you? Well, little as
I have seen of the world, I have learned that woman does not go to
woman in cases such as mine is." And then pathetically: "I know no
woman to whom I might go. Women are like daws; their sympathy comes
but to peck. Do you know what it is to be alone in a city? The desert
is not loneliness; it is only solitude. True loneliness is to be found
only in great communities. To be without a single friend or confidant,
when thousand of beings move about you; to pour your sorrows into
cold, unfeeling ears; to seek sympathy in blind eyes--that is
loneliness. That is the loneliness that causes the heart to break."

Warrington's eyes never left hers; he was fascinated.

"Luxury!" she repeated bitterly. "Surrounding me with all a woman
might desire--paintings that charm the eye, books that charm the mind,
music that charms the ear. Money!"

"Philosophy in a girl!" thought Warrington. His hat became motionless.

"It is all a lie, a lie!" The girl struck her hands together, impotent
in her wrath.

It was done so naturally that Warrington, always the dramatist, made a
mental note of the gesture.

"I was educated in Paris and Berlin; my musical education was
completed in Dresden. Like all young girls with music-loving souls, I
was something of a poet. I saw the beautiful in everything; sometimes
the beauty existed only in my imagination. I dreamed; I was happy. I
was told that I possessed a voice such as is given to few. I sang
before the Emperor of Austria at a private musicale. He complimented
me. The future was bright indeed. Think of it; at twenty I retained
all my illusions! I am now twenty-three, and not a single illusion is
left. I saw but little of my father and mother, which is not unusual
with children of wealthy parents. The first shock that came to my
knowledge was the news that my mother had ceased to live with my
father. I was recalled. There were no explanations. My father met me
at the boat. He greeted my effusive caresses--caresses that I had
saved for years!--with careless indifference. This was the second
shock. What did it all mean? Where was my mother? My father did not
reply. When I reached home I found that all the servants I had known
in my childhood days were gone. From the new ones I knew that I should
learn nothing of the mystery which, like a pall, had suddenly settled
down upon me."

She paused, her arms hanging listless at her sides, her gaze riveted
upon a pattern in the rug at her feet. Warrington sat like a man of
stone; her voice had cast a spell upon him.

"I do not know why I tell you these things. It may weary you. I do not
care. Madness lay in silence. I had to tell some one. This morning I
found out all. My mother left my father because he was ... a thief!"

"A thief!" fell mechanically from Warrington's lips.

"A thief, bold, unscrupulous; not the petty burglar, no. A man who has
stolen funds intrusted to him for years; a man who has plundered the
orphan and the widow, the most despicable of all men. My mother died
of shame, and I knew nothing. My father left last night for South
America, taking with him all the available funds, leaving me a curt
note of explanation. I have neither money, friends, nor home. The
newspapers as yet know nothing; but to-morrow, to-morrow! The banks
have seized everything."

She continued her story. Sometimes she was superb in her wrath; at
others, abject in her misery. She seemed to pass through the whole
gamut of the passions.

And all this while it ran through Warrington's head--"What a theme for
a play! What a voice!"

He pitied the girl from the bottom of his heart; but what could he do
for her other than offer her cold sympathy? He was ill at ease in the
face of this peculiar tragedy.

All at once the girl stopped and faced him, There was a smile on her
lips, a smile that might be likened to a flash of sunlight on a wintry
day. Directly the smile melted into a laugh, mellow, mischievous,
reverberating.

Warrington sat up stiffly in his chair.

"I beg your pardon!" he said.

The girl sat down before a small writing-table. She reached among some
papers and finally found what she sought.

"Mr. Warrington, all this has been in very bad taste; I frankly
confess it. There are two things you may do: leave the house in anger,
or remain to forgive me this imposition."

"I fail to understand." He was not only angered, but bewildered.

"I have deceived you."

"You mean that you have lured me here by trick? That you have played
upon my sympathies to gratify ..."

"Wait a moment," she interrupted proudly, her cheeks darkening richly.
"A trick, it is true; but there are extenuating circumstances. What I
have told you HAS happened, only it was not to-day nor yesterday.
Please remain seated till I have done. I AM poor; I WAS educated in
the cities I have named; I have to earn my living."

She rose and came over to his chair. She gave him a letter.

"Read this; you will fully understand."

Warrington experienced a mild chill as he saw a letter addressed to
him, and his rude scribble at the bottom of it.

Miss Challoner--I beg to state that I have neither the time nor the
inclination to bother with amateur actresses. Richard Warrington.

"It was scarcely polite, was it?" she asked, with a tinge of irony.
"It was scarcely diplomatic, either, you will admit. I simply asked
you for work. Surely, an honest effort to obtain employment ought not
to be met with insolence."

He stared dumbly at the evidence in his hand. He recalled distinctly
the rage that was in his heart when he penned this note. The stage
manager had lost some valuable manuscript that had to be rewritten
from memory, the notes having been destroyed.

"For weeks," said the girl, "I have tried to get a hearing. Manager
after manager I sought; all refused to see me. I have suffered a
hundred affronts, all in silence. Your manager I saw, but he referred
me to you, knowing that probably I should never find you. But I was
determined. So I wrote; that was your answer. I confess that at the
time I was terribly angry, for courtesy is a simple thing and within
reach of every one."

To receive a lesson in manners from a young woman, when that young
woman is handsome and talented, is not a very pleasant experience. But
Warrington was, a thorough gentleman, and he submitted with grace.

"I know that you are a busy man, that you are besieged with
applications. You ought, at least, to have formal slips, such as
editors have. I have confidence in my ability to act, the confidence
which talent gives to all persons. After receiving your letter I was
more than ever determined to see you. So I resorted to this
subterfuge. It was all very distasteful to me; but I possess a vein of
wilfulness. This is not my home. It is the home of a friend who was
kind enough to turn it over to me this night, relying upon my wit to
bring about this meeting."

"It was neatly done," was Warrington's comment. He was not angry now
at all. In fact, the girl interested him tremendously. "I am rather
curious to learn how you went about it."

"You are not angry?"

"I was."

This seemed to satisfy her.

"Well, first I learned where you were in the habit of dining. All day
long a messenger has been following you. A telephone brought me to the
restaurant. The rest you know. It was simple."

"Very simple," laconically.

"You listened and believed. I have been watching you. You believed
everything I have told you. You have even been calculating how this
scene might go in a play. Have I convinced you that I have the ability
to act?"

Warrington folded the letter and balanced it on his palm.

"You have fooled me completely; that ought to be sufficient
recommendation."

"Thank you." But her eyes were eager with anxiety.

"Miss Challoner, I apologize for this letter. I do more than that. I
promise not to leave this house till you agree to call at the theater
at ten to-morrow morning." He was smiling, and Warrington had a
pleasant smile. He had an idea besides. "Good fortune put it into my
head to follow you here. I see it all now, quite plainly. I am in a
peculiar difficulty, and I honestly believe that you can help me out
of it. How long would it take you to learn a leading part? In fact,
the principal part?"

"A week."

"Have you had any experience?"

"A short season out west in a stock company."

"Good!"

"And I love work."

"Do not build any great hopes," he warned, "for your chance depends
upon the whim of another woman. But you have my word and my good
offices that something shall be put in your way. You will come at
ten?" drawing on his gloves.

"Promptly."

"I believe that we both have been wise to-night; though it is true
that a man dislikes being a fool and having it made manifest."

"And how about the woman scorned?" with an enchanting smile.

"It is kismet," he acknowledged.




Chapter II


Warrington laid down his pen, brushed his smarting eyes, lighted his
pipe, and tilted back his chair. With his hands clasped behind his
head, he fell into a waking dream, that familiar pastime of the
creative mind. It was half after nine, and he had been writing
steadily since seven. The scenario was done; the villain had lighted
his last cigarette, the hero had put his arms protectingly around the
heroine, and the irascible rich uncle had been brought to terms. All
this, of course, figuratively speaking; for no one ever knew what the
plot of that particular play was, insomuch as Warrington never
submitted the scenario to his manager, an act which caused almost a
serious rupture between them. But to-night his puppets were moving
hither and thither across the stage, pulsing with life; they were
making entrances and exits; developing this climax and that; with wit
and satire, humor and pathos. It was all very real to the dreamer.

The manuscript lay scattered about the top of his broad flat desk, and
the floor beside the waste-basket was flaked with the remains of
various futile lines and epigrams. The ash-pan was littered with burnt
matches, ends of cigars and pipe tobacco, while the ash-crumbs
speckled all dark objects, not excepting the green rug under his feet.
Warrington smoked incessantly while at work, now a cigarette, now a
cigar, now a pipe. Specialists declare with cold authoritative
positiveness that the use of tobacco blunts the thought, dulls the
edge of invention; but Warrington knew better. Many a night he had
thrown his coat over his smoking-jacket and dashed down the street to
the corner drug-store for a fresh supply of tobacco. He simply could
not work without it. I do not know that he saw his heroes and heroines
any plainer for the smoke; but I do know that when their creator held
a cigar between his teeth, they frowned less, and the spirit of malice
and irony, of which he was master, became subdued.

Warrington was thirty-five now. The grey hair at the temples and the
freshness of his complexion gave him a singularly youthful appearance.
His mouth was even-lipped and rather pleasure-loving, which, without
the balance of a strong nose, would have appealed to you as
effeminate. Warrington's was what the wise phrenologists call the
fighting nose; not pugnacious, but the nose of a man who will fight
for what he believes to be right, fight bitterly and fearlessly.
To-day he was famous, but only yesterday he had been fighting,
retreating, throwing up this redoubt, digging this trench; fighting,
fighting. Poverty, ignorance and contempt he fought; fought
dishonesty, and vice, and treachery, and discouragement.

Presently he leaned toward the desk and picked up a letter. He read it
thoughtfully, and his brows drew together. A smile, whimsically sad,
stirred his lips, and was gone. It was written by a girl or a very
young woman. There was no signature, no address, no veiled request for
an autograph. It was one of those letters which bring to the novelist
or dramatist, or any man of talent, a real and singular pleasure. It
is precious because honest and devoid of the tawdry gilt of flattery.

Richard Warrington--You will smile, I know, when you read this letter,
doubtless so many like it are mailed to you day by day. You will toss
it into the waste-basket, too, as it deserves to be. But it had to be
written. However, I feel that I am not writing to a mere stranger, but
to a friend whom I know well. Three times you have entered into my
life, and on each occasion you have come by a different avenue. I was
ill at school when you first appeared to me. It was a poem in a
magazine. It was so full of the spirit of joyousness, so full of
kindliness, so rich in faith and hope, that I cried over it, cut it
out and treasured it, and re-read it often in the lonely hours when
things discouraged me,--things which mean so little to women but so
much to girls. Two years went by, and then came that brave book! It
was like coming across a half-forgotten friend. I actually ran home
with it, and sat up all night to complete it. It was splendid. It was
the poem matured, broadened, rounded. And finally your first play! How
I listened to every word, watched every move! I wrote you a letter
that night, but tore it up, not having the courage to send it to you.
How versatile you must be: a poem, a book, a play! I have seen all
your plays these five years, plays merry and gay, sad and grave. How
many times you have mysteriously told me to be brave! I envy and
admire you. What an exquisite thing it must be to hear one's thoughts
spoken across the footlights! Please do not laugh. It would hurt me to
know that you could laugh at my honest admiration. You won't laugh,
will you? I am sure you will value this letter for its honesty rather
than for its literary quality. I have often wondered what you were
like. But after all, that can not matter, since you are good and kind
and wise; for you can not be else, and write the lofty things you do.

Warrington put the letter away, placed it carefully among the few
things he held of value. It would not be true to say that it left him
unaffected. There was an innocent barb in this girlish admiration, and
it pierced the quick of all that was good in him.

"Good and kind and wise," he mused. "If only the child knew! Heigh-ho!
I am kind, sometimes I've been good, and often wise. Well, I can't
disillusion the child, happily; she has given me no address."

He rose, wheeled his chair to a window facing the street, and opened
it. The cool fresh April air rushed in, clearing the room of its
opalescent clouds, cleansing his brain of the fever that beset it. He
leaned with his elbows on the sill and, breathed noisily, gratefully.
Above, heaven had decked her broad bosom with her flickering stars,
and from the million lamps of the great city rose and floated a
tarnished yellow haze. So many sounds go forth to make the voices of
the night: somewhere a child was crying fretfully, across the way the
faint tinkle of a piano, the far-off rattle of the elevated, a muffled
laugh from a window, above, the rat-tat of a cab-horse, the breeze in
the ivy clinging to the walls of the church next door, the quarrelsome
chirp of the sleepy sparrows; and then, recurrence. Only the poet or
the man in pain opens his ears to these sounds.

Over on Broadway a child of his fertile brain was holding the rapt
attention of several hundred men and women; and across the broad land
that night four other dramas were being successfully acted. People
were discussing his theories, denouncing or approving his conception
of life. The struggle was past, his royalties were making him rich.
And here he was this night, drinking the cup of bitterness, of
unhappiness, the astringent draft of things that might and should have
been. The coveted grape was sour, the desired apple was withered.
Those who traverse the road with Folly as boon companion find only
emptiness.

And so it was with Warrington. He had once been good, wholly good and
kind and wise, lofty as a rural poet who has seen nothing of life save
nature's pure and visible face. In the heat of battle he had been
strong, but success had subtly eaten into the fibers and loosed his
hold, and had swept him onward into that whirlpool out of which no man
emerges wholly undefiled. It takes a great and strong man to withstand
success, and Warrington was only a genius. It was not from lack of
will power; rather it was because he was easy-going and loved pleasure
for its own sake. He had fought and starved, and now for the jingle of
the guinea in his pocket and the junkets of the gay! The prodigality
of these creative beings is not fully understood by the laity, else
they would forgive more readily the transgressions. Besides, the
harbor of family ties is a man's moral bulwark; and Warrington drifted
hither and thither with no harbor in view at all.

He had been an orphan since his birth; a mother meant simply a giver
of life, and a father meant, even less. Until he had read the reverse
and obverse sides of life, his sense of morality had lain dormant and
untilled. Such was his misfortune. The solitary relative he laid claim
to was an aged aunt, his father's sister. For her he had purchased a
beautiful place in the town of his birth, vaguely intending to live
out his old age there.

There had been a fight for all he possessed. Good had not come easily,
as it does to some particularly favored mortals. There was no family,
aristocracy to back him up, no melancholy recollections of past
grandeur to add the interest of romance to his endeavors. His father
had been a poor man of the people, a farmer. And yet Warrington was by
no means plebeian. Somewhere there was a fine strain. It had been a
fierce struggle to complete a college education. In the summer-time he
had turned his hand to all sorts of things to pay his winter's
tuition. He had worked as clerk in summer hotels, as a surveyor's
assistant in laying street-railways, he had played at private
secretary, he had hawked vegetables about the streets at dawn.
Happily, he had no false pride. Chance moves quite as mysteriously as
the tides. On leaving college he had secured a minor position on one
of the daily newspapers, and had doggedly worked his way up to the
coveted position of star-reporter. Here the latent power of the
story-teller, the poet and the dramatist was awakened; in any other
pursuit the talent would have quietly died, as it has died in the
breasts of thousands who, singularly enough, have not stood in the
path of Chance.

Socially, Warrington was one of the many nobodies; and if he ever
attended dinners and banquets and balls, it was in the capacity of
reporter. But his cynical humor, which was manifest even in his youth,
saved him the rancor and envy which is the portion of the outsider.

At length the great city called him, and the lure was strong. He
answered, and the long battle was on. Sometimes he dined, sometimes he
slept; for there's an old Italian saying that he who sleeps dines. He
drifted from one paper to another, lived in prosperity one week and in
poverty the next; haggled with pawnbrokers and landladies, and
borrowed money and lent it. He never saved anything; the dreamer never
does. Then one day the end came to the long lane, as it always does to
those who keep on. A book was accepted and published; and then
followed the first play.

By and by, when his name began to figure in the dramatic news items,
and home visitors in New York returned to boast about the Warrington
"first nights," the up-state city woke and began to recollect
things--what promise Warrington had shown in his youth, how clever he
was, and all that. Nothing succeeds like success, and nobody is so
interesting as the prophet who has shaken the dust of his own country
and found honor in another. Human nature can't help itself: the women
talked of his plays in the reading-clubs, the men speculated on the
backs of envelopes what his royalties were, and the newspaper that had
given him a bread-and-butter pittance for a man's work proudly took it
upon itself to say that its columns had fostered the genius in the
growing. This was not because the editors were really proud of their
townsman's success; rather it was because it made a neat little
advertisement of their own particular foresight, such as it was. In
fact, in his own town (because he had refused to live in it!)
Warrington was a lion of no small dimensions.

Warrington's novel (the only one he ever wrote) was known to few. To
tell the truth, the very critics that were now praising the dramatist
had slashed the novelist cruelly. And thereby hangs a tale. A New York
theatrical manager sent for Warrington one day and told him that he
had read the book, and if the author would attempt a dramatic version,
the manager would give it a fair chance. Warrington, the bitterness of
failure in his soul, undertook the work, and succeeded. Praise would
have made an indifferent novelist of him, for he was a born dramatist.

Regularly each year he visited his birthplace for a day or so, to pay
in person his taxes. For all that he labored in New York, he still
retained his right to vote in his native town.


A sudden desire seized him to-night to return to his home, to become a
citizen in fact and deed. It was now the time of year when the spring
torrents flood the lowlands, when the melting snows trickle down the
bleak hillsides, when the dead hand of winter lies upon the bosom of
awakening spring, and the seed is in travail. Heigh-ho! the world went
very well in the springs of old; care was in bondage, and all the many
gateways to the heart were bastioned and sentineled.

"Sir, a lady wishes to see you."

Warrington turned. His valet stood respectfully in the doorway.

"The name?" Warrington rose impatiently. Nobody likes to have his
dreams disturbed.

"Miss Challoner, sir."

"Challoner!" in surprise; "and this time of night?" He stroked his
chin. A moment passed. Not that he hesitated to admit her; rather he
wished to make a final analysis of his heart before his eyes fell down
to worship her beauty. "Admit her at once." He brushed the ashes from
his jacket and smoothed his hair. The valet disappeared. "If I only
loved the woman, loved her honestly, boldly, fearlessly, what a
difference it would make! I don't love her, and I realize that I never
did. She never touched my heart, only my eye and mind. I may be
incapable of loving any one; perhaps that's it. But what can have
possessed her to leave the theater this time of night?"

A swish of petticoats, a rush of cool air with which mingled an
indefinable perfume, and, like a bird taking momentary rest in the
passage, she stood poised on the threshold. A beautiful woman is a
tangible enchantment; and fame and fortune had made Katherine
Challoner beautiful, roguishly, daringly, puzzlingly beautiful. Her
eyes sparkled like stars on ruffled waters, the flame of health and
life burned in her cheeks, and the moist red mobile mouth expressed
emotions so rapidly and irregularly as to bewilder the man who
attempted to follow them. Ah, but she could act; comedy or tragedy, it
mattered not; she was always superb.

There was a tableau of short duration. Her expression was one of
gentle inquiry, his was one of interest not unmixed with fascination.
He felt a quick touch of compassion, of embarrassment. There had been
times when yonder woman had seemed to show him the preference that is
given only to men who are loved. Even as the thought came to him, he
prayed that it was only his man's vanity that imagined it. As he
stared at her, there came the old thrill: beauty is a power
tremendous.

"Dick, you do not say you are glad to see me."

"Beauty striketh the sage dumb," he laughed. "What good fortune brings
you here to-night? What has happened? How could you find time between
the acts to run over?"

"I am not acting to-night."

"What?"

"No. Nor shall I be to-morrow night, nor the thousand nights that
shall follow."

"Why, girl!" he cried, pushing out a chair. He had not seen her for
two weeks. He had known nothing of her movements, save that her
splendid talents had saved a play from utter ruin. Her declaration was
like a thunderbolt. "Explain!"

"Well, I am tired, Dick; I am tired." She sat down, and her gaze roved
about the familiar room with a veiled affection for everything she
saw. "The world is empty. I have begun to hate the fools who applaud
me. I hate the evil smells which hang about the theater. I hate the
overture and the man with the drums," whimsically.

"What's he done to you?"

"Nothing, only he makes more noise than the others. I'm tired. It is
not a definite reason; but a woman is never obliged to be definite."

"No; I never could understand you, even when you took the trouble to
explain things."

"Yes, I know." She drew off her gloves and rubbed her fingers, which
were damp and cold.

"But, surely, this is only a whim. You can't seriously mean to give up
the stage when the whole world is watching you!"

She did not answer him, but continued to rub her fingers. She wore
several rings, among which was a brilliant of unusual luster.
Warrington, however, had eyes for nothing but her face. For the past
six months he had noted a subtle change in her, a growing reserve, a
thoughtfulness that was slowly veiling or subduing her natural gaiety.
She now evaded him when he suggested one of their old romps in queer
little restaurants; she professed illness when he sent for her to join
him in some harmless junketing. She was slowly slipping away from him;
no, drifting, since he made no real effort to hold her. And why had he
made no real effort? Sometimes he thought he could answer this
question, and then again he knew that he could not. Ah, if he only
loved her! What a helpmeet: cheerful, resourceful, full of good humor
and practical philosophy, a brilliant wit, with all the finished
graces of a goddess. Ah, if indeed he only loved her! This thought
kept running through his mind persistently; it had done so for days;
but it had always led him back to the starting point. Love is not
always reasoning with itself. Perhaps--and the thought filled him with
regret--perhaps he was indeed incapable of loving any one as his
poet's fancy believed he ought to love. And this may account for the
truth of the statement that genius is rarely successful in love; the
ideal is so high that it is out of the reach of life as we, genius or
clod, live it.

"Isn't this determination rather sudden?" he asked, when the pause
grew insupportable.

"I have been thinking of it for some time," she replied, smiling. A
woman always finds herself at ease during such crises. "Only, I hadn't
exactly made up my mind. You were at work?" glancing at the desk.

"Yes, but I'm through for the night. It's only a scenario, and I am
not entirely satisfied with it."

She walked over to the desk and picked up a sheet at random. She was a
privileged person in these rooms. Warrington never had any nervous
dread when she touched his manuscript.

"How is it going to end?" she asked.

"Oh, they are going to marry and be happy ever after," he answered,
smiling.

"Ah; then they are never going to have any children?" she said, with a
flash of her old-time mischief.

"Will you have a cigarette?" lighting one and offering her the box.

"No; I have a horror of cigarettes since that last play. To smoke in
public every night, perforce, took away the charm. I hated that part.
An adventuress! It was altogether too close to the quick; for I am
nothing more or less than an adventuress who has been successful. Why,
the very method I used to make your acquaintance years and years ago,
wasn't it?--proved the spirit. 'We hate two kinds of people,'" she
read, taking up another page of manuscript; "'the people we wrong and
the people who wrong us. Only, the hate for those we have wronged is
most enduring.' That isn't half bad, Dick. How do you think of all
these things?"

She crossed over to the window to cool her hot face. She, too, heard
the voices of the night; not as the poet hears them, but as one in
pain. "He never loved me!" she murmured, so softly that even the
sparrows in the vine heard her not. And bitter indeed was the pain.
But of what use to struggle, or to sigh, or vainly to regret? As
things are written, so must they be read. She readily held him
guiltless; what she regretted most deeply was the lack of power to
have him and to hold him. Long before, she had realized the
hopelessness of it all. Knowing that he drank from the cup of
dissipation, she had even sought to hold him in contempt; but to her
he had never ceased to be a gentleman, tender, manly and kind. It is
contempt that casts the first spadeful in the grave of love.

"Come, girl," he said, going to her side; "you have something to tell
me. What is it?"

She turned to find his hand outstretched and a friendly look in his
eyes. Impulsively she gave him both her hands. He bowed over them with
the grave air of the days of powdered wigs. There was not a particle
of irony in the movement; rather it was a quiet acknowledgment that he
recollected the good influence she had at times worked upon him in
some dark days. As he brushed her fingers with his lips, he saw. His
head came up quickly.

"Ah!"

"Yes." Her voice was steady and her eyes were brave.

He drew her to the lamp and studied the ring. The ruddy lights dartled
as he slowly turned the jewel around.

"It is a beauty. No one but a rich man could have given a ring like
that. And on your finger it means but one thing."

"I am to be married in June."

"Do you love him?"

"I respect him; he is noble and good and kind."

Warrington did not press the question. He still retained the hand,
though he no longer gazed at the ring.

"I have always wanted a home. The stage never really fascinated me; it
was bread and butter."

"Is it necessary to marry in order to have a home?" he asked quietly,
letting the hand gently slide from his. "You are wealthy, after a
fashion; could you not build a home of your own?"

"Always to be identified as the actress? To be looked at curiously, to
be annoyed by those who are not my equals, and only tolerated by those
who are? No! I want a man who will protect me from all these things,
who will help me to forget some needless follies and the memory that a
hundred different men have made play-love to me on the other side of
the footlights."

"Some men marry actresses to gratify their vanity; does this man love
you?"

"Yes; and he will make me what Heaven intended I should be--a woman.
Oh, I have uttered no deceit. This man will take me for what I am."

"And you have come here to-night to ask me to forget, too?" There was
no bitterness in his tone, but there was a strong leaven of regret.
"Well, I promise to forget."

"It was not necessary to ask you that," generously. "But I thought I
would come to you and tell you everything. I did not wish you to
misjudge me. For the world will say that I am marrying this good man
for his money; whereas, if he was a man of the most moderate
circumstances, I should still marry him."

"And who might this lucky man be? To win a woman, such as I know you
to be, this man must have some extraordinary attributes." And all at
once a sense of infinite relief entered into his heart: if she were
indeed married, there would no longer be that tantalizing doubt on his
part, that peculiar attraction which at one time resembled love and at
another time was simply fascination. She would pass out of his life
definitely. He perfectly recognized the fact that he admired her above
all other women he knew; but it was also apparent that to see her day
by day, year by year, his partner in the commonplaces as well as in
the heights, romance would become threadbare quickly enough. "Who is
he?" he repeated.

"That I prefer not to disclose to you just yet. What are you going to
call your new play?" with a wave of her hand toward the manuscript.

"I had intended to call it Love and Money, but the very name presages
failure."

"Yes, it needs the cement of compatibility to keep the two together."

"Well, from my heart I wish you all the best luck in the world," he
said, the absence of any mental reservation in his eyes. "You would
make any man a good wife. If I weren't a born fool--"

She leaned toward him, her face suddenly tense and eager.

"--if I weren't a born fool," with a smile that was whimsical, "I'd
have married you myself, long ago. But fate has cut me out for a
bachelor." He knocked the ash from a cold pipe, filled and lighted it.
"By the way," he said, "I received a curious letter to-day." Its
production would relieve the awkwardness of the moment. "Would you
like to see it?" opening the drawer and handing the letter to her.
"It's one of the few letters of the sort I'm going to keep."

She accepted the letter, but without any spirit of interest. For a
moment a thought had all but swept her off her feet; yet she realized
instantly that this thought was futile. Warrington did not love her;
and there was nothing to do but to follow out the course she had
planned. She had come to him that night with a single purpose in mind:
to plumb the very heart of this man who was an enigma to every woman
he met. She had plumbed it. Warrington loved nobody but Warrington and
pleasure. Oh, he was capable of the grand passion, she very well knew,
but the woman to arouse it had not yet crossed his path.

"What do you think of it?" he asked.

She came closer to the lamp. It was only pretense, but Warrington was
not aware of it. She had stared at the sheet, reading only her
miserable thoughts. Presently she smiled; the girlish exuberance
amused her.

"She has put you quite out of reach. What a fine thing it must be to
have such faith in any man!"

"And I'm not worth in her esteem an ounce to the pound." He was quite
frank with himself. "I would to Heaven I were!"

"And this is the kind of woman that you will fall violently in love
with, some day, Dick. It will be your punishment." She had fully
recovered by now, and the old-time raillery was in the ascendant. "Oh,
she has read you fairly well. You are good and kind and wise, but
these virtues are not of equal weight. Your goodness and wisdom will
never catch up with your abundant kindness. I've a good deal to thank
you for, Dick; a good deal."

"Nonsense! The shoe is on the other foot. You have made half my plays
what they are to-day." He rang and ordered some coffee.

She dropped into his desk-chair and propped her chin in her palms,
viewing him through half-closed, speculative eyes.

"We've had some jolly larks together," he said. "I shall miss you; how
much I shall know only when you are gone. Is he good-looking?"

"Very. He is tall and straight, with a manly face, fine eyes, and a
good nose. You know that I'm always particular about a man's nose."

"And young, of course?" not without some feeling of jealousy.

"And young."

"Tell me all about him," drawing up a chair and facing her.

"He is a lucky chap," he summed up when she had done.

"That remains to be seen," lightly. "I may prove the worst wife
possible. Perhaps, when I have burned my bridges, I shall be mad for
the very publicity I'm trying to escape. Women are like extinct
volcanos; they are most to be dreaded when written perfectly
harmless."

Warrington shook his head and laughed. Here the coffee came in. He
dismissed his man, and poured the nectar himself.

"You are the one man I know who never asks to sweeten my coffee," she
observed.

"And yet I had to learn. You haven't taught this other fellow yet, I
see. Is he warranted house-broken, or will he have to be chained?"

"He will not have to be chained; and a man who is a recluse seldom has
to be broken in."

"A recluse? What's his hobby: butterflies, stones, stamps, or
coins?--No, girl; I don't mean that. I'm a little heavy to-night. Do
you recollect the night you donned a suit of mine, bundled your hair
under a felt hat, and visited the studios? What a romp! Not a soul
ever found out who you were; and if I hadn't been in the secret, I
shouldn't have known, either. I shall never forget how funny Dolman
looked when he started a certain popular story of his and you shut him
up. 'Gentlemen,' you said, 'neither listen to, nor repeat that kind of
story in the presence of ladies.' 'Ladies?' cried Dolman. 'I see no
ladies.' 'But there are gentlemen,' you added quickly. Later, Dolman
advised me not to bring any more of my Sunday-school friends to HIS
studio."

The woman smiled, but the smile was only on the lips. All those happy
frolics were to be no more. Heigh-ho! Over the mantel there were
several photographs of herself. Like all celebrities of her kind, the
camera was a constant source of amusement. It was not necessarily
vanity. The rose is not vain, yet it repeats its singular beauty as
often as the seasons permit it. Across these pictures she had scrawled
numerous signatures, "Kate" and "Kit" and "Kitty" and "Katherine
Challoner," with here and there a phrase in French and Italian.

"You wouldn't return those under any circumstances?"

"No, indeed! That's all I'll have. And besides, you wouldn't ask me to
give them up?"

Her answer remained unspoken. The valet appeared deferentially.

"Well?" said Warrington.

"A gentleman to see you, sir. He said he wouldn't need any card. Mr.
John Bennington, sir.

"John Bennington!" Warrington sprang from his chair, his face joyous.
"Old John here to-night! Finest chap on earth, Kate; my roommate at
college, and the only chap in my town who was my friend when I was a
nobody. Old John ..."

"Richard, you must hide me quickly. I mustn't be seen here. There is
no way of passing him the hall."

"Good Lord!" He did not notice her pallor. "The butler's pantry," he
said hastily.

She slipped out of sight noiselessly. Presently she heard sounds,
men's voices, a hearty greeting and for a moment the world seemed
gliding from under her feet. Her gloves! She had forgotten her gloves!




Chapter III


Men have a way of greeting which is all their own. It is unlike the
kiss and flutter of women, which may signify frankness or deceit,
generosity or selfishness, some favor to gain, some treachery to
forestall. Men's likes and dislikes are generally visible. The dog
wags his tail, or he warns you away with a growl; there is no
mistaking his attitude. On the other hand, the cat purrs and rubs
against your leg, and when you reach down to smooth her, as likely as
not she gives you a dig for your pains. True, there are always
exceptions to this rule.

With their hands on each other's shoulders, at arm's length they
stood, a likely pair to look at, smiling frankly and joyfully into
each other's eyes. When it is without self-interest, friendship
between man and man is a fine and noble thing. It is known best in the
stress of storms, in the hour of sorrow and adversity. Friendship, to
be perfect, must be without any sense of obligation; for obligation
implies that one or the other is in debt, and the debtor is always
wondering when he will have to pay. Between these two men only the
slightest favors had been exchanged. They had grown up together, one
the son of a rich steel-mill owner, the other the son of a poor
farmer. The one had entered college to the sounding of golden cymbals,
the other had marched in with nothing but courage in his pocket. It is
impossible to describe how these great friendships come about;
generally they begin with some insignificant trifle, soon forgotten.
Warrington had licked Bennington in the boyhood days; why, I doubt
that the Recording Angel himself remembers. So the friendship began
with secret admiration on one side and good-natured toleration on the
other. One day Warrington broke a colt for Bennington, and later
Bennington found a passably good market for Warrington's vegetables.
Friendship, like constancy, finds strange niches. The Bennington
family were not very cordial to the young vegetable grower. On the
mother's side there was a long line of military ancestors. It is
impossible that a cabbage and a uniform should cohere. Warrington's
great-grandsires had won honors in the Revolution, but as this fact
did not make cabbages grow any faster he kept the faded glory to
himself.

In college the two lads were as inseparable as La Mole and Coconnas;
they played on the same teams, rowed on the same crews and danced with
the same girls. The only material difference in their respective
talents lay in one thing: Bennington could not write a respectable
rhyme, and I'm not sure that he wasn't proud of it. It distinguished
him from the other members of his class. As for Warrington, there
wasn't a pretty girl in the whole college town who couldn't boast of
one or more of his impassioned stanzas. And you may be sure that when
Warrington became talked about these self-same halting verses were dug
up from the garret and hung in sundry parlors.

Bennington was handsome, and, but for his father's blood, the idleness
of his forebears would have marked him with effeminateness. His head,
his face, the shape of his hands and feet, these proclaimed the
aristocrat. It was only in the eyes and the broad shoulders that you
recognized the iron-monger's breed. His eyes were as blue as his own
hammered steel; but, like the eyes of the eagle at peace, they were
mild and dreamy and deceptive to casual inspection. In the shops the
men knew all about those eyes and shoulders. They had been fooled
once, but only once. They had felt the iron in the velvet.

"I'm mighty glad to see you, boy," said Warrington, dropping his arms.
"You haven't changed a bit."

"Nor you, Dick; if anything you look younger."

"How many years is it, John?"

"Six or seven; not very long."

"Time never seems long to a man who never has to wait for anything. I
have had to reckon time with hours full of suspense, and those hours
have aged me; perhaps not outwardly, but all the same, I'm an old man,
John."

"Nonsense!"

"When did you cross?"

"About a year ago, when father died. I had given up the English end of
the concern two years before, and was just wandering about the
continent. I was dreadfully disappointed when I learned that you had
visited the shops in ninety-eight. That summer I was in Switzerland.
I had no idea there was going to be war, and never saw a newspaper
till it was nearly over. I should have enlisted. And another year we
passed within two days of each other."

"No!" Bennington exclaimed.

"Yes. It was in Italy, at Sorrento, that I learned of your nearness.
You were off for Amalfi and I had just come from there. For three days
I ran across your name in the hotel registers. I tried to find your
permanent address, but failed. Cook's nor the bankers in Naples knew
anything about you. I tell you what, it was discouraging."

"What luck! I was having all my mail sent direct to Mentone, where I
spent the winter. Say, what do you think?"

"About what?"

"Won five thousand at Monte Carlo in one play."

"Pounds?" exclaimed Bennington.

"Lord, no!--dollars."

"Ah! But of course you went back and lost it?" ironically.

"On the contrary, I've never staked a dollar since. Gambling was never
a habit of mine, though I dare say the moral side of the subject would
not have held me back. Simply, I know that the gambler always loses,
and the banker always wins, in the end. Common sense told me to quit,
and I did. I brought my letter of credit home practically intact."

"You used to play poker," dubiously.

"Poker isn't gambling. It's surreptitiously lending money to your
friends."

"You were always good at definitions," sighed Bennington.

"I understand you've sold your holdings in the English shops?"

"Yes. I was weary of the people and what they called their
conservatism, which is only a phase of stupidity. And then, besides, I
loved the old home up there. I've been living there about a year now."

"It's a pity you couldn't have looked me up before this," Warrington
complained.

Bennington only laughed affectionately.

"Take a look around the room while I get the whisky and soda."

"Don't bother, Dick."

"Boy, I licked you once, and I'll do it again if you don't sit down. A
little extra attention won't hurt; and I'll guarantee the whisky."
Waving his arms toward all the desirable things in the room, he
vanished beyond the curtain.

Bennington looked about leisurely. It was just the kind of room he had
always imagined; it was like the man who occupied it. Simplicity and
taste abounded; the artist and the collector, the poet and the
musician, were everywhere in evidence. He strolled over to the mantel
and took down one of the pictures signed "Kate." He smiled. It was not
an indulgent smile, nor the smile of a man who has stumbled upon
another man's secret. The smile was rather exultant. He leaned against
the mantel and studied the face in its varied expressions. He nodded
approvingly. It was a lovely face; it was more than lovely,--it was
tender and strong. Presently he returned to his chair and sat down,
the photograph still in his hand. And in this position Warrington
found him.

"Ah, you sly dog!" he hailed, setting down the glasses and pouring out
a liberal bumper. "So I've caught you? Well, you're not the only man
who has been conquered by that very photograph." He had half a notion
to go in and bring her out; but then, women are such finicky beings!

Bennington laid aside the photograph, a certain reverence in his
action that in ordinary times would not have escaped Warrington's
notice.

"What's this to be?" asked Bennington, lifting his glass and stirring
the ice.

"Immer und immer, as the German has it," Warrington replied.

"For ever and ever, then!"

And the two lightly touched glasses, with that peculiar gravity which
always accompanies such occasions.

"When a man drinks your health in bad whisky, look out for him; but
this whisky is very good, Dick." Bennington set down his glass and
wiped his lips. "It is very good, indeed."

"Well, how are things up in Herculaneum?" asked Warrington. "You know,
or ought to know, that I get up there only once a year."

"Things are not very well. There's the devil to pay in politics, and
some day I may have a jolly long strike on my hands," grimly. "But I
shall know exactly what to do. That man McQuade owns about all the
town now. He controls congressmen, state senators and assemblymen, and
the majority of the Common Council is his, body and soul. Only
recently he gave the traction company a new right of way. Not a penny
went into the city's purse. And you know these street-railways; they
never pay their taxes. A franchise for ninety-nine years; think of
it!"

"Why don't you men wake up and oust McQuade? I'll tell you right here,
Jack, you have no one to blame but yourself. Scoundrels like McQuade
are always in the minority; but they remain in power simply because
men like you think politics a dirty business and something for an
honest man to keep out of. Run for mayor yourself, if you want clean
politics. Rouse up an independent party."

"Do you know what they call me up there?" Bennington laughed.

"I confess to ignorance."

"Well, the newspapers say covertly that I'm all but a naturalized
Englishman, a snob, when I'm only a recluse, a man who dresses every
night for dinner, who dines instead of eats. There are some things it
is impossible to understand, and one is the interest the newspapers
take in the private affairs of men. If they jumped on me as a
mill-owner, there might be some excuse, but they are always digging me
on the private-citizen side. Every man, in his own house, ought to be
allowed to do as he pleases. They never bothered the governor any,
when he was alive. I believe they were afraid of him."

"I can explain all that, my boy. Buy your clothes of the local
tailors; get rid of your valet; forget that you have lived in England.
They'll come around to you, then. You may talk as much as you like
about the friendliness between the Englishman and the American. It is
simply a case of two masters who are determined that their dogs shall
be friendly. Let the masters drop out of sight for a moment, and you
will find the dogs at each other's throat. And the masters? The dollar
on this side and the sovereign on the other. There is a good deal of
friendship these days that is based upon three and a half per cent.
Get into politics, my boy."

"Bah! I'd look nice running for mayor, wouldn't I? The newspapers
would howl calamity, and the demagogues would preach that I would soon
impose English wages in the shops, and all that tommyrot. No, thank
you; I'll take trouble as it comes, but I'm not looking for it."

"I see that I shall have to go back there and start the ball myself,"
said Warrington, jesting.

"Why don't you? You are not a rank outsider. The people are proud of
you."

"And always will be, so long as I have sense enough to remain here in
New York," dryly. "But if I lived there ...!"

"You are not always going to live in New York?"

"Not always."

"You've a beautiful old home up there."

"I bought that just to show the people I had the money," laughing.
"They may never forget my cabbages, but they'll forgive them."

"Nevertheless, you ought to return."

"Listen," said Warrington, lifting his hand. They became silent, and
presently the voice of the city came into the room. "I'm afraid I
could not live away from that. How many times have I stopped work to
listen to it! How many inspirations have I drawn from it! It is the
siren's music, I know, but I am no longer afraid of the reefs. Perhaps
I have become enamored with noise; it is quite possible."

"I have lived in London. I thought it was going to be hard to break
away, but it wasn't."

They lighted cigars, and Bennington took up the photograph again.

"A lovely face," was his comment.

"With a heart and a mind even more lovely," supplemented Warrington.
"She is one of the most brilliant women I have ever met, and what is
more, humorous and good-humored. My word for it, she may have equals,
but she has no superiors on this side of the ocean."

Bennington looked up sharply.

"Nothing serious?" he asked gently.

"Serious? No. We are capital friends, but nothing more. There's been
too much comradeship to admit anything like sentimentality. Ah, boy,
you should see her act!"

"I have. I saw her in London last season. She was playing your War of
Women. She appeared to me enchanting. But about these actresses ..."

"I know, I know," interrupted Warrington. "Some of them are bad, but
some of them are the noblest creatures God ever put on earth; and
yonder is one of them. I remember. Often we were both in debt; plays
went wrong; sometimes I helped her out, sometimes she returned the
favor. We were more like two men. Without her help I shouldn't be
where I am to-day. I always read the scenario of a play to her first;
and often we've worked together half a night on one scene. I shall
miss her."

"What! Is she going away?"

"After a fashion. She has retired from the stage."

"Do you believe she means it?" asked Bennington. "You know how
changeable actresses' moods are."

"I think Miss Challoner will never act again. She has always been an
enigma to the majority of the show people. Never any trumpets,
jewelry, petty squabbles, lime-lights, and silks; she never read
criticisms, save those I sent her. Managers had to knock on her
dressing-room door. Oh, I do not say that she is an absolute paragon,
but I do say that she is a good woman, of high ideals, loyal,
generous, frank, and honest. And I have often wondered why the devil I
couldn't fall in love with her myself," moodily.

Bennington was silent for a moment. Finally he said: "How does it feel
to be famous, to have plays produced simultaneously in New York and
London?"

"After the first success there is never anything but hard work. A
failure once in a while acts like a tonic. And sometimes we get an
anonymous letter that refreshes us--a real admirer, who writes from
the heart and doesn't fish for a letter or an autograph in return. I
received one of these only a few days ago, and I want you to read it."
Warrington produced the missive and tossed it into Bennington's hands.
"Read that. It's worth while to get a letter like that one."

Bennington took up the letter, smiling at his friend's enthusiasm. A
single glance at the graceful script, however, changed his expression.
He sat back and stared at Warrington.

"What's the matter?"

Bennington did not answer, but settled down to his task, reading
carefully and slowly. He did not look for any signature, for he knew
there would be none. He returned the letter, his face sober, but his
eyes dancing.

"Now, what the deuce do you see that is so amusing?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Don't tell me there isn't any romance in the world. But, hang it,
Jack, I'm not worth a letter like that," earnestly.

"Of course not."

"I'm not jesting. I've sown wild oats, and God knows what the harvest
will be. There's a law that exacts payment. Retribution is the only
certain thing in this world."

"Oh, you're no worse than the average man. But the average man is
jolly bad," Bennington added gravely. "But you, Dick; I'm not worrying
about you. Perhaps the writer of that letter sees good in you that you
can't see yourself; good that is in you but of which you are
unconscious. One thing, you have never besmirched the talents God gave
you. Everything you have done has been clean and wholesome--like
yourself."

"I wish I could believe that! But I've had no ties, Jack, none. You
can't keep to a course without a compass. The real good in life, the
good that makes life worth while, is the toil for those you love. I
love nobody, not even myself. But this girl rather woke me up. I began
to look inward, as they say. So far I've not discovered much good. I'd
give a good deal to meet this writer."

"Doubtless you will find her charming."

Suddenly Warrington turned upon his friend. "But what I want to know
is, what brought you around here this time o' night? I never knew you
to do anything without a definite purpose."

"That's precisely what I've been waiting for you to lead up to. The
truth is--" Bennington hesitated. His hand, idly trailing over the
desk, came into contact with something smooth and soft. It was a pair
of white kid gloves, a woman's. Absently he drew them through his
hand. He was only half conscious of his action, and he did not observe
Warrington's sudden agitation. "The truth is, I've gone and done it.
I'm going to be married in June, and I want you to be my best man."

Warrington's hand went out impulsively.

"Oh, I felt it in my bones when your card came in," he said,
rearranging the glasses. "Lucky woman! Long life to you, Jack, and
long happiness!"

"Thank you, Dick." (Ceremonial recurrence of drinking a health.)

"Now, out with it. Who is she, and all about her?"

"Dick, I'm genuinely sorry, but I'm still under bond of silence."

"More mysteries!" cried Warrington, with evident discontent.

"Only for a week, when, if you say, we'll have breakfast here in these
very rooms.

"Done. Only I must say you're a bit hard on me to-night.

"I'm sorry."

"Let me see; I'll describe her for you. Beautiful."

"Yes."

"Accomplished."

"Very."

"A woman who will be both wife and comrade."

"Exactly."

"An American."

"In all things."

"You make me envious."

"Why don't you get married yourself?"

"Bah!" Warrington went to the window and looked down upon the street.

Bennington eyed his broad shoulders sympathetically. He looked down at
the limp, smooth skins in his hand, and sat up stiffly. From the
gloves to Warrington and back again to the gloves, his gaze traveled.
With an impulse rather mechanical he raised the gloves to his nose.
Quickly he dropped them on the desk, took up the photograph, rose and
replaced it on the mantel. Hearing him, Warrington turned.

"No, Jack, I doubt if I shall ever be lucky enough to find the one
woman. I've been so busy that I've never had time to hunt for
happiness. And those who hunt for it never find it, and those who wait
for it can not see it standing at their side."

Bennington wandered about, from object to object. Here he picked up a
dagger, there a turquoise in the matrix, and again some inlaid wood
from Sorrento. From these his interest traveled to and lingered over
some celebrated autographs.

"Happiness is a peculiar thing," went on the dramatist. "It is far
less distinctive than fame or fortune. They sometimes knock at your
door, but happiness steals in without warning, and often leaves as
mysteriously as it comes."

Bennington paused to examine a jade cigarette case, which he opened
and closed aimlessly. And there were queer little Japanese ash-trays
that arrested his attention.

"Men like you and me, Jack, never marry unless we love. It is never a
business transaction."

"It is love or nothing," said Bennington, turning his face toward
Warrington. The smile he gave was kindly. "Yes, true happiness can be
sought only in those we love. There is happiness even in loving some
one who does not love you." Bennington repressed a sigh. "But, Dick,
you'll be the best man?"

"Depend upon me. What do you say to this day week for breakfast here?"

"That will be wholly agreeable to me."

Bennington's cigar had gone out. He leaned upon the desk and took his
light from the chimney. Men who have traveled widely never waste
matches.

"Can't you bunk here for the night? There's plenty of room," said
Warrington.

"Impossible, Dick. I leave at midnight for home. I must be there
to-morrow morning. I'm afraid of trouble in the shops. The unions are
determined to push me to the limit of my patience."

"Why the deuce don't you get rid of the shops?"

"They're the handiwork of my father, and I'm proud to follow his
steps." Bennington's eyes were no longer at peace; they sparkled with
defiance. "Half-past ten!" suddenly. "I must be going. My luggage is
still at the hotel. God bless you, Dick!"

Their hands met once again.

"You know, jack, that I love you best of all men."

"You are sure there is no woman?"

Warrington laughed easily. "Ah, if there was a woman! I expect to be
lonely some day."

Bennington put on his hat and gloves, and Warrington followed him into
the hall. Once the prospective bridegroom paused, as if he had left
something unsaid; but he seemed to think the better of silence, and
went on.

"Tuesday morning, then?"

"Tuesday morning. Good night."

"Good night, and luck attend you."

The door closed, and Warrington went slowly back to his desk, his mind
filled with pleasant recollections of youth. He re-read the letter,
studied it thoroughly, in hopes that there might be an anagram. There
was nothing he could see, and he put it away, rather annoyed. He
arranged the sheets and notes of the scenario, marshaled the scattered
pencils, and was putting the glasses on the tray, when a sound in the
doorway caused him to lift his head. One of the glasses tumbled over
and rolled across the desk, leaving a trail of water which found its
level among the ash-trays.

"It is quite evident that you forgot me," said the woman, a faint
mirthless smile stirring her lips. "It was very close in there, and I
could hear nothing." She placed a hand on her forehead, swayed, and
closed her eyes for a second.

"You are faint!" he cried, springing toward her.

"It is nothing," she replied, with a repelling gesture. "John
Bennington, was it not?"

"Yes." His eyes grew round with wonder.

"I was going to keep it secret as long as I could, but I see it is
useless. He is the man I have promised to marry." Her voice had a
singular quietness.

Warrington retreated to his desk, leaning heavily against it.

"Bennington? You are going to marry John Bennington?" dully.

"Yes."

He sat down abruptly and stared at her with the expression of one who
is suddenly confronted by some Medusa's head, as if in the straggling
wisps of hair that escaped from beneath her hat he saw the writhing
serpents. She was going to marry John Bennington!

She stepped quickly up to the desk and began to scatter things about.
Her hands shook, she breathed rapidly, her delicate nostrils dilating
the while.

"Look out!" he warned, at her side the same instant. "Your hat is
burning!" He smothered the incipient flame between his palms.

"Never mind the hat. My gloves, Dick, my gloves! I left them here on
the desk."

"Your gloves?" Then immediately he recollected that he had seen them
in Bennington's hands, but he was positive that the gloves meant
nothing to Bennington. He had picked them up just as he would have
picked up a paper-cutter, a pencil, a match-box, if any of these had
been within reach of his nervous fingers. Most men who are at times
mentally embarrassed find relief in touching small inanimate objects.
So he said reassuringly: "Don't let a pair of gloves worry you, girl."

"He bought them for me this morning," a break in her voice. "I MUST
find them!"

The situation assumed altogether a different angle. There was a hint
of tragedy in her eyes. More trivial things than a forgotten pair of
gloves have brought about death and division. Together they renewed
the search. They sifted the manuscripts, the books, the magazines,
burrowed into the drawers; and sometimes their hands touched, but they
neither noticed nor felt the contact. Warrington even dropped to his
knees and hunted under the desk, all the while "Jack Bennington, Jack
Bennington!" drumming in his ears. The search was useless. The gloves
were nowhere to be found. He stood up irresolute, dismayed and
anxious, keenly alive to her misery and to the inferences his best
friend might draw. The desk stood between them, but their faces were
within two spans of the hand.

"I can't find them."

"They are gone!" she whispered.




Chapter IV


When the pathfinders came into the territory which is now called the
Empire State, they carried muskets and tripods under one arm and Greek
dictionaries under the other. They surveyed all day and scanned all
night, skirmishing intermittently with prowling redskins. They knew
something about elementary geometry, too, and you will find evidences
of it everywhere, even in the Dutch settlements. The Dutchman always
made the beauty of geometry impossible. Thus, nowadays, one can not
move forward nor backward fifty miles in any direction without having
the classic memory jarred into activity. Behold Athens, Rome, Ithaca,
Troy; Homer, Virgil, Cicero; Pompey and Hannibal; cities and poets and
heroes! It was, in those early days, a liberal education to be born in
any one of these towns. Let us take Troy, for instance. When the young
mind learned to spell it, the young mind yearned to know what Troy
signified. Then came Homer, with his heroic fairy-story of gods,
demigods and mortals. Of one thing you may be reasonably sure: Helen
was kept religiously in the background. You will find no city named
after her; nor Sappho, nor Aspasia. The explorer and the geographer
have never given woman any recognition; it was left to the poets to
sing her praise. Even Columbus, fine old gentleman that he was,
absolutely ignored Isabella as a geographical name.

The city of Herculaneum (so called in honor of one Hercules) was very
well named. To become immortal it had the same number of tasks to
perform as had old Hercules. The Augean Stables were in the City Hall;
and had Hercules lived in Herculaneum, he never would have sat with
the gods. The city lay in a pleasant valley, embraced by imposing
wooded hills. There was plenty of water about, a lake, a river, a
creek; none of these, however, was navigable for commercial purposes.
But this in nowise hindered the city's progress. On the tranquil bosom
of the Erie Canal rode the graceful barges of commerce straight and
slowly through the very heart of the town. Like its historic namesake,
the city lived under the eternal shadow of smoke, barring Sundays; but
its origin was not volcanic, only bituminous. True, year in and year
out the streets were torn up, presenting an aspect not unlike the
lava-beds of Vesuvius; but as this phase always implies, not
destruction, but construction, murmurs were only local and few. It was
a prosperous and busy city. It grew, it grows, and will grow. Long
life to it! Every year the city directory points with pride to its
growing bulk. A hundred thousand people; and, as Max O'Rell said--"All
alive and kicking!" Herculaneum held its neighbors in hearty contempt,
like the youth who has suddenly found his man's strength, and parades
round with a chip on his shoulder.

Three railroad lines ran through the business section, bisecting the
principal thoroughfares. The passenger trains went along swiftly
enough, but often freights of almost interminable length drawled
through the squares. I say drawled advisedly. Surely the whuff-whuff
of the engine seems to me a kind of mechanical speech; and to this was
often added the sad lowing of cattle. From time to time some earnest
but misdirected young man would join the aldermanic body, and
immediately lift up his voice in protest. It was outrageous, and so
forth; the railroads must be brought to their senses, and so forth.
Presently a meeting would come and go without his voice being heard,
another, and yet another. By and by he would silently cast his vote
for the various businesses under hand, and go home. The old-timers
would smile. They understood. They rode on annuals themselves.

All the same, Herculaneum was a beautiful city in parts. Great leafy
maples and elms arched the streets in the residential quarters, and
the streets themselves were broad and straight. There were several
dignified buildings of ten and twelve stories, many handsome banks,
several clubs, and two or three passable monuments. There were at that
time five enterprising newspapers, four frankly partizan and one
independent. Personalities entered freely into the editorials, which
often abounded in wit and scholarship. There were three theaters, and
many churches of many denominations; religion and amusement, to
thrive, must have variety. There were great steel shops,
machine-shops, factories and breweries. And there were a few people
who got in touch with one another, and invented society.

Herculaneum has its counterpart in every state; each city is a
composite of all the others. A fashion in New York is immediately
reproduced in every other city on the continent. Conservatism, day by
day, becomes more and more retiring; presently it will exist only in
Webster, side by side with the word prehistoric.


It was Sunday in Herculaneum, a June Sunday, radiant with sunshine.
The broad green leaves of the maples shivered, lacing the streets with
amber and jade, and from a thousand emerald gardens rose the subtle,
fragrant incense of flowers. How still and beautiful this day seems to
us who have hurried hither and thither for six long days, sometimes in
anger, sometimes in exultation, failure or success! It breathes a
peace and quiet that is tonic. Upon this day there is truce between us
and the enemy.

In Herculaneum they still went to church on a Sunday morning. Perhaps
it was merely habit, perhaps it was simply formality, perhaps it was
only to parade new clothes; anyhow, they went to church. At ten-thirty
the procession started; gentlemen in their tiles, ladies in their
furbelows, children stiffly starched. Some rode to church, but the
majority walked. There were many store-windows to preen before, as in
a mirror. Vanity has something to her credit, after all; it is due to
her that most of us make an effort to keep spruce and clean.

Comment passed like the fall of dominoes. Some woman,
ultra-fashionable, would start the chatter. She NEVER saw anything
like the gowns Mrs. Jones wore; Mrs. Jones touched upon the impossible
feathers of Mrs. Smith's hat, and Mrs. Smith in turn questioned the
exquisite complexion of Mrs. Green, who thought Mrs. White's children
the homeliest in the city. (Can't you hear the dominoes going down?)

The men nodded here and there, briefly. Saturday night in a provincial
town holds many recollections.

The high church was a stately pile of granite, with lofty spire and
fine memorial windows. Doves fluttered about the eaves. Upon this
particular Sunday morning there seemed to be something in the air that
was not a component part of any of the elements. It was simply a bit
of news which the church-goers had read in the papers that morning. To
many a bud and belle it was a thunder-clap, a bolt from a cloudless
heaven. They whispered about it, lifted their eyebrows, and shrugged
their shoulders. But their mamas gave no sign. If the fox of
disappointment ate into their vitals, they determined, Spartan-like,
that none should know it. An actress! Men might marry actresses in
England, but Herculaneum still clung to the belief that actresses were
not eligible.

Some of the men had seen Katherine Challoner act, and they sighed,
retrospectively and introspectively.

"I feel for Mrs. Bennington and her daughter. It must be a great blow
to their pride." Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene sat down in her pew-seat and
arranged her silk petticoats. Mrs. Wilmington-Fairchilds sat down
beside her. "You know I never meddle with scandal."

Mrs. Fairchilds nodded brightly.

"Never. I never repeat anything I hear. The Archibald affair was
enacted right under my very nose; but did I circulate what I saw? I
think not! That woman!--but there! I pray for her every night."

"Was it really true, then?" asked Mrs. Fairchilds, breathless. She
knew something about the Archibald affair, but not enough.

"I saw it all with these eyes," flatly. "But, as I said, I keep my
hands clean of scandal." Her hands were white and flabby. "I consider
it not only wicked to start a scandal, but positively bad taste. The
lightest word sometimes ruins a reputation."

"Mrs. Archibald--" began Mrs. Fairchilds.

"Not another word, my dear. I've said nothing at all; I haven't even
told you what I saw. But an actress is different. Think of it, my
dear! She will live among us and we shall have to meet her. Think of
the actors who have kissed her in their make-believe love affairs! It
is so horribly common. I have heard a good many things about her. She
has romped in studios in male attire and smokes cigarettes. I should
not want any son of mine to be seen with her. I'm not saying a single
word against her, mind you; not a single word. You know as well as I
do what a wild fellow Warrington is. Well, she has been going around
with him."

"But they took him up in London," said Mrs. Wilmington-Fairchilds.

"London! London society, indeed! It's the greatest jumble in the
world: nobility hobnobs with jockeys, piano-players, writers and
actors."

Mrs. Fairchilds shook her head sadly. She had always believed London
society quite the proper thing, and she had followed the serials of
"The Duchess" with reverent awe. But Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene ought to
know; she had traveled in Europe several seasons. Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene
was one of the prominent social leaders, and Mrs. Fairchilds
had ambitions. The ready listener gets along very well in this old
world of ours.

"I always knew that some time or other the plebeian Bennington blood
would crop out," went on Mrs. Haldene. "But we must not criticize the
dead," benignly.

"We shall have to receive her."

"After a fashion," replied Mrs. Haldene, opening her prayer-book. Her
tone implied that things would not go very smoothly for the
interloper. "All this comes from assimilating English ideas," she
added.

Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene was one of those fortunate persons who always
have their names in the society columns of the Sunday newspapers.
Either she was among those present, or she gave a luncheon, or she
assisted at a reception, or was going out of town, or coming back.
Those who ran their husbands in debt to get into society always looked
to see what Mrs. Haldene had been doing the past week. The society
reporters, very often smug young women of aristocratic but
impoverished families, called her up by telephone every day in the
week. Mrs. Haldene pretended to demur, but the reporters found her an
inexhaustible mine of tittle-tattle. Sometimes they omitted some news
which she considered important; and, as the saying goes, the hair
flew. She found many contestants for the leadership; but her rivals
never lasted more than a month. She was president of hospital
societies, orphan asylums, and the auxiliary Republican Club, and
spoke at a bimonthly club on the servant question. Everybody was a
little afraid of her, with one exception.

The society columns of the Sunday newspapers have become permanently
established. In every city and hamlet from New York to San Francisco,
you will find the society column. It is all tommyrot to the outsider;
but the proprietor is generally a shrewd business man and makes vanity
pay tribute to his exchequer. The column especially in early summer,
begins something like this:

June will be a busy month for brides, and King Cupid and his gala
court will hold sway. The bridal processions will begin to move this
week in homes and churches. On Wednesday, at high noon, the marriage
of Miss Katherine Challoner, the well-known actress, and Mr. John
Bennington, of this city, will be solemnized in New York. Only the
immediate relatives will be present. Richard Warrington, our own
celebrated townsman, will act as best man. The announcement comes as a
great surprise to society, as Mr. Bennington was looked upon as a
confirmed bachelor.

And again you will find something of this sort:

April 22--Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene leaves next week for Washington, where
she will be the guest of Senator Soandso's wife.

April 29--Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene left yesterday for Washington.

May 6--Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, who is visiting in Washington, will
return next week.

May 13--Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene has returned home from a delightful
visit in Washington.

Sometimes, when there was no escape from it, Mr. Franklyn-Haldene's
name also appeared.

From mundane things to the spiritual!

"Yes, I feel for Mrs. Bennington," continued Mrs. Haldene. "We have to
submit to our boys' running around with actresses; but to marry them!"

"And married life, I understand, seldom agrees with them. They
invariably return to the stage. I wonder if this woman has ever been
married before?"

"I shouldn't be surprised. For my part, I'm very glad the ceremony
will not be performed in the church. Hush!" with a warning glance over
her shoulder.

There was a sudden craning of necks, an agitation among the hats and
bonnets. Down the aisle came a handsome, dignified woman in widow's
weeds, a woman who was easily fifty-six, but who looked as if she had
just crossed the threshold of the forties. Her face was serene, the
half-smile on her lips was gentle and sweet her warm brown eyes viewed
the world peacefully. Ah, how well she knew that to-day this temple of
worship was but a den of jackals, ready to rend her if she so much as
hesitated, so much as faltered in look or speech! Never should they
feed themselves upon her sorrow. She went on, smiling here and there.
The low hum, the pallid lights, the murmur from the organ, all seemed
cruelly accented. Her pew was third from the chancel; she was but
half-way through the gantlet of curious eyes.

Following her was a young girl of twenty. She was youth in all its
beauty and charm and fragrance. Many a young masculine heart throbbed
violently as she passed, and straightway determined to win fame and
fortune, if for no other purpose than to cast them at her feet. This
was Patty Bennington.

The two reached their pew without mishap, and immediately rested their
heads reverently upon the rail in prayer. Presently the music ceased,
the rector mounted the pulpit, and the day's service began. I doubt if
many could tell you what the sermon was about that day.

No other place offers to the speculative eye of the philosopher so
many varied phases of humanity as the church. In the open, during the
week-days, there is little pretense, one way or the other; but in
church, on Sunday, everybody, or nearly everybody, seems to have
donned a mask, a transparent mask, a smug mask, the mask of the known
hypocrite. The man who is a brute to his wife goes meekly to his seat;
the miser, who has six days pinched his tenants or evicted them,
passes the collection plate, his face benevolent; the woman whose
tongue is that of the liar and the gossip, who has done her best to
smirch the reputation of her nearest neighbor, lifts her eyes
heavenward and follows every word of a sermon she can not comprehend;
and the man or woman who has stepped aside actually believes that his
or her presence in church hoodwinks every one. Heigh-ho! and envy with
her brooding yellow eyes and hypocrisy with her eternal smirk sit side
by side in church.

Oh, there are some good and kindly people in this ragged world of
ours, and they go to church with prayer in their hearts and goodness
on their lips and forgiveness in their hands. They wear no masks;
their hearts and minds go in and out of church unchanged. These are
the salt of the earth, and do not often have their names in the Sunday
papers, unless it is in the matter of their wills and codicils. Then
only do the worldly know that charity had walked among them and they
knew her not.

Of such was Miss Anna Warrington, spinster-aunt of Richard. She
occupied the other half of the Bennington pew. Until half a dozen
years ago, when her boy had come into his own, she had known but
little save poverty and disillusion; and the good she always dreamed
of doing she was now doing in fact. Very quietly her withered old hand
stole over the low partition and pressed Mrs. Bennington's hand. The
clasp spoke mutely of courage and good-will. She knew nothing of awe,
kindly soul; the great and the small were all the same to her. She
remembered without rancor the time when Mrs. Bennington scarcely
noticed her; but sorrow had visited Mrs. Bennington and widened her
vision and broadened her heart; and the two met each other on a common
basis, the loss of dear ones.

The clock is invariably hung in the rear of the church. The man who
originally selected this position was evidently a bit of a cynic.
Perhaps he wanted to impress the preacher with the fact that there
must be a limitation to all things, even good sermons; or perhaps he
wanted to test the patience and sincerity of the congregation. The
sermon was rather tedious this Sunday; shiny, well-worn platitudes are
always tedious. And many twisted in their seats to get a glimpse of
the clock.

Whenever Patty looked around (for youth sits impatiently in church),
always she met eyes, eyes, eyes. But she was a brave lass, and more
than once she beat aside the curious gaze. How she hated them! She
knew what they were whispering, whispering. Her brother was going to
marry an actress. She was proud of her brother's choice. He was going
to marry a woman who was as brilliant as she was handsome, who counted
among her friends the great men and women of the time, who dwelt in a
world where mediocrity is unknown and likewise unwelcome. Mediocrity's
teeth are sharp only for those who fear them.

Patty was nervous on her mother's account, not her own. It had been a
blow to the mother, who had always hoped to have her boy to herself as
long as she lived. He had never worried her with flirtations; there
had been no youthful affairs. The mother of the boy who is always
falling in love can meet the final blow half-way. Mrs. Bennington had
made an idol of the boy, but at the same time she had made a man of
him. From the time he could talk till he had entered man's estate, she
had been constant at his side, now with wisdom and learning, now with
laughter and wit, always and always with boundless and brooding love.
The first lesson had been on the horror of cruelty; the second, on the
power of truth; the third, on the good that comes from firmness. It is
very easy to make an idol and a fool of a boy; but Mrs. Bennington
always had the future in mind. It was hard, it was bitter, that
another should step in and claim the perfected man. She had been
lulled into the belief that now she would have him all her own till
the end of her days. But it was not to be. Her sense of justice was
evenly balanced; her son had the same right that his father had; it
was natural that he should desire a mate and a home of his own; but,
nevertheless, it was bitter. That his choice had been an actress
caused her no alarm. Her son was a gentleman; he would never marry
beneath him; it was love, not infatuation; and love is never love
unless it can find something noble and good to rest upon. It was not
the actress, no; the one great reiterating question was: did this
brilliant woman love her son? Was it the man or his money? She had
gone to New York to meet Miss Challoner. She had steeled her heart
against all those subtle advances, such as an actress knows how to
make. She had gone to conquer, but had been conquered. For when Kate
Challoner determined to charm she was not to be resisted. She had gone
up to the mother and daughter and put her arms around them. "I knew
that I should love you both. How could I help it? And please be kind
to me: God has been in giving me your son." Ah, if she had only said:
"I shall love you because I love him!" But there was doubt, haunting
doubt. If the glamour of married life wore out, and the craving for
publicity returned, this woman might easily wreck her son's life and
the lives of those who loved him.

She was very glad when the service came to an end and the stir and
rustle announced the departure of the congregation.

At the door she found Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. She rather expected to
find her. They were enemies of old.

"Shall I congratulate you?" asked the formidable person.

Many of the congregation stopped. They hadn't the courage of Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene, but they lacked none of her curiosity.

"You may, indeed," returned Mrs. Bennington serenely. She understood
perfectly well; but she was an old hand at woman's war. "My son is
very fortunate. I shall love my new daughter dearly, for she loves my
son."

"She is just splendid!" said Patty, with sparkling eyes. How she
longed to scratch the powder from Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene's beak-like
nose! Busybody, meddler! "I never suspected John had such good sense."

"You are very fortunate," said Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. She smiled,
nodded, and passed on into the street. A truce!

Mr. Franklyn-Haldene, as he entered the carriage after his wife,
savagely bit off the end of a cigar.

"What the devil's the matter with you women, anyhow?" he demanded.

"Franklyn!"

"Why couldn't you leave her alone? You're all a pack of buzzards,
waiting for some heart to peck at. Church!--bah!"

It was only on rare occasions that Mr. Franklyn-Haldene voiced his
sentiments. On these occasions Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene rarely spoke.
There was a man in her husband she had no desire to rouse. Mr. Haldene
was the exception referred to; he was not afraid of his wife.

They rode homeward in silence. As they passed the Warrington place,
Mr. Haldene again spoke.

"Warrington is home over Sunday. Saw him on horseback this morning."

"There's one thing I'm thankful for: the wedding will not be in
Herculaneum."

"Humph!"

"It's disgusting; and we shall have to receive her. But I do not envy
her her lot."

"Neither do I," said Haldene. "You women have already mapped out a
nice little hell for her. Why should you be so vindictive simply
because she is an actress? If she is good and honest, what the deuce?"

"There's no use arguing with you."

"I'm glad you've found that out. You'd find out lots of other things
if you stayed home long enough. I shall treat the woman decently."

"I dare say all you men will."

"And you, Madam, shall be among the first to call on her. Mind that!"

She looked at the man pityingly. Men never understood. Call on her? Of
course, she would call on her. For how could she make the woman
unhappy if she did not call on her?




Chapter V


Every city has its Fifth Avenue. That which we can not have as our own
we strive to imitate. Animal and vegetable life simply reproduces
itself; humanity does more than that, it imitates. Williams Street was
the Fifth Avenue of Herculaneum. It was broad, handsome, and climbed a
hill of easy incline. It was a street of which any city might be
justly proud. Only two or three houses jarred the artistic sense.
These were built by men who grew rich so suddenly and unexpectedly
that their sense of the grotesque became abnormal. It is an
interesting fact to note that the children of this class become
immediately seized with a species of insanity, an insanity which urges
them on the one hand to buy newspapers with dollar-bills, and on the
other to treat their parents with scant respect. Sudden riches have,
it would seem, but two generations: the parent who accumulates and the
son who spends.

The Warrington home (manor was applied to but few houses in town)
stood back from the street two hundred feet or more, on a beautiful
natural terrace. The lawn was wide and crisp and green, and the oak
trees were the envy of many. The house itself had been built by one of
the early settlers, and Warrington had admired it since boyhood. It
was of wood, white, with green blinds and wide verandas, pillared
after the colonial style. Warrington had purchased it on a bank
foreclosure, and rather cheaply, considering the location. The
interior was simple but rich. The great fireplace was made of old
Roman bricks; there were exquisite paintings and marbles and rugs and
china, and books and books. Very few persons in Herculaneum had been
inside, but these few circulated the report that the old house had the
handsomest interior in town. Straightway Warrington's income became
four times as large as it really was.

The old aunt and the "girl" kept the house scrupulously clean, for
there was no knowing when Richard might take it into his head to come
home. The "girl's" husband took care of the stables and exercised the
horses. And all went very well.

Warrington seldom went to church. It was not because he was without
belief; there was a strong leaven of faith underlying his cynicism.
Frankly, sermons bored him. It was so easy for his imaginative mind to
reach out and take the thought from the preacher's mouth almost before
he uttered it. Thus, there was never any suspense, and suspense in
sermons, as in books and plays, is the only thing that holds captive
our interest.

So he stayed at home and read the Sunday papers. That part not devoted
to society and foreign news was given up wholly to local politics.
Both the Democratic and Republican parties were in bad odor. In the
Common Council they were giving away street-railway franchises;
gambling-dens flourished undisturbed, and saloons closed only when
some member of the saloon-keeper's family died. The anti-gambling
league had succeeded in suppressing the slot machines for a fortnight;
this was the only triumph virtue could mark down for herself. There
were reformers in plenty, but their inordinate love of publicity
ruined the effectiveness of their work. A brass band will not move the
criminal half so quickly as a sudden pull at the scruff of his neck.
So the evil-doer lay low, or borrowed the most convenient halo and
posed as a deeply-wronged man. Warrington, as he read, smiled in
contempt. They had only one real man in town, scoundrel though he was.
There are certain phases of villainy that compel our admiration, and
the villainy of McQuade was of this order. The newspapers were
evidently subsidized, for their clamor was half-hearted and
hypocritical. Once or twice Warrington felt a sudden longing to take
off his coat and get into the fight; but the impulse was transitory.
He realized that he loved ease and comfort too well.

Finally he tossed aside the sheets and signaled to the dog. It was a
bull terrier, old and scarred, and unchanging in his affections. He
loved this master of his, even if he saw him but once a year. They
understood each other perfectly. He was a peace-loving animal, but he
was a fighter at times--like his master. He had a beautiful head,
broad punishing jaws, and, for all his age, he had not run to fat,
which is the ignominious end of all athletes, men or dogs.

"Old boy, this is a jolly bad world."

Jove wagged his stump of a tail.

"We should all be thieves if it were not for publicity and jail."

Jove coughed deprecatingly. Perhaps he recollected purloined haunches
of aforetime.

"Sometimes I've half a mind to pack up and light out to the woods, and
never look at a human being again."

Jove thought this would be fine; his tail said so.

"But I'm like a man at a good play; I've simply got to stay and see
how it ends, for the great Dramatist has me guessing."

Warrington stared into the kind brown eyes and pulled the ragged ears.
There was a kind of guilt in the old dog's eyes, for dogs have
consciences. If only he dared tell his master! There was somebody else
now. True, this somebody else would never take the master's place; but
what was a poor dog to do when he was lonesome and never laid eyes on
his master for months and months? Nobody paid much attention to him in
this house when the master was away. He respected aunty (who had the
spinster's foolish aversion for dogs and the incomprehensible
affection for cats!) and for this reason never molested her
supercilious Angora cat. Could he be blamed if he sought (and found)
elsewhere affection and confidence? Why, these morning rides were as
good as a bone. She talked to him, told him her secrets (secrets he
swore on a dog's bible never to reveal!) and desires, and fed him
chicken, and cuddled him. There were times when he realized that old
age was upon him; some of these canters left him breathless and
groggy.

"I've been thinking, boy," the master's voice went on. "New York isn't
so much, after all. I wasn't city born, and there are times when the
flowing gold of the fields and the cool woods call. Bah! There's
nothing now to hold me anywhere. I hope she'll make him happy; she can
do it if she tries. Heigh-ho! the ride this morning has made me
sleepy. To your rug, boy, to your rug."

Warrington stretched himself on the lounge and fell asleep. And thus
the aunt found him on her return from church. She hated to wake him
but she simply could not hold back the news till luncheon. She touched
his arm, and he woke with the same smile that had dimpled his cheeks
when he was a babe in her arms. Those of us who have retained the good
disposition of youth never scowl upon being awakened.

"Aha," he cried, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Richard, I wish you had gone to church this morning."

"And watched the gossips and scandal-mongers twist their barbs in Mrs.
Bennington's heart? Hardly."

She gazed at him, nonplussed. There was surely something uncanny in
this boy, who always seemed to know what people were doing, had done
or were going to do.

"I wouldn't have believed it of my congregation," she said.

"Oh, Mrs. Bennington is a woman of the world; she understands how to
make barbs harmless. But that's why I never go to church. It doesn't
soothe me as it ought to; I fall too easily into the habit of pulling
my neighbor's mind into pieces. Gossip and weddings and funerals; your
reputation in shreds, your best girl married, your best friend dead. I
find myself nearer Heaven when I'm alone in the fields. But I've been
thinking, Aunty."

"About what?"

"About coming home to stay."

"Oh, Richard, if you only would!" sitting beside him and folding him
in her arms. "I'm so lonely. There's only you and I; all the others
I've loved are asleep on the hill. Do come home, Richard; you're all I
have."

"I'm thinking it over."

Here the Angora came in cautiously. She saw Jove and the dog saw her;
fur and hair bristled. Jove looked at his master beseechingly--"Say
the word, Dick, say the word, and I'll give you an entertainment." But
the word did not come.

"There's your church-goers, Aunty; always ready to fly at each other.
In order to study humanity thoroughly, one must first learn the ways
of the beast."

"I'm afraid your dog's a traitor."

"A traitor?"

"Yes. Half the time he runs over to the Benningtons' and stays all
night. I don't see why he should."

"Maybe they pet him over there. Perhaps he wants a hand sometimes,
just like human beings when they're lonely. If you petted him once in
a while, one pat for every ten you give the cat, the old boy would be
tickled to death."

"But I'm kind to him, Richard; he has the best meat I can buy. I'd pet
him, too, but I'm afraid of him. I'm always afraid of dogs. Besides,
his feet are always muddy and his hair falls out and sticks to
everything."

"Who is his latest love?"

"Patty Bennington. They go out riding together. I can always tell, for
his stomach is invariably caked with dried mud."

"Patty Bennington? The old dog shows good taste. And I had forgotten
all about Bennington's having a sister. I was thunderstruck when I met
her the other week in New York. I had really forgotten her. She is
charming."

"She is a dear young girl. Ah, Richard, if only you would find some
one like her."

"Marriages are made in Heaven, Aunt, and I'm going to wait till I get
there. But I'll think it over about coming home to stay."

"I'll be so happy!" the old lady cried. "I'm going right out into the
kitchen myself and make one of those cherry pies you used to rave
over."

She disappeared; and Warrington laughed, rose and stretched the sleep
from his arms and legs, and went up stairs to dress. Yes, he would
think it over. There was nothing to hold him in New York, nothing but
the craving for noise and late hours. Why not settle down here? There
would be plenty to do. Besides, if he lived in Herculaneum he could
run over to the Bennington home at any time of day. His cheeks flushed
of a sudden.

"Hang it, am I lying to myself about that girl? Is it the knowledge
that she'll be my neighbor that inclines me to live here? I know I
shall miss her if I stay in New York; I'm honest enough to admit that.
God knows I've nothing but honor in my heart for her. Why, I wouldn't
even kiss her hand without old Jack's consent. Well, well; the scene
in the church Wednesday will solve all doubts--if I have any."

The Sunday luncheon passed uneventfully. The aunt said nothing more
about his coming home to stay. She knew her boy; urging would do more
harm than good; so she left him to decide freely.

"Is the pie good, Richard?" she asked.

"Fine! Can you spare me another piece?"

"I'm glad you'll never be too proud to eat pie," she returned.

"Not even when it's humble," laughed Warrington.

"There are some folks roundabout who do not think pie is proper,"
seriously.

"Not proper? Tommyrot! Pie is an institution; it is as unassailable as
the Constitution of the country. I do not speak of the human
constitution. There are some folks so purse-proud that they call pies
tarts."

She looked askance at him. There were times when she wasn't quite sure
of this boy of hers. He might be serious, and then again he might be
quietly laughing. But she saw with satisfaction that the pie
disappeared.

"The world, Richard, isn't what it was in my time."

"I dare say it isn't, Aunty; yet cherries are just as good as ever and
June as beautiful. It isn't the world, Aunt o' mine; it's the plaguy
people. Those who stay away from church ought to go, and those who go
ought to stay away. I'm going down to the club this afternoon. I shall
dine there, and later look up the Benningtons. So don't keep dinner
waiting for me."

"Cheer her up, Richard; she needs cheering. It's been a blow to her to
lose her boy. If you'd only get married, too, Richard, I could die
content. What in the world shall you do when I am gone?"

"Heaven knows!" The thought of losing this dear old soul gave a
serious tone to his voice. He kissed her on the cheek and went out
into the hall. Jove came waltzing after him. "Humph! What do you want,
sir? Want to go out with me, eh? Very well; but you must promise to
behave yourself. I'll have you talking to no poor-dog trash, mind."
Jove promised unutterable things. "Come on, then."

He walked slowly down town, his cane behind his back, his chin in his
collar, deep in meditation. He knew instinctively that Mrs. Bennington
wanted to talk to him about the coming marriage. He determined to tell
her the truth, truth that would set her mother's heart at peace.

Jove ran hither and thither importantly. It was good to be out with
the master. He ran into this yard and that, scared a cat up a tree,
chased the sparrows, and grumbled at the other dogs he saw. All at
once he paused, stiffened, each muscle tense. Warrington, catching the
pose, looked up. A handsome trotter was coming along at a walk. In the
light road-wagon sat a man and a white bulldog. It was easy for
Warrington to recognize McQuade, who in turn knew that this
good-looking young man must be the dramatist. The two glanced at each
other casually. They were unacquainted. Not so the dogs. They had met.
The white bull teetered on the seat. Jove bared his strong teeth. How
he hated that sleek white brute up there! He would have given his life
for one good hold on that broad throat. The white dog was thinking,
too. Some day, when the time came, he would clean the slate. Once he
had almost had the tan for his own. And he hated the girl who had
beaten him off with her heavy riding-crop.

McQuade drove on, and Warrington resumed his interrupted study of the
sidewalk. McQuade thought nothing more about the fellow who wrote
plays, and the dramatist had no place in his mind for the petty
affairs of the politician. Fate, however, moves quite as certainly and
mysteriously as the cosmic law. The bitter feud between these two men
began with their dogs.

At the club Warrington found a few lonely bachelors, who welcomed him
to the long table in the grill-room; but he was in no mood for gossip
and whisky. He ordered a lithia, drank it quickly, and escaped to the
reading-room to write some letters.

Down in the grill-room they talked him over.

"I don't know whether he boozes now, but he used to be tanked quite
regularly," said one.

"Yes, and they say he writes best when half-seas over."

"Evidently," said a third, "he doesn't drink unless he wants to; and
that's more than most of us can say."

"Pshaw! Sunday's clearing-up day; nobody drinks much on Sunday. I
wonder that Warrington didn't marry Challoner himself. He went around
with her a lot."

Everybody shrugged. You can shrug away a reputation a deal more safely
than you can talk it.

"Oh, Bennington's no ass. She's a woman of brains, anyhow. It's
something better than marrying a little fool of a pretty chorus girl.
She'll probably make things lively for one iron-monger. If the hair
doesn't fly, the money will. He's a good sort of chap, but he wants a
snaffle and a curb on his high-stepper."

Then the topic changed to poker and the marvelous hands held the night
before.

Warrington finished his correspondence, dined alone, and at
seven-thirty started up the street to the Benningtons'. Jove, with the
assurance of one who knows he will be welcomed, approached the
inviting veranda at a gallop. His master, however, followed with a
sense of diffidence. He noted that there was a party of young people
on the veranda. He knew the severe and critical eye of youth, and he
was a bit afraid of himself. Evidently Miss Patty had no lack of
beaux. Miss Patty in person appeared at the top of the steps, and
smiled.

"I was half expecting you," she said, offering a slim cool hand.

Warrington clasped it in his own and gave it a friendly pressure.

"Thank you," he replied. "Please don't disturb yourselves," he
remonstrated, as the young men rose reluctantly from their chairs. "Is
Mrs. Bennington at home?"

"You will find her in the library." Then Patty introduced him. There
was some constraint on the part of the young men. They agreed that,
should the celebrity remain, he would become the center of attraction
at once, and all the bright things they had brought for the dazzlement
of Patty would have to pass unsaid.

To youth, every new-corner is a possible rival; he wouldn't be human
if he didn't believe that each man who comes along is simply bound to
fall in love with the very girl HE has his eyes on.

On the other hand, the young girls regretted that the great dramatist
wasn't going to sit beside them. There is a strange glamour about
these men and women who talk or write to us from over the footlights.
As Warrington disappeared into the hallway, the murmur and frequent
laughter was resumed.

Mrs. Bennington was very glad to see him. She laid aside her book and
made room for him on the divan. They talked about the weather, the
changes that had taken place since the fall, a scrap of foreign travel
of mutual interest, each hoping that the other would be first to
broach the subject most vital to both. Finally, Mrs. Bennington
realized that she could fence no longer.

"It was very good of you to come. I have so many things to ask you."

"Yes."

"My boy's determination to marry has been very sudden. I knew nothing
till a month ago. I love him so, and my whole heart hungers for one
thing--the assurance that he will be happy with the woman of his
choice."

"My dear Mrs. Bennington, Jack will marry a woman who is as loyal and
honest as she is brilliant and beautiful. Miss Challoner is a woman
any family might be proud to claim. She numbers among her friends many
of the brilliant minds of the age; she compels their respect and
admiration by her intellect and her generosity. Oh, Jack is to be
envied. I can readily understand the deep-rooted antagonism the
actress still finds among the laity. It is a foolish prejudice. I can
point out many cases where the layman has married an actress and has
been happy and contented with his lot."

"But on the obverse side?" with a smile that was sad and dubious.

"Happiness is always in the minority of cases, in all walks of life.
Happiness depends wholly upon ourselves; environment has nothing to do
with it. Most of these theatrical marriages you have read about were
mere business contracts. John is in love."

"But is he loved?"

"Miss Challoner has a very comfortable fortune of her own. She would,
in my opinion, be the last person in the world to marry for money or
social position, the latter of which she already has."

But she saw through his diplomacy.

"Perhaps she may desire a home?"

"That is probable; but it is quite evident to me that she wants John
with it."

"There are persons in town who will do their best to make her
unhappy."

"You will always find those persons; but I am confident Miss Challoner
will prove a match for any of them. There is no other woman in the
world who knows better than she the value of well-applied flattery."

"She is certainly a charming woman; it is impossible not to admit that
frankly. But you, who are familiar with the stage, know how unstable
people of that sort are. Suppose she tires of John? It would break my
heart."

"Ah, all that will depend upon Jack. Doubtless he knows the meaning of
'to have and to hold.' To hold any woman's love, a man must make
himself indispensable; he must be her partner in all things: her
comrade and husband when need be, her lover always. There can be no
going back to old haunts, so attractive to men; club life must become
merely an incident. Again, he must not be under her feet all the time.
Too much or too little will not do; it must be the happy between."

"You are a very wise young man."

Warrington laughed embarrassedly. "I have had to figure out all these
things."

"But if she does not love him!"

"How in the world can she help it?"

She caught up his hand in a motherly clasp.

"We mothers are vain in our love. We make our sons paragons; we blind
ourselves to their faults; we overlook their follies, and condone
their sins. And we build so many castles that one day tumble down
about our ears. Why is it a mother always wishes her boy to marry the
woman of her choice? What right has a mother to interfere with her
son's heart-desires? It may be that we fear the stranger will stand
between us. A mother holds, and always will hold, that no woman on
earth is good enough for her son. Now, as I recollect, I did not think
Mr. Bennington too good for me." She smiled drolly.

Lucky Jack! If only he had had a mother like this! Warrington thought.

"I dare say he thought that, too," he said. "Myself, I never knew a
mother's love. No doubt I should have been a better man. Yet, I've
often observed that a boy with a loving mother takes her love as a
matter of course, and never realizes his riches till he has lost them.
My aunt is the only mother I have known."

"And a dear, kind, loving soul she is," said Mrs. Bennington. "She
loves you, if not with mother-love, at least with mother-instinct.
When we two get together, we have a time of it; I, lauding my boy;
she, praising hers. But I go round and round in a circle: my boy. Sons
never grow up, they are always our babies; they come to us with their
heartaches, at three or at thirty; there is ever one door open in the
storm, the mother's heart. If she loves my boy, nothing shall be too
good for her."

"I feel reasonably sure that she does." Did she? he wondered. Did she
love Jack as he (Warrington) wanted some day to be loved?

"As you say," the mother went on, "how can she help loving him? He is
a handsome boy; and this alone is enough to attract women. But he is
so kind and gentle, Richard; so manly and strong. He has his faults;
he is human, like his mother. John is terribly strong-willed, and this
would worry me, were I not sure that his sense of justice is equally
strong. He is like me in gentleness; but the man in him is the same
man I loved in my girlhood days. When John maps out a course to act
upon, if he believes he is right, nothing can swerve him--nothing. And
sometimes he has been innocently wrong. I told Miss Challoner all his
good qualities and his bad. She told me that she, too, has her faults.
She added that there was only one other man who could in any manner
compare with John, and that man is you."

"I?" his face growing warm.

"Yes. But she had no right to compare anybody with my boy," laughing.

"There isn't any comparison whatever," admitted Warrington, laughing
too. "But it was very kind of Miss Challoner to say a good word for
me." And then upon impulse he related how, and under what
circumstances, he had first met the actress.

"It reads like a story,--a versatile woman. This talk has done me much
good. I know the affection that exists between you and John, and I am
confident that you would not misrepresent anything. I shall sleep
easier to-night."

The portieres rattled, and Patty stood in the doorway.

"Everybody's gone; may I come in?"

Warrington rose. "I really should be very glad to make your
acquaintance," gallantly. "It's so long a time since I've met young
people--"

"Young people!" indignantly. "I am not young people; I am twenty,
going on twenty-one."

"I apologize." Warrington sat down.

Thereupon Miss Patty, who was a good sailor, laid her course close to
the wind, and with few tacks made her goal; which was the complete
subjugation of this brilliant man. She was gay, sad, witty and wise;
and there were moments when her mother looked at her in puzzled
surprise. As for Warrington, he went from one laugh into another.

Oh, dazzling twenty; blissful, ignorant, confident twenty! Who among
you would not be twenty, when trouble passes like cloud-shadows in
April; when the door of the world first opens? Ay, who would not trade
the meager pittance, wrested from the grinding years, for one fleet,
smiling dream of twenty?

"It is all over town, the reply you made to Mrs. Winthrop and that
little, sawed-off, witty daughter of hers."

"Patty!"

"Well, she is sawed-off and witty."

"What did I say?" asked Warrington, blushing. He had forgotten the
incident.

"Mrs. Winthrop asked you to make her daughter an epigram, and you
replied that Heaven had already done that."

"By the way," said Warrington, when the laughter subsided, "I
understand that my old dog has been running away from home lately. I
hope he doesn't bother you."

"Bother, indeed! I just love him," cried Patty. "He's such a lovable
animal. We have such good times on our morning rides. We had trouble
last week, though. A white bulldog sprang at him. Jove was so tired
that he would have been whipped had I not dismounted and beaten the
white dog off. Oh, Jove was perfectly willing to contest the right of
way. And when it was all over, who should come along but Mr. McQuade,
the politician. It was his dog. And he hadn't even the grace to make
an apology for his dog's ill manners."

"May I not ride with you to-morrow morning?" he asked. He had intended
to leave Herculaneum at noon; but there were many later trains.

"That will be delightful! I know so many beautiful roads; and we can
lunch at the Country Club. And Jove can go along, too."

"Where is the traitor?"

"He is sound asleep on the veranda rugs."

"Well, it's long past his bedtime. I must be going."

"Some time I hope you will come just to call on me."

"I shall not need any urging."

They followed him to the door, and good nights were said.

"Oh, Patty, he has lifted so much doubt!" said the mother, as the two
returned to the library. "He has nothing but praise for Miss
Challoner. It is quite possible that John will be happy."

"It is not only possible, mother darling, but probable. For my part, I
think her the most charming, most fascinating woman I ever met. And
she told me she rides. What jolly times we'll have together, when John
settles down in the new house!"

"The new house!" repeated the mother, biting her lips. "How the word
hurts! Patty, why could they not come here? We'll be so lonely. Yet,
it is the law of Heaven that a man and his wife must live by and for
themselves."

Warrington walked home, lightened in spirit. He swung his cane, gave
Jove a dozen love-taps and whistled operatic airs. What a charming
young creature it was, to be sure! The brain of a woman and the heart
of a child. And he had forgotten all about her. Now, of course, his
recollection became clear. He remembered a mite of a girl in short
frocks, wonder-eyes, and candy-smudged lips. How they grew, these
youngsters!

He went into the house, still whistling. Jove ran out into the kitchen
to see if by some possible miracle there was another piece of steak in
his grub-pan. A dog's eyes are always close to his stomach.
Warrington, finding that everybody had gone to bed, turned out the
lights and went up stairs. He knocked on the door of his aunt's
bedroom.

"Is that you, Richard?"

"Yes. May I come in?"

"Certainly."

He entered quietly. The moonlight, pouring in through the window, lay
blue-white on the counterpane and the beloved old face.

"What is it?" she asked.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her hands.

"Aunty, old lady, I'm through thinking. I'm going to come home just as
soon as I can fix up things in New York."

"Richard, my boy!" Her arms pulled him downward. "I knew it when you
came in. I've prayed so long for this. God has answered my prayers.
I'm so happy. Don't you remember how you used to tell me all your
plans, the plots of your stories, the funny things that had come to
you during the day? You used to come home late, but that didn't
matter; you'd always find some pie and cheese and a glass of milk on
the kitchen table--the old kitchen table. I'm so glad!"

"It may be a month or so; for I'll have to sell some of the things.
But I'm coming home, I'm coming home." He bent swiftly and kissed her.
"Good night."




Chapter VI


Warrington was up and about at six the next morning. He had never
really outgrown the natural habit of waking at dawn, but he had fallen
upon the evil way of turning over and sleeping till half after nine.
He ate a light breakfast and went out to the stables and moved among
the stalls, talking affectionate nonsense to the horses. A man can not
talk baby-talk, that is the undisputed prerogative of the woman; but
he has a fashion of his own which serves. "Aha, old boy! handsome
beggar!" or--"How's the little lady this morning, eh?" or yet
again--"Rascal! you've been rubbing the hair off your tail!" In the
boxstall Warrington's thoroughbred Irish hunter nozzled his palm for
loaf-sugar, and whinnied with pleasure when he found it. One of the
first things Warrington had done, upon drawing his first big royalty
check, was to buy a horse. As a boy on the farm he had hungered for
the possession of one of those sleek, handsome animals which men call
thoroughbreds. Then for a while he bought, sold and traded horses, for
the mere pleasure it gave him to be near them. Finally he came to
Herculaneum with two such saddle-horses as made every millionaire in
town (and there were several in Herculaneum) offer fabulous sums
whenever they ran across the owner. Next, he added two carriage-horses,
in their way quite equal to the hunters. Men offered to buy these,
too, but Warrington was a property owner now, and he wanted the horses
for his own. In New York one of his wealthy friends had given him free
use of his stables: so Warrington rode, at home and abroad. His
income, ranging from twenty to thirty thousand the year, gave him that
financial independence which neither the clerk nor the millionaire
knew or understood. In the phraseology of the day, he carried his
business under his hat: in other words, he had no business cares or
responsibilities whatever.

Warrington made it a rule to saddle and bridle his own horses; grooms
become careless. One or two men of his acquaintance had gone to their
death for the want of care and a firm buckle. Besides, he enjoyed the
work, and it accustomed the horses to his touch. He saddled his
favorite hunter and led the eager animal into the open. He mounted and
whistled for the dog; but Jove for once did not respond; doubtless he
was out of hearing. Thereupon Warrington started for the Benningtons'
and found Patty already in the saddle. It was not that the dramatist
was blase, but he had come into contact with so many beautiful women
that his pulse rarely stirred out of its healthy, measured beat. But
this morning he was conscious of a slight thrill. The girl was really
beautiful; more than that, she was fresh with youth and gaiety, gaiety
which older women find necessary to repress. She was dressed in a dark
grey riding-habit and wore a beaver cocked-hat.

"Good morning," he said, touching his cap with his crop. "I hope I
haven't kept you waiting."

"Only a moment." The truth is, she wanted to prove to him that there
was one woman who did not keep men waiting. "Shall I pick the going?"

"I'm afraid I've lost track of the good country roads."

"Follow me, then."

They walked their horses to the city limits. You never saw either of
them galloping over brick or asphalt, which quickly ruins the
surest-footed horse; neither did they permit any fox-trotting, which, while
it shows off a spirited horse, decreases his value in the ring. All of
which is to say, these two, like their mounts, were thoroughbreds.

"Where is Jove?" she asked presently.

"The rogue is missing. I dare say he is gallivanting around some
neighbor's back yard. I haven't laid eyes on him this morning. I
believe he realizes that he will see me frequently hereafter, and has
not bothered his head to look me up."

"Frequently?" She turned her head.

"Yes. I am coming home to live. Of course, this is my place of
residence; my voter's bed, as the politicians say, is here in
Herculaneum. But I mean to live here now in deed as well as in
thought."

"I am sure we shall be delighted to have you with us." This was said
gravely. A thought, which she would have repelled gladly, sprang into
being. "I know John will be glad. He's always talking about you and
your exploits at college."

"Our exploits," he corrected, laughing. "Shall we give them a little
exercise now?" he asked, with a gesture toward the long brown road.

She nodded, and they started off at a sharp trot, and presently broke
into a canter. So he was coming home to live? She felt a hot wave of
sudden anger sweep over her, and her hands tightened on the reins. It
was true, then? She loved her brother. What right had this man at her
side to threaten her brother's happiness? Had Katherine Challoner
signified her desire not to leave New York, would Warrington have
decided to return to Herculaneum? Her hands relaxed. What a silly
little fool she was! She, who despised and contemned gossip, was
giving it ready ear. Had she ever found gossip other than an errant,
cowardly liar? Gossip, gossip! Ah, if gossip, when she had made her
round, would not leave suspicion behind her; suspicion, hydra-headed!
What signified it that Warrington intended to come home to live? What
signified it that her brother's wife would live across the way? She
was ashamed of her evil thought; presently she would be no better than
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, or any of those women who get together to tear
somebody apart. As if Warrington could compare with her big, handsome,
manly brother! It was all impossible. She would punish herself for
even entertaining such a thought as had been hers but a moment gone.

She stole a glance at Warrington. He was riding easily, his feet light
in the stirrups, his head thrown back, his eyes half closed, and was
breathing deeply of the cool air, which was heavy with the smell of
sweet clover and dew-wet earth. It was a good, clean, honest face.
Indeed, it was all impossible. Dissipation writes plainly upon the
human countenance, and it had left no visible sign on Warrington's
face. It may be that dissipation sometimes whimsically neglects to
write at all.

They thundered over a wooden bridge. The spirit of the morning was in
the horses; they began to race. An unexpected curve in the road
discovered a road-builder and his gang of Italians. A low barrier ran
across the road. It was not exactly needed, as they were not digging,
but laying crushed stone. The obstruction was simply for the
convenience of the boss, who desired to work unhampered.

"Shall we?" cried Warrington, mischief in his eyes.

"Yes." There was no fear in this girl.

On they went, in a cloud of dust. The Italians made for the ditches,
but the boss stood in the road and waved his arms in warning.
Presently he, too, ducked.

Hep! and over the pair went, landing clean and sound on the other side
of the barrier. Before the surprised boss could express himself, they
were far down the road. A curse was hurled after them, but they heard
it not. They hadn't hurt the road at all, but the authority of the
boss had suffered. He knew the girl, little snob! He would find out
who the man was, soon enough. And if he had any influence in the City
Hall, as he believed he had, he would make it tolerably warm for
yonder vanishing parties.

He had put up that barrier to signify that the road was closed; very
well, they'd see. Dirt under their feet, huh? All right. How he hated
them all, with their horses and carriages and dances and dinners and
clubs! Bah! He took a flask from his pocket and drank. Then he cursed
the laggard Italians, and mourned that a year and a half must pass
before he could sell their votes again. Bolles contracted for Italian
labor and controlled something more than eight hundred votes. McQuade
sublet various small contracts to him, and in return used the Italians
during elections.

That jump, harmless enough in itself, was to prove a bad inspiration
on Warrington's part. But it is always these seemingly inconsequent
things that bear the heaviest reckoning.

Half a mile onward they drew down to a walk, flushed and breathless.

"Perhaps we oughtn't to have done that," she said doubtfully, working
the numbness from her fingers. "No thoroughfare" had hitherto been
religiously respected by her; this was her first transgression, and
she wasn't entirely satisfied with herself.

"Pshaw! There's no harm done. There was no earthly reason why we
should have turned back to the fork and added two miles to our ride.
Don't let anything like that worry you; we went by too fast to be
recognized. Look! here's a big clover patch. I never pass clover
without wanting to get down and hunt for four-leaves. Shall we?"

She was out of the saddle before the query had left his lips.

"I believe it would be a good idea to arm ourselves against bad luck,"
she replied, gently moving aside the clover heads with her crop.

"You believe in four-leaf clover, then?"

She nodded.

"I do. I also am very careful," he added, "to catch the money-patches
on my coffee."

She laughed. After all, there was something old-fashioned about this
man. "And I never think of plucking a five-leaf. That's bad luck."

"The worst kind of bad luck. I remember, when I was a kid, I never
played hooky without first hunting up my four-leaved amulet. If I got
a licking when I returned home, why, I consoled myself with the
thought, that it might have been ten times worse but for the
four-leaf."

They moved about, looking here and there, while the horses buried
their noses in the wet grass and threatened never to return to the
road again. After a diligent search Patty found a beautiful four-leaf
clover. She exhibited it in triumph.

"You've better luck than I," said Warrington. "We shall have to go on
without my finding one."

"You may have this one," she replied; "and I hope it will bring you
all sorts of good luck."

He took out his card-case and made room for the little amulet.

"It is impossible not to be fortunate now," he said, with a gravity
that was not assumed.

She looked at him dubiously. No, there was no laughter in his eyes; he
was perfectly serious.

They walked the horses over a small hill, then mounted. It was a very
pleasant morning for Warrington. It had been years since he had talked
to a young woman who was witty and unworldly. He had to readjust
himself. He had written down that all witty women were worldly, but
that all worldly women were not witty. But to be witty and
unsophisticated was altogether out of his calculations.

At the Country Club they stabled the horses and wandered about the
golf links. Luncheon was served on the veranda; and presently
Warrington found himself confiding in this young girl as if he had
known her intimately all his life. The girl felt a thrill of
exultation. It flattered her young vanity to hear this celebrity
telling her about his ambitions.

"Everything becomes monotonous after a while," he said. "And I have
just begun to grow weary of living alone. Day after day, the same
faces, the same places, the same arguments, the same work. I've grown
tired. I want to live like other human beings. Monotony leads very
quickly into folly, and I confess to many acts of folly. And no folly
is absolutely harmless." He stirred his tea and stared into the cup.

"Why, I should think you ought to be the most contented of men," she
cried. "You are famous, wealthy, courted. And when you return to
Herculaneum, every girl in town will set her cap for you. I warn you
of this, because I've taken a friendly interest in you."

"It is very good of you. Come," he said, draining his cup; "surely you
tell fortunes in tea-cups; tell mine."

"Four-leaf clovers and tea-grounds," she mused. "You strike me as
being a very superstitious young man."

"I am."

She passed the cup back to him. "Pour a little fresh tea in, spill it
gently, turn the cup against the saucer and twirl it three times.
That's the incantation."

He followed the directions carefully, and she extended her hand for
the cup.

"There is always a woman in a man's tea-cup," she began. "There are
two in this one."

"Good gracious!"

"Yes. Do you see that?" pointing to a cluster of leaves.

"Looks like a camel. Am I going to be thirsty?"

"That always indicates scandal," she declared soberly.

"Scandal?" He smiled skeptically.

"Scandal and disappointment. But happily these do not appear as having
permanency."

"Thanks," piously. "Disappointment? I can readily believe that.
Disappointment has always been my portion. But scandal has never
lifted her ugly head."

"We are all far-sighted when scandal is in our immediate vicinity.
This cup says scandal. There is plenty of money about you. See that?
That means an enemy, strong, implacable. Disappointment and scandal
are in his zone, which means he will probably be the cause of all your
trouble. Have you an enemy?"

"None that I know of, save myself. But don't you think something is
the matter with the tea? It seems impossible that those harmless
grounds ... Why, I shan't sleep o' nights after this."

"You are laughing. Yet, this man is there. And here is a lie, too.
It's a very bad cup, Mr. Warrington. I'm sorry."

"So am I," gaily. "By the way, when do you and your mother start for
New York?"

"We leave to-night."

"Good. Do you mind if I take the same train down?"

"Mother and I'll be glad to have you with us."

The servant cleared the table, and Warrington lighted a cigar. A
trolley-car rolled up in front of the club, and several golf
enthusiasts alighted. They knew Patty, and bowed; they weren't quite
certain who her escort was.

At two o'clock they began the journey home. There wasn't much
loitering by the way. Patty had a tea; she must have time to rest and
dress. All told, it was an enjoyable day for Warrington. More than
ever he set his face against the great city and looked with
satisfaction on the hills of his childhood. It would be a pleasant
pastime to sit on Patty's veranda and talk, become, and act like one
of the young people. He was growing old; his youth must be renewed
soon, or he would lose it utterly. This young man had been surfeited
with noise and light, with the sham and glitter of hotels, clubs and
restaurants. He was not to the manner born; thus he could easily see
how palpably false life is in a great city. To those who have lived in
the abnormal glamour of city life, absolute quiet is a kind of new
excitement.

Warrington found that he was a bit stiff from the long ride.

Patty, however, rode nearly every day; so she was but slightly
fatigued. Nevertheless, she was conscious of not wanting to dress for
the tea. But there was a very good reason why she must attend the
function (as applied by the society reporter); they would naturally
discuss her brother's coming marriage, but if she was present, the
discussion would not rise above whispers. She wanted to meet the old
busybodies in the open; she wasn't afraid. As she dressed, she caught
herself doing aimless things, such as approaching the window and
watching the clouds, or thoughtfully studying her face in the mirror,
or patting the rug impatiently, or sighing. She shook herself
vehemently, and went resolutely about the intricate business known as
toilet.

"I simply can't believe it. I know he isn't that kind of man. This
can't be such a wicked world. But if she dares to make John unhappy, I
shall hate her. Why must we hear these things that make us doubt and
ponder and hesitate?"

At the tea the ladies greeted her sympathetically. Sympathy!
Hypocrites! Heads came together; she could see them from the corner of
her eyes. She saw Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, like a vast ship of the line,
manoeuvering toward her. There were several escapes, but Patty stood
her ground.

"You are looking charming, my dear," said Mrs. Haldene.

"Thank you."

"You go to the wedding, of course."

"Yes; mother and I leave to-night for New York. I am so excited over
it. To think of John's being married to a celebrity!"

Patty was excited, but this excitement did not find its origin in
anything exultant. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Mrs.
Franklyn-Haldene to mind her own business. There was something
primitive in Patty. Her second thoughts were due to cultivation, and
not from any inherent caution.

Mrs. Haldene smiled and went on. It was a wonderful smile; it never
changed; it served for all emotions, anger, hate, love, envy and
malice. Mrs. Haldene never flew into passions or ecstasies. She was
indeed preserved; and from the puckering taste she left in her wake,
it might be suspected that she was pickled.

Before Patty arrived, two things had been fully discussed: the
Bennington wedding and the report that Warrington was coming home to
live. Shrugs, knowing glances, hypocritical resignation. Too bad, too
bad! Warrington was coming home to live; young Mrs. Bennington would
live across the street. When two and two make four, what more need be
said?

But Patty had her friends, and they stood by her loyally.


New York. Clamor, clamor; noise, noise; the calling of cabmen, the
clanging of street-cars, the rumbling of the elevated, the roaring of
the drays, the rattling of the carts; shouting, pushing, hurrying,
rushing, digging, streaming, pell-mell; the smell of coal-gas, of food
cooking, of good and bad tobacco, of wet pavements, of plaster; riches
and poverty jostling; romance and reality at war; monoliths of stone
and iron; shops, shops; signs, signs; hotels; the tower of Babel; all
the nations of the world shouldering one another; Jews and Gentiles,
Christians and Turks; jumble, jumble. This is New York. There is
nothing American about it; there is nothing English, French, German,
Latin or Oriental about it. It is cosmopolitan; that is to say, it
represents everything and nothing.

Warrington, Patty and her mother alighted from the train in the
gloomy, smoky cavern called the Grand Central Station and walked
toward the gates. There was sunshine outside, but it was scarcely
noticeable through the blackened canopy overhead.

"There's John!" cried Patty, seizing her mother's arm. "And Miss
Challoner, too!"

A moment later the son was holding his mother in a fond embrace. Mrs.
Bennington gave the actress her hand, who ignored it, put her arms
around the mother and kissed her. There was not the slightest
affectation in the act; it was done naturally and sweetly. Mrs.
Bennington was well pleased. But Patty, Miss Challoner hugged Patty
and whispered: "My sister!" If Patty had any doubts, they disappeared
like summer mists in sunshine.

"I'm a rank outsider," Warrington grumbled.

"Surely you did not expect to be kissed!" Patty retorted.

"A man never gives up hoping. Well, Benedick," to John, "I suppose
you've a nice breakfast waiting for us somewhere."

"That I have!" John thwacked Warrington on the shoulder. "It was good
of you to come down with the folks."

"No trouble at all."

They all followed John, who announced that he had a carriage waiting,
large enough to carry them all comfortably. As they crossed over to
the street exit Warrington covertly glanced at Miss Challoner. She was
radiant; there was color on her cheeks and lips; she was happy.
Heigh-ho! Warrington sighed. She was gone, as completely as though she
had died. He grew angry at the heaviness of his heart. Was he always
to love no one but Warrington? It is fine to be a bachelor when one is
young; but when the years multiply, when there are no new junkets and
old ones grow stale, when scenes change, when friends drop out one by
one, when a younger generation usurps the primrose path of dalliance,
ah! the world becomes a dreary place. The old bachelor is the
loneliest and most pathetic of men.

Once inside the carriage, the women began a light, friendly chatter;
smiles and laughter; little jests about Benedicks, about the servant
question, about coming home late o' nights; antenuptial persiflage.
There was little that was spontaneous; each jest was an effort; but it
sufficed to relieve what might have been awkward silence.

"It's up to you, now, Dick," said John. "Think of the good times we
four could have together!"

"And who'd marry an old man like me?" asked Warrington plaintively.

"Bosh!" said John.

"Nonsense!" said Patty.

"You are a young man," said the mother.

"There are plenty setting their caps for you, if you but knew it,"
said Miss Challoner.

"Aha! I smell a conspiracy!" laughed Warrington. "You are putting your
heads together to get me off your hands."

The breakfast awaited them at Bennington's hotel. This passed off
smoothly. Then Warrington excused himself. He had a business
engagement down town. It was arranged, however, that they were to be
his guests that evening at dinner and a box-party at the summer opera.
On Wednesday, at ten, they were to breakfast in his apartment. From
his rooms they would go straight to the parson's, the "Little Church
Around the Corner."

When Warrington had gone, John turned to his sister.

"Isn't he the finest chap?"

"He isn't to be compared with you," Patty answered.

"Nobody is," said Miss Challoner.

John colored with pleasure.

"Mr. Warrington is a thorough gentleman, and I like him very much,"
said Mrs. Bennington. "I have heard things about him; I can see that
there has been some exaggeration. I shall be very glad to have him for
a neighbor."

"A neighbor?" said Miss Challoner.

"Yes. He is coming back to Herculaneum to live."

"That is news to me." The actress stirred her coffee and smiled at
Patty. "I understand you've been riding together. He is really a
splendid horseman."

"He has the dearest old dog," replied Patty.

The day passed quickly for all concerned: the dinner and box-party
left nothing to be desired.

The wedding-breakfast would have provoked envy in the heart of
Lucullus; for Warrington was a man of the world, thoroughly polished;
there was nothing Stoic about him (though, in the early days he had
been a disciple of this cult perforce); he was a thoroughgoing epicure.

Patty was delighted. Warrington guided her about the rooms on a tour
of inspection. He pointed out all the curios and told the history of
each. But the desk was the article which interested her most.

"And this is where you write? Upon this desk plays have grown up?
Won't you give me a single sheet of manuscript to take home with me?"

"I certainly shall."

He pulled out a drawer and found some old manuscript. He selected a
sheet, signed it, and gave it to her.

"I am rich!" the girl exclaimed. "Signed manuscript from a real live
author! I suppose that you receive tons of letters, some praising,
some arguing, some from mere autograph fiends."

"It's a part of the day's work." His face brightened. He searched his
pockets. "Here is one out of the ordinary. It is unsigned, so I feel
no qualms of conscience in letting you read it."

Patty took the envelope with suppressed eagerness. She drew out the
letter and read it slowly.

"Do you receive many like that?" she asked, folding the letter and
returning it.

"Very few; that's why I treasure it. I should like to meet the writer;
but that's impossible. I have read and re-read it fifty times."

"Evidently it was written in good faith." Patty was not very
enthusiastic.

"There's not the least doubt of that. I am glad of one thing: I can't
disillusion her."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, this young woman thinks I must be a paragon of virtues. I'm not;
I'm a miserable impostor. She takes it for granted that I am good and
kind and wise."

"Aren't you?" asked Patty gravely.

"As men go. I always try to be kind; sometimes I am good, and
sometimes I am wise."

"I'm afraid you are one of those young men who try to be bad and
can't. They are hopeless."

Warrington laughed.

"But I am superstitious about that letter. I've carried it in my
pocket for weeks. It's a kind of mentor. Whenever some fool thing
comes into my head, I stop and think of the letter."

"That is good. The writer hasn't wasted her time."


"I love you!" whispered John.

Miss Challoner smiled into his eyes. The smile encouraged him, and he
raised her hand to his lips.

Ah, if it were not for those gloves! Why did he not say something? She
was positive that he had them. To smile and laugh and talk; to face
the altar, knowing that he possessed those hateful gloves! To pretend
to deceive when she knew that he was not deceived! It was maddening.
It was not possible that Warrington had the gloves; he would never
have kept them all this while. What meant this man at her side? What
was he going to do? She recollected a play in which there was a pair
of gloves. The man had thrown them at the woman's feet, and, at the
very altar, turned and left her. But she knew that men did not do such
things in life. She was innocent of any wrong; this knowledge
sustained her.

"A honeymoon in Switzerland: it has been the dream of my life." This
time he drew her arm through his and crossed the room to his mother's
side. "Mother mine, we shall be gone only three months; then we shall
come home to stay."

"I shall miss you so; you have been away so much that I am hardly
acquainted with you."

The woman who was to become her daughter suddenly dropped on her knees
beside the chair.

"Please love me, too. I have been so lonely all my life."

"My daughter!" Mrs. Bennington laid her hand on the splendid head.

"I shall never marry," said Patty decidedly.

"What? Young lady, don't let any one hear you make such a remark. One
of these fine days somebody will swoop you up and run off with you. I
don't know but that I could play the part fairly well." Warrington
laughed.

"Indeed! You'd have a time of it."

"I dare say. But there's the breakfast waiting."

Toasts and good wishes, how easy they are to give!

At the church the women cried a little. Women cry when they are happy,
they cry when they are not; their tears keep a man guessing year in
and year out. But this is no place for a dissertation on tears.
There's time enough for that.

The bride and groom left immediately for Boston, from which city they
were to sail for Europe the following day. In the carriage John drew
his bride close to his heart.

"Mine!" he said, kissing her. "God grant that I may make you happy,
girl."

"John, you are the finest gentleman in the world!"

His hand stole into his coat pocket and gently dropped something into
her lap. She looked down and saw through her tears a crumpled pair of
white kid gloves. Then she knew what manner of man was this at her
side.

"It was not because I doubted you," he said softly: "it was because
they were yours."




Chapter VII


Spring came round again in Herculaneum. People began to go to the
tailor and the dress-maker and the hatter. There were witty
editorials in the newspapers on house-cleaning and about the man who
had the courage to wear the first straw hat. The season (referring to
the winter festivities) had been unusually lively. There had been two
charity balls by rival hospital boards, receptions, amateur dramatics,
dinners and dances, not to omit the announcement of several
engagements.

The new Bennington mansion had its house-warming in November. The
reception, followed by a dinner-dance in the evening, was, according
to the society columns, "one of the social events of the season. The
handsomest house in town was a bower of smilax and hothouse roses."
Everybody went to the reception, for everybody was more or less
curious to meet the former celebrated actress. The society reporters,
waiting for their cues, were rather non-committal in their description
of the mistress. There was reason. They did not care, at this early
stage of the game, to offend the leader by too much praise of a
newcomer who had yet to establish herself. Besides, they realized how
little their paragraphs would mean to a woman whose portrait had
appeared in nearly all the illustrated magazines in the world. Thus,
the half-heartedness of the newspapers was equally due to
self-consciousness. Society itself, however, was greatly pleased with
the beautiful Mrs. Bennington, for she entered with zest into all
society's plans. In fact, she threatened to become very popular. The
younger element began to call her Mrs. Jack.

Kate was in her element, for to live after this fashion was the one
ambition that had survived all seasons. She was like a child with some
wonderful new French doll. There was always a crowd of young married
people about her, which is a healthy sign. She and Patty became
inseparable comrades. They shopped together, went to the matinees, and
drove and rode together.

Everything went along smoothly, too smoothly. Fate never permits
anything like this to prosper long.

For the first time in her career Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene saw her
position menaced. The younger set no longer consulted her as formerly.
When, like Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene, a woman has nothing more serious to
live for than to organize social affairs, the slightest defection from
her ranks is viewed in the light of a catastrophe. She had called on
Mrs. Bennington the second, armed with all those subtle cruelties
which women of her caliber know so well how to handle. And behold! she
met a fencer who quietly buttoned the foils before the bout began. She
had finally departed with smiles on her lips and rage in her heart.
This actress, whom she had thought to awe with the majesty of her
position in Herculaneum, was not awed at all. It was disconcerting; it
was humiliating. She had condescended to tolerate and was tolerated in
turn. Katherine adored Patty, and Patty had told her that she hated
Mrs. Franklyn-Haldene. Naturally Katherine assumed the defensive
whenever she met the common enemy.

But Mrs. Haldene could wait. She had waited before this. She had made
certain prophecies, and it embittered her to learn that so far none of
these prophecies had come true. She could wait. Something was destined
to happen, sooner or later. She knew human nature too well not to be
expectant. To Mrs. Haldene the most gratifying phrase in the language
was: "I told you so!" Warrington had disappointed her, too. He behaved
himself. He did not run after young Mrs. Bennington; he never called
there alone; he was seen more frequently at the old Bennington place.
The truth is, Patty was busy reforming the wayward dramatist, and
Warrington was busy watching the result. There were those who nodded
and looked wise whenever they saw the two together.

Oh, Herculaneum was a city to be desired, socially. Everybody was on
his or her best behavior. It was only from among the poor that scandal
gleaned her items for the newspapers. The shooting of such a man by
such a woman's husband aroused only the mildest comment. But that
class of people, don't you know, is so primeval. To kill a man from
jealousy! It was ridiculous. Why did they not go to court, like
civilized human beings?

Of course there is always scandal in politics; everybody understands
that this is unavoidable. Another franchise had slipped out of the
Common Council into the transit company's pocket, and even the
partizan papers mildly belabored the aldermanic body. The Evening
Call, however slashed the ward representatives vigorously. It wound up
its editorial with the query: "How much longer will the public stand
this sort of thing?" The Call was the only independent sheet in town,
and did about as it pleased.

Warrington found himself taking more than normal interest in the
situation. Occasionally, on Monday nights, he wandered into the City
Hall and listened to the impassioned speeches of the aldermen. Many a
tempestuous scene passed under his notice. Ordinances were passed or
blocked, pavement deals were rushed through or sidetracked. And once,
when the gas company was menaced with dollar-gas, the city pay-roll
was held up for two months by the lighting company's cohorts. Only
Heaven knows how much longer it might have been held back, had not an
assemblyman come to the mayor's help by rushing up to the capital and
railroading through a law that required only a two-thirds vote.

The Democrats had remained in power for six years, and Herculaneum was
essentially a Republican city. On the Democratic side was McQuade, on
the Republican side was ex-Senator Henderson. These men were bosses of
no ordinary type. The first was from the mass, the second from the
class; and both were millionaires. The political arena was a pastime
for these two men; it was a huge complex game of chess in which
recently the senator had been worsted. The public paid, as it
invariably does, to watch this game on the checkerboard of wards. The
senator had been unfortunate in his candidates. He had tried young men
and old, lawyers and merchants; but he had failed to nominate a man
who was popular with class and mass.

The present mayor was a shrewd Democrat who understood the diplomacy
of petty politics. He shook the grimy hand of toil in preference to
the gloved hand of idleness. He was thoroughly a politician. He never
disregarded public opinion openly. He never sailed close to the wind,
but spent his time in safe tacks to whatever harbor he desired. He was
McQuade's man just so long as McQuade made the business worth while.
He had opened up many new streets, abolished needless nuisances, and
these concessions gave him a strong hold on the independent voter. He
was a king over frogs which had changed much since Aesop's time, for
now they let well enough alone.

Nevertheless, things were going from bad to worse. Three terms are
likely to cause a man to grow careless or indifferent, and Donnelly
was making frequent bad breaks. The senator, ever watchful, believed
he saw a chance to sweep McQuade off the board.

McQuade had an able lieutenant in Alderman Martin, whom the sporting
fraternity followed loyally. Martin owned and ran the most
disreputable hotel in the city. It occupied a position of unusual
prominence on one of the principal business streets. There was a
saloon and a cheap restaurant on the ground floor. On the second floor
were wine-rooms and a notorious gambling-den. Above this was the
hotel. The guests stole in at midnight and stole out at dawn.

This gambling-den was frequently the bone of contention between
energetic ministers of the gospel and the police department. Regularly
the police swore that gambling did not exist in town, and regularly
the ministers went on a still hunt for proofs. Singularly enough, they
never found any. A hint from headquarters, and the den would close up
till after the excitement was over. All the newspapers understood that
the police lied; but the editors were either afraid or indifferent;
and the farce was played over yearly for the benefit of the
ministerial association.

The place was run honestly enough. When the stakes are small, the
professional gambler does not have to be dishonest. All the same, this
kind of gambler is the most despicable of men. He lures the wage of
the poor; clerks, bookkeepers, traveling salesmen, laborers, college
boys, men who drink too much of a Saturday night, all these come to
the net. Nobody ever wins anything; and if perchance one does make a
small winning, it goes quickly over the bar. Women wait and wonder at
home; it is their common lot. The spirit of the gambler is in us all,
and we might as well confess it here and now. It is in the corpuscles:
something for nothing, something for nothing!

Martin was a power in the Common Council. He could block or put
through any measure. He always carried a roll of gold-bills in his
pockets--for what purpose no one had the temerity to inquire. His
following was large and turbulent; it came from the shops and the
factories and the streets. In his ward no candidate had ever defeated
him. "Nice people" had very little to do with Mr. Martin; the laborer
who was honest had little to do with him, either. He was a pariah, but
a very formidable one. Yet, no one, though many accused him, caught
him in a dishonest deal.

On the other hand, Senator Henderson's party had the cloak of
respectability on its shoulders. His lieutenants were prominent
business men who went into politics as a light diversion, young men of
aristocratic families who were ambitious to go to Albany or
Washington, and lawyers. The senator was a shrewd politician, with an
unreadable face, clean-shaven but for a stubby mustache, and keen blue
eyes that saw everything. He was loyal to his party and above
dishonesty.

This was the political situation in Herculaneum.

One May evening the senator called up Warrington. He was told that Mr.
Warrington was at the club. The senator drove to the club forthwith.
He found the dramatist in the reading-room, and greeted him
pleasantly.

"My boy, I want half an hour of your time."

"You are welcome to an hour of it, Senator," replied Warrington,
curious to know what the senator had to say to him.

"Come into a private dining-room, then." Once seated at the table, the
senator reached over and touched Warrington mysteriously on the arm.
"Young man, I heard you speak the other night at the Chamber of
Commerce banquet. You're a born orator, and what is better than that,
you've common sense and humor. How would you like to be mayor of
Herculaneum next fall?"

"Mayor?" gasped Warrington.

"Yes."

"I'd make a fine mayor," with forced laughter, but thinking rapidly.
"Aren't you jollying me, Senator?"

"I'm dead in earnest, Warrington. There is not another available man
in sight. By available I mean a man who can pull the party out of the
bog. There are a hundred I could nominate, but the nomination would be
as far as they could go. We want a man who is fresh and new to the
people, so far as politics goes; a man who can not be influenced by
money or political emoluments. There are thousands of voters who are
discontented, but they'd prefer to vote for Donnelly again rather than
to vote for some one they know would be no better. You are known the
world over. A good many people would never have known there was such a
place as Herculaneum but for you. It is the home of the distinguished
playwright."

"But I know practically nothing about political machinery," Warrington
protested.

"You can leave the machinery to me," said the senator wisely. "I'll
set the wheels going. It will be as easy as sliding down hill. I'll
give you my word, if you land in the City Hall, to send you to
Washington with the next Congress. Will you accept the nomination, in
case I swing it around to you in September? It's a big thing. All you
literary boys are breaking into politics. This is your chance."

"I'll take the night to think it over," said Warrington. He was vastly
flattered, but he was none the less cautious and non-committal.

"Take a week, my boy; take a week. Another thing. You are intimate
with young Bennington. He's a hard-headed chap and doesn't countenance
politics in his shops. The two of you ought to bring the hands to
their senses. If we can line up the Bennington steel-mills, others
will fall in. Bennington owns the shops, but our friend McQuade owns
the men who work there. Take a week to think it over; I can rely on
your absolute secrecy."

"I shall be silent for half a dozen reasons," Warrington replied. "But
I shan't keep you waiting a week. Call me up by 'phone to-morrow at
any time between five and six. I shall say yes or no, direct."

"I like to hear a man talk like that."

"I can't get the idea into my head yet. I never expected to meddle
with politics in this town."

"We'll do the meddling for you. Even if you accept, we shall require
silence till the convention. It will be a bomb in the enemy's camp.
You'll come around to the idea. Between five and six, then?"

"I shall have your answer ready. Good night."

The senator took himself off, while Warrington ordered a bottle of
beer and drank it thoughtfully. Mayor! It would be a huge joke indeed
to come back to Herculaneum to rule it. He chuckled all the way home
that night; but when his head struck the pillow he saw the serious
side of the affair. He recalled the old days when they sneered at him
for selling vegetables; and here they were, coming to him with the
mayoralty. It was mighty gratifying. And there was the promise of
Washington. But he knew the world: political promises and pie-crusts.
What would the aunt say? What would Patty say? Somehow, he was always
thinking of Patty. He had not thought as yet to make any analysis of
his regard for Patty. He held her in the light of an agreeable
comrade, nothing more than that. Would she be pleased to see him mayor
of Herculaneum? Bah! He couldn't sleep. He got out of bed, found a
pipe and lighted it, and sat in the rocker by the window. Jove,
hearing him moving about the room, woke up and came trotting in to
inquire.

"Ha, old boy, what do you think?"

Jove laid his head on his master's knees.

"They want to make a mayor out of me."

Jove signified his approval.

"They have forgiven us our daily vegetables. But shall I? Will it be
worth while? Well, we'll take a ride into the hills in the morning,
and we'll think it all out. Mayor of Herculaneum; sounds good, doesn't
it? Nothing like success, Jove."

Warrington smoked till the fire in his pipe died. He turned in, and
this time he won sleep.

Early the next morning he was off on his horse, and he did not return
till noon. But he had his answer.

At three that afternoon he had callers. Patty and Kate had just run
over to see how the new play was getting on. Warrington confessed that
he was doing only desultory work, but promised to read the scenario to
them when it was done.

"You are becoming lazy," said Kate rebukingly.

"No; only a country gentleman."

"Patty, did you hear that? He calls Herculaneum a country village."

"Nothing of the sort. One may live in a city and be a countryman
still."

"Mr. Warrington probably misses New York," said Patty.

"Not the veriest particle," promptly. Certainly Patty was growing more
charming every day.

The Angora cat, with feline caution, peeped into the room. Patty, who
loved cats, made a dash for the fluffy animal, which turned tail and
bolted for the kitchen, Patty a close second.

For the first time since the marriage Kate and Warrington were alone
together. He gazed at her, mildly speculative.

"Well, what do you see?" she asked.

"You are certainly one of the most beautiful women in the world," he
declared, sighing.

"You say 'one of'?" frowning. "There was a time when it was not
general; you used the definite article."

"I know it."

"Then there must be somebody else," quickly.

"I'm not a marrying man," he said evasively.

"Is it Patty, Dick? Oh, if it were only Patty!"

"I'm not good enough for Patty, Kate. The Lord knows, though, that I
wish I were. She embarrasses me at times with her implicit faith in my
goodness."

"Ah, Richard, what a terrible past yours was!" mockingly. "Nonsense!"
briskly. "You are guilty of nothing but innocuous villainies. If there
were fairies I should ask one to make you fall violently in love with
Patty."

"No fairies need apply," ambiguously. "But you; you seem to be happy."

"There can not be a happier woman in the world. Let me confess. The
confession may hurt your vanity. I love my husband better than I
dreamed I could love. He is so just, so tender and strong. And isn't
he handsome? I am madly jealous of every woman that comes near him.
And once upon a time I believed that I was in love with Mr. Richard."
There was no coquetry in this frank statement.

"Any one can see that you are happy."

"I want every one to see it. I want to tell everybody, too. You have
no idea how strong he is, Dick. Yesterday I was in the shops with him.
A rail was in the way; the men about did not see it; or refused to see
it. John stooped, picked it up with his bare hands, and dropped it to
one side. There are but two men in the shops who can do that. But I
have a horror of those great bars of twisting white iron. They terrify
me. I do not understand, but the men are always sullen when I am
there. John says it's my imagination."

"It probably is. Perhaps the begrimed faces have something to do with
it."

"I can read the human countenance too well," she said. "Is it because
I have been on the stage? Have these men a base opinion of me?"

"Impossible!"

"And they seem to dislike John, too."

"John can take care of himself. He'll wait a long while, but when he
moves forward nothing can stop him. Don't you ever miss the glare of
the lights?" he asked, his endeavor being to interest her in something
foreign to the shops.

"Dick, I have almost forgotten that I ever acted. You will remember
that I refused to assist in the amateur theatricals last winter. Act?
I hate the word. It suggests the puppet, the living in other people's
worlds, parrot-wise, in imitation."

"Come, come, Kate; it's the greatest gift of all and you know it.
Think! The power to make people laugh and cry, to make either
happiness or misery perfectly real!"

"Oh, there was pleasure in it at times," she admitted reluctantly. "Do
you remember my gloves, Dick? John had them."

"He knew you were in my rooms that night?"

"Yes. I told him the simple truth, and he believed me. How could I
help loving a man as loyal as that?"

"It is fine. But Jack was always a thorough man. I don't blame you for
loving him. I call him all sorts of names to Patty, and it is fun to
watch her eyes flash."

Kate gave him a curious smile.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

"You smiled."

"I had a happy thought."

"Probably about that house-broken John of yours."

"Who's calling John house-broken?" Patty stood in the doorway, the
Angora struggling under her arm.

"Well, isn't he house-broken?" asked Warrington with gentle malice.
"Gentle and warranted to stand?"

Patty, for reasons of her own, permitted him to believe that he
succeeded in teasing her.

"Kate, let us be going. I can not listen to Mr. Warrington's remarks
regarding my brother. He treats John as if he were a horse."

"Just as you say, dear. We shall punish Mr. Warrington by not making
informal calls in the future."

"Wait till I get my hat," cried Warrington, "and I'll walk over to the
house with you."

"If you do that," said Patty, "we shall be compelled to ask you to
remain to dinner."

"Oh, I should refuse. I've a telephone engagement between five and
six."

"But we never serve dinner till seven," replied Patty, buttoning her
coat austerely.

Kate laughed merrily.

"If you will ask me over to dinner," said Warrington, "I'll tell you a
secret, a real dark political secret, one that I've promised not to
tell to a soul."

The two women stopped abruptly. The cast was irresistible, and they
had to rise to it.

Yet Patty murmured: "How like a woman he is!"

"It simply shows what high regard I have for your discretion. It is a
secret some men would pay a comfortable fortune to learn."

"Will you please come and dine with us this evening?" asked Patty.

"I shall be very happy."

"And now, the secret," said Mrs. Jack.

"Between five and six I expect a call on the phone from Senator
Henderson."

"Senator Henderson!" exclaimed the women in unison.

"I shall say but a single word. It will be yes."

"But the secret! Mercy alive, you are keeping us waiting!"

Warrington glanced around with mock caution. He went mysteriously to
the portieres and peered into the hall; he repeated this performance
at the dining-room door, then turned, a finger upon his lips.

"Senator Henderson is looking for a candidate for mayor this fall.
Mind, not a word to a soul, not even to John," this warning addressed
principally to Mrs. Jack.

"The Honorable Richard Warrington," said Patty, musing. She rolled the
words on her tongue as if testing the sound of them.

"That's it," laughed Warrington. "The Honorable Richard
Warrington!--sounds like Lord Mayor of London!"

Every Eden has its serpent, sooner or later. Thus, having futilely
tried the usual gates by which he enters Eden to destroy it, this
particular serpent found a breach in the gate of politics.




Chapter VIII


McQuade and Martin entered a cafe popular for its noon lunches. It was
hot weather in July, and both were mopping their bald foreheads, their
faces and necks. The white bulldog trotted along behind, his tongue
lolling out of his mouth and his eyes heavy. The two men sat down in a
corner under an electric fan; the dog crawled under the table,
grateful for the cold stone tiling.

"What do you know about this fellow Warrington?" asked McQuade,
tossing his hat on one of the unoccupied chairs.

"The fellow who writes plays?"

"Yes. What do you know about him?"

"Why, he used to peddle vegetables and now he owns a swell place on
Williams Street."

"Gamble?"

"Not that I know of. I never go into Pete's myself. It wouldn't be
good business. But they tell me Warrington used to drop in once in a
while, when he was a reporter, and choke his salary to death over the
roulette table."

"Doesn't gamble now?"

"Not in any of the joints around town."

"Drink?"

"Oh, I guess he boozes a little; but he's hard-headed and knows how
to handle the stuff."

"Women?--Roast beef, boiled potatoes and musty ale for two."

"Actresses.--Say, make mine a beer.--A gay buck in New York, I
understand. Used to chase around after the Challoner woman who married
Bennington."

"Nothing here in town?"

"Haven't paid any attention to him. I guess he's straight enough these
days."

"Tip Pete off to-day. The police will make a raid Saturday night. The
ministers have been shouting again, and two or three losers have
whined."

"All right. But what's all this about Warrington?" asked Martin, whose
curiosity was aroused.

"I'll tell you later." The waiter returned with the platters of food,
and McQuade ate without further comment or question.

Martin ate his meat in silence also, but he was busy wondering.
Warrington? What had interested the boss in that swell? Humph!

These men ate quickly and digested slowly. McQuade took out two fat
black cigars and passed one to Martin, who tore off the end with his
teeth.

"I want to find out all there is to know about Warrington. I can't
explain why just now; too many around."

"Set Bolles after him. Bolles used to be with a private detective
bureau. If there's anything to learn, he'll learn it. There he is now.
Hey, waiter, ask that gentleman looking for a vacant table to come
over. Hello, Bolles!"

"How do you do, Mr. Martin. Hot day, Mr. McQuade."

"Sit down," said McQuade, with a nod of invitation toward the
remaining vacant chair. "Cigar or a drink?"

"Bring me a little whisky--no, make it an old-fashioned cocktail.
That'll be about right."

"Mr. McQuade has a job for you, Bolles, if you're willing to undertake
it."

"I've got some time on my hands just now," replied Bolles. "Contract
work?"

"After a fashion," said McQuade grimly. "Eat your dinner and we'll go
up stairs to my office. What I have to say can't be said here."

"All right, Mr. McQuade. If it's dagos, I'll have plenty in hand in
November."

"I shall want you to go to New York," said McQuade.

"New York or San Francisco, so long as some one foots the bills."

"I'll foot 'em," agreed McQuade. "Hustle your dinner. We'll wait for
you at the bar."

Bolles ordered. A job for McQuade that took him to New York meant
money, money and a good time. There were no more contracts till
September, so the junket to New York wouldn't interfere with his
regular work. He had sublet his Italians. He was free. A few minutes
later he joined McQuade, and the trio went up stairs in a cloud of
tobacco smoke. McQuade nodded to the typewriter, who rose and left the
private office. The three men sat down, in what might be described as
a one-two-three attitude: domination, tacit acceptance of this
domination, and servility.

"Do you know Richard Warrington, the playwriter?"

"That snob? Yes, I know who he is, and I'd like to punch his head for
him, too."

McQuade smiled. This manifest rancor on Bolles' part would make things
easier than he thought.

"Well, listen. I've just been tipped that big things are going to
happen this fall. That fool Donnelly has queered himself, and is
making a muddle of everything he touches. Senator Henderson is a
shrewd man, but he wasn't shrewd enough this time. He should have
conducted his little conspiracy in his own home and not at a club
where servants often find profit in selling what they hear. Henderson
is going to put Warrington up for mayor."

"The hell he is!" said Bolles.

Martin's jaw dropped, and the cigar ashes tumbled down his shirt
bosom.

"It's no joke," went on McQuade. "If he is nominated, he'll win. The
people are wanting a change. If the Henderson people get into the City
Hall, I stand to lose a fortune on contracts. You both know what that
means. Warrington must never get a chance to accept."

Bolles looked at Martin. McQuade saw the look, and, interpreting it,
laughed.

"These are no dime-novel days. We don't kill men to get 'em out of the
way. We take a look into their past and use it as a club."

"I begin to see," said Martin. "Warrington must be side-tracked before
the convention. Good. That'll be simple."

"Not very," McQuade admitted. "It's going to be a devilish hard job.
You, Bolles, pack up and go to New York. I want some information
regarding this young fellow's past in New York. It's up to you to get
it. No faking, mind you; good substantial evidence that can be backed
up by affidavits. Get the idea? Five hundred and expenses, if you
succeed; your expenses anyhow. Five hundred is a lot of money these
days. But if you go on a bat, I'll drop you like a hot brick, for good
and all. Think it over. Pack up to-night, if you want to. Here's a
hundred to start with. Remember this, now, there must be a woman."

"A woman?"

"Yes. A man has no past, if there isn't a woman in it."

"I can land that five hundred," Bolles declared confidently. "I can
find the woman. I'll write you every other day."

"Well, then, that's all. Good luck. No boozing while you're on the job
Afterward I don't care what you do. By-by."

Bolles took his dismissal smilingly. Five hundred. It was easy.

"If it's possible, he'll do it," said Martin. "But what's your
campaign?"

"Donnelly must remain another term. After that, oblivion. There'll be
bids this fall. If Henderson's man wins, there'll be new aldermen.
These bids of mine must go through and gas must be kept at a
dollar-fifty. I'm a rich man, but at present I'm up to my neck in
southern contracts that aren't paying ten cents on the dollar.
Herculaneum's got to foot the bill."

"How'd you find out about Henderson's coup?"

"One of the waiters at his club said he had some information. I gave
him ten dollars for something I'd have given ten hundred for just as
quickly. If Henderson had sprung Warrington in September, we'd have
been swamped. Now we have a good chance to hang on."

"Force him to back down and withdraw?"

McQuade nodded.

"It's simply got to be done. I didn't give Henderson credit for so
clever a move as this. A new man, famous and wealthy, under no
obligations to his party; the voters would follow him just for the
novelty of the thing. Besides, there are other reasons, but I'm
keeping them to myself. How about that pavement deal in John Street?"

John Street possessed but three or four houses. The paving would be a
ten-thousand-dollar job. As a witty political speaker once said, they
paved Herculaneum in the concrete and in the abstract.

"It will go through Monday night, smooth as butter."

"Canvassed the boys?"

"More than three-fourths vote. Sure."

"I'm depending upon you."

"Will you turn down Donnelly at the convention?"

"I tell you he's got to run again. I'll bring him to order, after a
little heart-to-heart talk. He's the only man in sight."

"Why not play the same game as Henderson?"

"I've thought it all out. There's no one but Donnelly. Pick up
anything you can about Warrington."

"All right. By the way, the boys want to know if you think we can pull
off those ten-round bouts this winter."

"I'm going down to the capital to see."

Martin telephoned for his team, and twenty minutes later he was
driving countryward. McQuade dictated a few letters, one of which he
directed to be sent by messenger. Then he left the office and called
upon the editor of the Times. This conference lasted an hour. McQuade
was chief owner of the Times.


Warrington was greatly surprised when, at three-thirty, a message was
brought to him requesting him briefly and politely to do Mr. McQuade
the honor to call on him between four and five that afternoon. He had
met McQuade at the Chamber of Commerce dinner. The introduction had
been most formal. What the deuce did McQuade wish to see him about?
Should he go? A natural aversion to the man said no; but policy urged
him as well as curiosity. He went to the telephone and called up
McQuade's office. Mr. McQuade was not in, but would return at four.
Ah! It was the typewriter who spoke. Would she kindly notify Mr.
McQuade on his return that Mr. Warrington would be at his office at
four-thirty? She would. Thanks.

Warrington smoked uneasily. He had no desire to meet McQuade. Their
ways were widely separated and reached nothing in common. But he
readily recognized the fact that McQuade was not a man such as one
might heedlessly antagonize. What could the politician want of the
literary man? McQuade dabbled in racing horses; perhaps he had a horse
to sell. In that event, they would meet on common ground. But his
belief in this possibility was only half-hearted. He filled his
pockets with cigars, whistled for the dog, and departed. Both of the
Bennington houses were closed; the two families were up north in the
woods.

Promptly at four-thirty Warrington and his dog entered the elevator of
the McQuade Building and were dislodged on the third floor. They went
along the dim corridor, scrutinizing doors, each hunting for one of
his kind. Jove couldn't read, but he could smell. Finally Warrington
came to a stand. Upon the glass panel of the door he read:

Daniel McQuade & Co.

General Contractors


He did not knock. He opened the door and walked in. It is a sign of
weakness for a man to knock on the door of a business office, unless
it is marked private, Nevertheless, the dingy glass had known the
knock of many knuckles. A girl was hammering on the typewriting
machine. She ceased only when she completed the page. She looked up.
Her expression, on seeing who the visitor was, changed instantly. It
was not often that a man like this one entered the office of Daniel
McQuade and Company, General Contractors.

"I have an appointment with Mr. McQuade," said Warrington pleasantly;
"would you mind announcing me?"

"Just a moment," answered the girl, rising and entering the private
office. She returned at once. "Mr. McQuade will see you."

Warrington walked quietly into the lion's den.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Warrington," said McQuade, pointing toward a
chair. He did not offer his hand; something told him not to make that
mistake.

From under the desk McQuade's dog emerged, stiff and bristling. On his
side, Jove stood squarely on his legs, head on, as they say, his lips
writhing and quivering with rage. Warrington touched the chair that
had been offered him. Jove begged. But the master was obdurate. Jove
jumped up, but turned quickly. The white dog stopped. He recognized
that he was at a complete disadvantage.

McQuade watched these proceedings with an amused twinkle. It was a
clever manoeuver. So far as he was concerned, a good dog fight would
not have been to his distaste.

"It doesn't hurt the brutes to light once in a while. But, of course,"
he added, "your dog is old."

"Nothing is old till it is useless."

"An epigram from one of your plays?"

"No; but it sounds good enough to use. Jove has strong teeth, however,
and he comes from a fighting family. But for my part, I had much
rather see two men pummel each other."

"So would I, for that matter." McQuade pushed the match-box toward
Warrington, but Warrington drew out his own and struck a light.
McQuade shrugged.

"Mr. McQuade, I am interested to learn what is back of your note.
Horses?"

"No; not horses."

McQuade viewed the young man through half-closed eyes. The contractor
was a big hulk of a man, physically as strong as a bull, with reddish
hair, small twinkling eyes, a puffy nose mottled with veins, thin lips
shaded by a bristling red mustache, and a heavy jaw. The red fell of
hair on his hands reminded Warrington of a sow's back. Everything
about McQuade suggested strength and tensity of purpose. He had begun
work on a canal-boat. He had carried shovel and pick. From boss on a
railway section job he had become a brakeman. He took a turn at
lumbering, bought a tract of chestnuts and made a good penny in
railroad ties. He saved every dollar above his expenses. He bought a
small interest in a contracting firm, and presently he became its
head. There was ebb and tide to his fortunes but he hung on. A
lighting contract made him a rich man. Then he drifted into politics;
and now, at the age of fifty, he was a power in the state. The one
phase of sentiment in the man was the longing to possess all those
obstacles that had beset his path in the days of his struggles. He
bought the canal-boat and converted it into a house-boat; he broke the
man who had refused him a job at the start; he bought the block, the
sidewalk of which he had swept; every man who stood in his way he
removed this way or that. He was dishonest, but his dishonesty was of
a Napoleonic order. He was uneducated, but he possessed that exact
knowledge of mankind that makes leaders; and his shrewdness was the
result of caution and suspicion. But like all men of his breed, he
hated with peculiar venom the well-born; he loved to grapple with
them, to wrest their idleness from them, to compel them to work for a
living, to humiliate them. The fiber in McQuade was coarse; he
possessed neither generosity nor magnanimity; the very men who feared
him held him in secret contempt.

"No, Mr. Warrington, I haven't any horses for sale to-day," he began.
"Not very long ago you met Senator Henderson at your club. He offered
you the nomination for mayor this fall, and you accepted it."

Warrington could not repress a start of surprise. He had not quite
expected this. He was annoyed.

"That is true. What mystifies me," he supplemented, "is how this
knowledge came to your ears."

"I generally hear what's going on. My object in asking you to call is
to talk over the matter on a friendly basis."

"I can not see what good that will do. Politically we have nothing in
common."

"Politically or socially. But the point is this. What have you done
that you should merit this honor? I'll talk frankly. What have you
done toward the building up of your city? What have you done toward
its progress in manufacturing and building? You have done nothing but
buy a house on the fashionable street and pay the taxes."

"You might add that I once peddled vegetables," said Warrington.

It was McQuade's turn to be surprised. From what he had observed of
fashionable people, especially the new-rich, they endeavored to
submerge altogether the evidences of past manual and menial labor.

"Then you are not ashamed of the fact that you sold vegetables?"

"In truth, I'm rather proud of it. It was the first step in the fight.
And I tell you honestly, Mr. McQuade, that I have fought every inch of
the way. And I shall continue to fight, when there's anything worth
fighting for. I'm not a manufacturer or a builder, but I am none the
less eligible for public office. What little money I have was made
honestly, every penny of it. It was not built on political robbery and
the failures of others. But let us come to the point. You have
something to say."

"Yes. I have. And it is this: I don't propose to have you meddle with
the politics of this city. I hope we can come to a peaceful
understanding. I don't want to war against you."

"Mr. McQuade, you talk like a man out of his senses. Who's going to
prevent me from accepting the nomination?"

"I am," answered McQuade, bringing a fist down on his desk.

The dogs growled. They seemed to realize that war of some kind was in
the air.

"How?" asked Warrington. The man was a fool!

"You will go to Senator Henderson and tell him that you have
reconsidered."

Warrington laughed. "I believed I knew all phases, but this one
surpasses any I ever heard of. You have the nerve to ask me, of the
opposition party, to refuse the nomination for mayor?"

"I have."

"Are you afraid of me?"

"Not of you, my lad," McQuade answered sardonically, spreading out his
great hands. "Do I look like a man afraid of anything? But the thought
of a stranger becoming mayor of Herculaneum rather frightens me. Let
us have peace, Mr. Warrington."

"I ask nothing better."

"Withdraw."

"I never withdraw. I am not afraid of anything. I even promise to be
good-natured enough to look upon this meeting as a colossal joke."
Warrington's cigar had gone out. He relighted it coolly. "If the
nomination is offered me, I shall accept it; and once having accepted
it, I'll fight, but honorably and in the open. Look here, McQuade,
don't be a fool. You've something against me personally. What is it?
If I recollect, I ran across you once or twice when I was a newspaper
man."

McQuade's eyes narrowed again.

"Personally, you are nothing to me," he replied; "politically, you are
a meddler, and you are in my way."

"Oh, I am in your way? That is to say, if I am elected, there'll be
too much honesty in the City Hall to suit your plans? I can readily
believe that. If you can convince me that I ought not to run for
mayor, do so. I can accept any reasonable argument. But bluster will
do no good. For a man of your accredited ability, you are making a
poor move, even a fatal one."

"Will you withdraw?"

"Emphatically no!"

"All right. Whatever comes your way after this, don't blame me. I have
given you a fair warning."

"You have threatened."

"I can act also. And you can put this in your pipe, Mr. Warrington,
that before October comes round, when the Republican convention meets,
you will withdraw your name quickly enough. This is not a threat. It's
a warning. That's all. I'm sorry you can't see the matter from my
standpoint."

"Come, boy," said Warrington to his dog. "You had better keep your
animal under the table."

McQuade did not move or answer. So Warrington grasped Jove by the
collar and led him out of the private office. McQuade heard the
dramatist whistle on the way to the elevator.

"So he'll fight, eh?" growled McQuade. "Well, I'll break him, or my
name's not McQuade. The damned meddling upstart, with his plays and
fine women! You're a hell of a dog, you are! Why the devil didn't you
kill his pup for him?"

McQuade sent a kick at the dog, who dodged it successfully, trotted
out to the typewriter and crawled under the girl's skirts.

Warrington went home, thoroughly angry with himself. To have bandied
words and threats with a man like McQuade! He had lowered himself to
the man's level. But there were times when he could not control his
tongue. Education and time had not tamed him any. Withdraw? It would
have to be something more tangible than threats.

"Richard, you are not eating anything," said his aunt at dinner that
evening.

"I'm not hungry, Aunty. It's been one of those days when a man gets up
wrong."

"I'm sorry. Doesn't the play go along smoothly?"

"Not as smoothly as I should like."

"There was a long-distance call for you this afternoon. The
Benningtons want you to come up at once instead of next week."

Warrington brightened perceptibly. He went to work, but his heart
wasn't in it. The interview with McQuade insisted upon recurring. Why
hadn't he walked out without any comment whatever? Silence would have
crushed McQuade. He knew that McQuade could not back up this threat;
it was only a threat. Bah! Once more he flung himself into his work.

Half an hour later the door-bell rang.




Chapter IX


Character is a word from which have descended two meanings
diametrically opposed to each other. We say a man has a character, or
we say he is one; The first signifies respect; the second, a tolerant
contempt. There exists in all small communities, such as villages,
towns, and cities of the third class, what is known as a character. In
the cities he is found loafing in hotel lobbies or in the corridors of
the City Hall; in the hamlet he is usually the orator of the
post-office or the corner grocery. Invariably his wife takes in
washing, and once in a while he secures for her an extra order. If he
has any children, they live in the streets. He wears a collar, but
seldom adds a tie. He prides himself on being the friend of the
laboring man, and a necktie implies the worship of the golden calf. He
never denies himself a social glass. He never buys, but he always
manages to be introduced in time. After the first drink he calls his
new friend by his surname; after the second drink it is "Arthur" or
"John" or "Henry," as the case may be; 

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