note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the easiest way a story of metropolitan life by eugene walter and arthur hornblow illustrations by archie gunn and joseph byron [illustration: picking up a hat, laura looked at herself in the mirror. _frontispiece. page ._] w. dillingham company publishers new york copyright, , by g. w. dillingham company _the easiest way_. a foreword in presenting this story of a _déclassée_ who attempts to redeem her scarlet past by a disinterested, honest attachment only to meet with dire, miserable failure, the authors wish to make it plain that their heroine and her associates are in no way to be identified with the dramatic profession. laura murdock represents the type of woman of easy virtue who is sometimes seen behind the footlights and helps to give the theatre a bad name. although destitute of the slightest histrionic talent, she styles herself an "actress" in order to better conceal her true vocation. as a class, the earnest, hardworking men and women who devote their lives to the dramatic art are entitled to the highest regard and respect. no profession counts in its ranks more virtuous women, more honorable men than the artists who give lustre to the american stage. if such women as laura murdock succeed in gaining a foothold on the boards it must be looked upon merely as an unfortunate accident. the better element in the theatre shuns them and their theatrical aspirations are not encouraged by reputable managers. illustrations page picking up a hat, laura looked at herself in the mirror _frontispiece_ "i've bought a house for you on riverside drive" she began to sew a rip in her skirt she sank down on her knees beside him laura commenced to pack the trunk john stood looking at her in silence she crouched down motionless on the trunk the easiest way chapter i. the hour was late and the theatres were emptying. the crowds, coming from every direction at once, were soon a confused, bewildered mass of elbowing humanity. in the proximity of broadway and forty-second street, a mob of smartly-dressed people pushed unceremoniously this way and that. they swept the sidewalks like a resistless torrent, recklessly attempting to force a path across the carriage blocked road, darting in and out under restive horses' heads, barely rescued by stalwart traffic policemen from the murderous wheels of onrushing automobiles. they scrambled into taxicabs, trains and trolleys, all impelled by a furious, yet not unreasonable, desire to reach home with the least possible delay. these were the wise ones. others lingered, struggling feebly in the whirling vortex. not yet surfeited with the evening's amusement, they now craved recherché gastronomical joys. with appetites keen for the succulent, if always indigestible, dainties of after-theatre suppers, they sought the hospitable portals of gotham's splendidly appointed lobster palaces which, scattered in amazing profusion along the great white way, their pretentious facades flamboyantly ablaze with light, seemed so many oases of luxurious comfort set down in the nocturnal desert of closed shops. "move on there!" thundered an irate policeman. "what the h--ll are you blocking the way for? i've half a mind to lock you fellows up!" this to two grasping jehus, who, while quarrelling over a prospective fare, had so well succeeded in interlocking their respective wheels that a quarter-of-a-mile-long block resulted instantly. the officer, exasperated beyond endurance, was apoplectic in the face from the too sudden strain upon his temper. starting angrily forward he seemed as if about to carry out his threat, and the effect of this was magic. the offending cabbies quickly disentangled themselves, and once more the long string of vehicles began to move. women screamed shrilly, as with their escorts they dodged the horses' hoofs, the trolleys clanged their gongs, electric-signs blinked their pictorial designs, noisy boys yelled hoarsely "final extras!" the din was nerve racking. one had to shout to be heard, yet no one seemed to object. everybody was happy. new york was merely enjoying itself. the rush was at its height, when two young men, perhaps weary of being buffeted by the throngs that still pushed up broadway, turned sharply to the right and entered a fashionable all-night café. halting for a moment in the richly-carpeted and mirrored vestibule to divest themselves of their outer garments, they pocketed the brass checks handed out by a dapper page and passing on into the restaurant, quietly took seats in an out-of-the-way corner. the place was already well filled. nearly all of the small, round tables, crowded too close for comfort, were taken, and the loud chatter of men and women, the handling of dishes, the going and coming of waiters, the more or less labored efforts of a _tzigane_ orchestra--all this made a hubbub as loud as that in the busy street without. the people eating and drinking were of the kind usually to be found in broadway's pleasure resorts--rich men-about-town spending their money freely, hard-faced, square-jawed gamblers touting for business, callow youths having their first fling in metropolitan vice, motor-car parties taking in the sights, old roués seeking new sensations, faultlessly dressed wine agents promoting the sale of their particular brands, a few actors, a sprinkling of actresses of secondary importance, a bevy of chorus girls of the "broiler" type, a number of self-styled "grass widows" living quietly, but luxuriously on the generosity of discreet male admirers, and others still prettier, who made no secret of their calling, but insolently boasted of their profession being the most ancient in the world. sartorially at least, the company was eminently respectable. the men, for the most part, wore evening dress and the women were visions of feminine loveliness, in the latest creations of paris modistes--gowns a duchess might envy, hats that would tempt the virtue of a saint. all were talking loudly, and laughing hilariously as they ate and drank, while pale-faced, perspiring waiters ran here and there with steaming chafing dishes and silver buckets of frozen "wine." here champagne was king! the frothy, golden, bubbling, hissing stuff seemed to be the only beverage called for. no one counted the cost. supplied with fat purses, all flung themselves into a reckless orgy of high living and ordered without reckoning. it was the gay rendezvous of the girls and the johnnies, the sporting men and the roués--in a word, the nightly bacchanal of new york _qui s'amuse_. in the atmosphere, heavily charged with tobacco smoke, floated a strange, indefinable perfume--an odor in which the vulgar smell of cooking struggled for the mastery with the subtle essences used by voluptuous women. instantly, animalism was aroused, the passions were inflamed. the mouth watered for luscious _mets_ concocted by expensive _chefs_, the eye was dazzled by snowy linen, glistening crystal and the significant smiles of red-lipped wantons, the ear was entranced by the dulcet strains of sensuous music. in short, a dangerous resort for any man, young or old. it was the flesh market, the public mart, to which the frail sisterhood came in droves to sell their beauty. the sirens of manhattan, lineal descendants of the legendary sisters who, with their songs, lured the ancient mariners to their doom, were there by the hundred, decked out in all the expensive finery that individual taste could suggest and their purses pay for. they were of all types--blonde and brunette, tall and petite, stout and slender--to meet every demand. mostly young they were; some still in their teens. that was the tragedy of it. older women had no place there. fresh arrivals poured in from the broadway entrance. everybody appeared to be acquainted with everyone else; familiar greetings were exchanged right and left. "hello, jack!" "howdy, may!" "sit down here, grace!" the waiters rushed away to fill orders for more wine, the orchestra struck up another lively air, the whole establishment vibrated with bustle and excitement. the two young men watched the animated scene. to one of them at least, it was all novel and strange, a phase of life to which, heretofore, he had been a stranger. john madison had seen little of gilded vice in the big cities. although he had knocked about the world a great deal and taken active part in many a stirring scene he had always been a clean man. born and bred on a dakota farm, he was still the typical country boy, big and vigorous in physique, with a sane, wholesome outlook on things. when his mother--a penniless widow--died he was adopted by a tyrannical uncle, a miserly farmer, who made him do chores around the homestead in return for his keep. but the boy detested farming. his young soul yearned for a glimpse of the great outside world, of which he had read and knew nothing, and his desperation grew, until one day he summoned up enough courage to run away. on foot, with nothing to eat, and only an occasional hitch behind a friendly teamster's wagon, he bravely made his way to bismarck, fifty miles distant where, after nearly starving to death, he enlisted the sympathies of a kindly grocer, who gave him two dollars a week and his board to run errands. this was not much better than what he had escaped from, but john did not care. at least it was the dawn of independence. industrious and faithful, he was rewarded in due time by promotion and eventually he might have become a partner and married the grocer's daughter, but unfortunately, or fortunately, as may be, his restless spirit made this programme impossible of realization. twenty years of age, and six feet tall in his stockings, he had muscles like steel and nerves of iron. a tall, finely-built type of western manhood, he had a frank, open face, with clean-cut features, a strong mouth, and alert, flashing eyes, that denoted a quick, nervous energy. in repose his face was serious; when he smiled, revealing fine strong teeth, it was prepossessing. he wore his hair rather long, and with his loose corduroy jacket, top boots, and cowboy hat, suggested the western ranchman. the girls of bismarck were all in love with him, and his mere presence doubled the business of the store, but the young man resisted all feminine blandishments. he was ambitious, dissatisfied and restless, a voice within him told him that nature intended him for something better than selling potatoes; so, taking affectionate leave of the grocer, he went away. ten years passed. he prospered and saw a good deal of the world. he traveled east and west, north and south. he was in canada and down in mexico; he visited london, berlin, paris, new york and san francisco. his money all gone, he drifted for a time, trying his versatile hand at everything that offered itself. he went to sea and sailed around the horn before the mast, he enlisted in the army and saw active service in the philippines. he was cowboy for a western cattle king, and there he learned to break wild bronchos without a saddle and split apples with a revolver bullet at a hundred yards. he was among the pioneers in the gold rush to alaska and played faro in all the tough mining towns. sworn in as sheriff, he one day apprehended single-handed, a gang of desperate outlaws, who attempted to hold up a train. it was a rough and dangerous life. he was thrown in with all sorts of men, most of them with criminal records. he loved the excitement, yet he never allowed his tough associates to drag him down to their own level. he drank with them, gambled with them, but he never made a beast of himself, as did some of the others. he always managed to keep his own hands clean, he never lost his own self regard. he was quick on the trigger and in time of overheated argument could go some distance with his fists. utterly fearless, powerful in physique, he was at all times able to command respect. above all, he was a respecter of women. he never forgot what his mother once said to him. he was only a lad at the time, but her words had never faded from his memory: "sonny," she said, "never forget that your mother was a woman." and he never had. in all his relations with women in later life, he had remembered the injunction of the mother he loved. when other men spoke lightly of women in his presence he showed disapproval, if their character was attacked he championed their cause, if confronted with proofs, he flatly refused to consider them. yet he was neither a prig nor a prude. he enjoyed a joke as well as any one, but at the same time he did not let his mind run in only one channel, as some men do. he pitied rather than blamed the wretched females who frequented the miners' camps. more sinned against than sinning, was his humane judgment of these unhappy outcasts, and when he could, he helped them. many a besotted creature had him to thank when the end came and short shrift little better then that accorded a dead dog awaited her--that at least she got a decent burial. the boys knew his attitude on the woman question, and it was a tribute to the regard in which they held him that, in his hearing at least, they were decent. meantime, john madison was educating himself. there was no limit to his ambition. with the one idea of studying law and going into politics, he attended night schools and lectures and burned the midnight oil devouring good books. he sent to an enterprising journal of denver a vividly written account of his exploit with the train robbers. with the newspaper's cheque came an offer to join its staff. that was how john madison became a reporter, and incidentally explained why, on this particular evening, he happened to be in new york. sent east in connection with a big political story, he had run across an old acquaintance, glenn warner, a young new york lawyer, and accepted his invitation to theatre and supper. "i'll take you to a swell joint," he laughed. "it'll amuse you. it's the swiftest place in town." in personal appearance, the young attorney presented a sharp contrast to his stalwart companion. slight in physique, with sandy hair scrupulously parted in the middle and nattily dressed, he was of the conventional type of men colloquially described as "well groomed." that the restaurant, and its people, were an old story to him, was apparent by the nods he exchanged and the familiar greeting he gave the waiter. after he had decided on the order, he proceeded to give john thumb-nail biographies of some of the most conspicuous of those present. "see that fat, coarse-looking hog over there? look--he's flashing a bank roll thick enough to choke a horse. that's berny bernheim, the bookmaker. his gambling house on west forty-fourth street is one of the show places of the town. it's raided from time to time, but he always manages to get off scot free. he has a pull with the police." pointing in another direction, where a stately blonde in a big gainsborough hat, trimmed with white plumes, sat languidly sipping champagne in company of a gray-haired man old enough to be her grandfather, he went on: "that girl with the white feathers is lucy graves. don't you remember--five years ago--a lucy graves shot and killed a man, and then hypnotised the jury into acquitting her. that's the girl. since then she's been on the stage--a vaudeville act--$ , a week they say. a month ago she was again in trouble with the police--caught playing the badger game. i don't know who the old chap is--a new 'sucker' i imagine." there was a slight commotion at the main entrance as a fat, bald-headed, red-faced man entered, followed by several women, all beautifully gowned. warner, who had caught sight of the party, whispered _sotto voce_: "that's sam solomon, the famous criminal lawyer. he's just been indicted by the grand jury. only a miracle can save him from a long prison term. he's had a box party at the theatre. he usually has a string of women after him. that's where his money goes--women and wine. the girls call him a good thing." madison looked amused. "where are the respectable folk?" he laughed. "have all the people here got a police record?" "most all," was the laconic rejoinder. "hello, elfie--when did you come in?" this last exclamation was addressed to a tall, attractive brunette, who was just pushing past their table in a crowd. she was young and vivacious looking, and her voluptuous figure was set off to advantage in an expensive gown. evidently she knew the lawyer well, for she greeted him familiarly: "hello, glenn--i didn't see you." "alone?" he asked quickly. "yes--for a while," she answered airily. he made a place for her on the bench. "sit down here and have something." "i don't mind if i do," she smiled amiably. slipping past the two men into the seat she looked inquiringly at madison. the lawyer made introductions. "this is a friend of mine--john madison--miss elfie st. clair." jocularly he added: "well known on the metropolitan stage." madison smiled and nodded. the girl eyed him with interest. he was a type of man not often seen in the gay resorts of manhattan. impulsively she burst out: "say, glenn--your friend's a good looker, do you know it? better take care, or he'll cut you out with the girls." turning to madison, she demanded: "from the west?" he nodded. "yes--denver." "seeing new york, eh? great fun, ain't it?" he shrugged his massive shoulders and made no reply, finding more amusement in watching the crowd than in gratifying the curiosity of this chatterbox. she turned to warner. "got a grouch, ain't he?" warner laughed. "oh--that's his manner. don't mind him." turning the conversation, he demanded: "what's new?" the girl glanced all around the restaurant, as she answered: "oh, the same old thing! in feather one week--broke the next. you know how it is." "i thought you were playing." "so i was, but the show busted. it was a bully part, and i spent $ on dresses. all i got was two weeks' salary. when the dresses will be paid for, the lord only knows." elfie st. clair was a typical tenderloin grafter. a woman absolutely devoid of moral conscience, she styled herself an actress, yet was one only by courtesy. by dint of pulling all kinds of wires she contrived from time to time to get a part to play, but her stage activities were really only a blind to conceal her true vocation. a cold-blooded courtesan of the most brazen and unscrupulous type, she was, notwithstanding, one of the most popular women in the upper tenderloin. she dressed with more taste than most women of her class, and her naturally happy disposition, her robust spirits and spontaneous gaiety had won her many friends. for all that she was an unscrupulous grafter, the kind of woman who deliberately sets out to lure men to destruction. she knew she was bad, yet found plenty of excuses for herself. she often declared that she hated and despised men for the wrong they had done her. imposed upon, deceived, mistreated in her early girlhood by the type of men who prey on women, at last she turned the tables, and armed only with her dangerous charm and beauty, started out to make the same slaughter of the other sex as she herself had suffered, together with many of her sisters. while still in her teens she came to broadway and entering the chorus of one of the local theatres, soon became famous for her beauty. on every hand, stage-door vultures were ready to give her anything that a woman's heart can desire, from fine clothes to horses, carriages, jewels, money, and what not. but at that time there was still some decency left in her, the final sparks of sentiment and honest attachment were not yet altogether extinguished. she fell in love with an actor connected with the company, and during all the time that she might have profited and become a rich woman by the attention of outside admirers, she remained true to her love, until finally her fame as the premier beauty of the city had begun to wane. the years told on her, there were others coming up as young as she had been, and as good to look at, and she soon found that, through her faithfulness to her lover, the automobile of the millionaire, which once waited at the stage door for her, was now there for some one else. yet she was contented and happy in her day dream, until one day the actor jilted her, and left her alone. that was the end of her virtuous resolves. from then on, she steeled her heart against all men. what she had lost of her beauty had been replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature. she determined to give herself up entirely to a life of gain, and she went about it coldly, methodically. she knew just how much champagne could be drunk without injuring the health; she knew just what physical exercise was necessary to preserve what remained of her beauty. there was no trick of the hairdresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any one of the legion of queer people who devote their talents to aiding the outward fascinations of women, with which she was not familiar. she knew exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation, and all this she determined to devote to profit. she had no self delusions. she knew that as an actress she had no future; that the time of a woman's beauty is limited. conscious that she had already lost the youthful litheness of figure which had made her so fascinating in the past, she laid aside every decent sentiment and chose for her companion the man who had the biggest bank roll. his age, his position in life, whether she liked or disliked him, did not enter into her calculations at all. she figured out that she had been made a fool of by men, and that there was only one revenge, the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for all. she had, of course, certain likes and dislikes, and in a measure, she indulged them. there were men whose company she preferred to that of others, but in the case of these, their association was practically sexless, and had come down to a point of mere good fellowship. "seen laura lately?" asked the lawyer suddenly, after elfie had given the waiter her order. "no--not for some days." warner looked surprised. "i thought you and she were inseparable. you haven't quarreled, have you?" the girl laughed. "quarreled--no. laura's too sweet a girl to quarrel with. only you know how it is. we're both so busy, with our eye on the main chance, that there isn't much time for anything else. besides, she's been playing more or less ever since the season opened. i didn't see her in that last piece, but they say she was fine. of course, it was brockton's influence that got her the part. i expect to see her here to-night." "so she's still stuck on willard brockton, eh?" with a light laugh, she replied quickly: "laura's not the kind of girl to be 'stuck' on anybody--at least i hope she isn't. she used to be inclined to get sentimental at times--she thought she was in love and all that sort of thing. i soon knocked that nonsense out of her head. 'laura' i said--'you've no time to fool. you won't be fresh and pretty all your life. make hay while the sun shines. it's time to fall in love when you get old and faded and wrinkled. business before pleasure every time.' you know, brockton has been very good to her. she was lucky to find such a steady. she has money to burn, a luxurious apartment, automobiles, influence with the managers. what more could she want? she'd be a fool to give up all that." raising her glass to her lips, she looked with a smile towards madison. "here's how!" she said with mock courtesy. but the big westerner was paying no attention to them. silent, engrossed, he was intent watching the gay crowd around him, studying with deep interest the faces of these painted courtesans, who brazenly came to this place to offer themselves. he wondered what their childhood had been, to what disastrous home influences they had been subjected to bring them to such degradation as this. most of them were coarse and vulgar-looking wantons, with rouged cheeks and pencilled eyebrows, but others seemed to be modest girls, refined and well bred. these were plainly in their novitiate. surely, he pondered, such a shameless calling must be revolting to them; the better instincts of their womanhood must rebel at the very shame of it. he believed that here and there, behind the rouge and forced hilarity, he could detect signs of an aching heart, a woman secretly filled with anguish. it gave him a sickening feeling of repulsion. others saw only the outward gaiety of the scene; but he saw still deeper. he realized its tragic significance and it filled him with disgust and horror. suddenly his attention was attracted to a young girl who had just entered the restaurant. she was gowned magnificently enough even to be conspicuous among that crowd of well-dressed women, and she wore a large picture hat, crowned by expensive plumes. close behind was her escort, a middle-aged, stockily built man, with iron-gray hair, also immaculately dressed. as the couple passed, the people at the tables turned and whispered. when the newcomer drew nearer, madison could see that she was very young, and he was struck by her laughing, dimpled beauty. she appeared little more than a child, and the manner in which she was dressed--girlish fashion, with her wealth of blonde hair caught back by a ribbon band--carried out the illusion completely. her complexion was so fair and fresh, her sensitive lips so red and full, and delicately chiseled, such a look of childish innocence was in her light blue eyes, that he wondered what she could be doing among such questionable company. he concluded that the couple had wandered in by mistake, not knowing the true character of the place. turning to warner, he said in an undertone. "look at that young girl--the blonde with white plumes--coming this way escorted by the man with the smooth face and gray hair! surely she is not an habitué of this joint!" the lawyer laughed as he quickly drew elfie's attention to the new arrivals. "really, old chap--you're so green you're funny! don't you know who she is? why--that's laura murdock--the cleverest of them all!" chapter ii. if laura murdock was not quite so young as she looked, she was far from appearing her real age, which was twenty-five. a casual observer at most, would have accorded her twenty. in her case nature had been unusually kind. her skin was soft as a new-born infant's, her complexion fresh as the unplucked rose, her expression innocent and unsophisticated. a priest unhesitatingly would have given her absolution without confession. her baby face, her childish prettiness and air of unaffected ingenuousness, her good taste in dress, her natural refinement, and cleverness in keeping men guessing had been, indeed, the chief keystones of her success. and, most remarkable of all, perhaps, was that she had been able to retain this prettiness and girlishness after what she had gone through, for, at the time this narrative opens, laura murdock had already lived a career which would have made a wreck of most women. born in melbourne, of english parents, she came at an early age from australia to san francisco. her father was connected in a business capacity with one of the local theatrical companies, and the young girl naturally drifted to the stage. she had only a mediocre histrionic talent, but what was perhaps more important, she had uncommon good looks, and she soon found that beauty was not only a valuable asset, but a sure lever to success. the critics praised her, not because she acted well, but because she dressed exquisitely, and pleased the eye. managers and authors flattered her. soon she found, to her amazement, that she was the success of the hour. stage johnnies raved about her; sent her flowers and invited her to supper; women envied her, and said spiteful things. portraits of her in various attitudes appeared in the newspapers and magazines. in a single night she was carried high on the top wave of sensational popularity. the outcome was only logical. even a virtuous woman could not stand the strain, and laura was not virtuous. of neurotic temperament, inherently weak, if not actually vicious in character, with the spirit of the courtesan strong within her from an early age, fond of luxury and personal adornment she could not legitimately afford, it was not surprising that she listened to the flatterers and went to the devil quicker than any woman before her in the whole history of gallantry. at the end of her first season, her reputation was completely in tatters. accepting the situation philosophically, she did not pretend to be better than she was, but she was clever enough not to cheapen herself by entangling herself too promiscuously. she had lovers by the score, yet none could boast of having really won her heart. a woman of superficial emotions, she was entirely without depth, yet so long as it suited her purpose, she was able to conceal this shallowness and profess for the admirer of the moment the greatest affection and devotion. this is an art and she was an adept at it. sensually she quickly attracted men, and it was not long before she became a prime favorite in the select circles that made such resorts as "the yellow poodle" and "moreland's" famous, yet in her dissipations she was always careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her physical attractiveness, or for one moment diminish her keen sense of worldly calculation. one day, obeying a foolish impulse, she married. the venture was, of course, a failure. her selfish vacillating nature was such that she could not remain true to the poor fool who had given her his name. to provide the luxuries she incessantly demanded, he embezzled the funds of the bank where he was employed, and when exposure came, and he was confronted with a jail sentence, she was horrified to see him kill himself in front of her. there was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of remorse, followed in a few brief weeks by the peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this type of woman. gradually she became hardened and indifferent. she began to view life as a hunting field, in which the trophy went to the hardest rider. deceived herself by men, she finally arrived at that stage of life known in theatrical circles as "wised up." coming to new york, she attracted the attention of a prominent theatrical manager, and was given a part, in which she happened to make a hit. this was enough to immediately establish her reputation on the metropolitan stage. the fact that before reaching the age of womanhood, she had had more escapades than most women have in their entire lives, was not generally known in manhattan, nor was there a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism to betray it. she was soft voiced, very pretty, very girlish, yet she was no fool. her success did not turn her head or blind her to her shortcomings as an actress. she realized that in order to maintain her position she must have some influence outside of her own ability, so she laid plans to entangle in her net a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly soubrette-proof theatre manager. he fell victim to her charms, and in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. still not satisfied, she played two ends against the middle, and finding a young man of wealth and position, who could give her in his youth an exuberance of joy utterly apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she allowed him to shower her with presents. when his money was gone, she cast him aside and demurely resumed her relations with the unsuspecting theatre manager. the jilted lover became crazed, and one night at a restaurant, attempted to murder them both. from that time on, her career was a succession of brilliant coups in gaining the confidence and love, not to say the money, of men of all ages, and all walks of life. her powers of fascination were as potent as her professions of reform were insincere. she never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, she never tried to do the square thing. yet, like other women of her type, she found all sorts of excuses for her wrongdoing. she pretended that she was persecuted, a victim of circumstances, and was ever ready to explain away the viciousness of character, which was really responsible for her troubles. in spite of her success on the stage, she was an indifferent actress. her lack of true feeling, her abuse of the dramatic temperament in her private affairs, had been such as to make it impossible for her sincerely to impress audiences with genuine emotional power, and therefore, despite the influences which she always had at hand, she remained a mediocre artist. her meeting with willard brockton was, from her point of view, the best possible thing that could have happened. brockton was a new york stock broker, and like many men of his tastes and means, was a good deal of a sensualist. of morals he frankly confessed he had none, yet he was an honest sensualist for he played the game fair. he never forgot that he was a gentleman. he was perfectly candid about his _amours_ and never expected more from a woman than he could give to her. he was honest in this, that he detested any man who sought to take advantage of a pure woman. he abhorred any man who deceived a woman. the same in love as in business, he believed that there was only one way to go through life, and that was to be straight with those with whom one deals. a master hand in stock manipulation and other questionable practices of wall street, he realized that he had to pit his cunning against the craft of others. he was not at all in sympathy with present-day business methods, but he did not see any particular reason why he should constitute himself a reformer. although still in the prime of life, he cared nothing for society and held aloof from it. if he went to the trouble to keep in touch at all with people of his own set, it was simply for business reasons. what he seemed to delight in most was the life of bohemia, with its easy _camaraderie_, its lax moral code, its contempt for the conventions. he enjoyed the company of women of facile virtue, the gay little supper parties after the theatre, and the glass that inebriates and cheers, in a word, he enjoyed going the pace that kills. he was a man of many _liasons_, but none were as serious or had lasted so long as his present pact with laura murdock. no woman before had been clever enough to hold him. he appeared very fond of her, and completely under her influence. his friends shook their heads, looked wise, and took and gave odds that he would be so foolish as to marry her. the couple took seats at a table, the cynosure of all eyes. every head turned in their direction, conversations were temporarily suspended and there was much whispering and craning of necks, to get a glimpse of the young woman whose reputation, or lack of it, was already so notorious. far from being embarrassed at this display of public interest, laura seemed to enjoy the attention she excited. languidly sinking into her seat, she said to her escort with a smile: "don't they stare? you'd think they had never seen a woman before." brockton laughed as he lit a fresh cigar. "how do you know they're staring at you? i'm not such a bad looker myself." laura ran over the menu to see what there was to tempt her appetite. "bring me some lobster," she said to the waiter. "and a bottle of wine--moet and chandon white seal," broke in brockton, "_frappé_--you understand, and make it a rush order. i have to get away in a few minutes." laura pursed her delicately chiseled lips together in a pout. she liked to do that on every possible occasion, because, having practiced it at home before the mirror, she thought it looked cunning. "you're surely going to give yourself time to eat a bite, aren't you?" she cried in affected dismay. the broker looked at his watch. "i must be in boston early to-morrow morning. the express leaves the grand central at : . i've just time to drink a glass of wine and sprint for the train. that's why i kept the taxi waiting outside. i hate to go. i assure you i'd much rather sit here with you. but go i must." as far as his _amours_ were concerned, women of the laura murdock and elfie st. clair type appealed strongly to the broker. not only did he enjoy their bohemianism and careless good-fellowship, but he entered fully into the spirit of their way of living. he professed to understand them and in a measure to sympathize with them. entirely without humbug or cant, he recognized that they had their own place in the social game. they were outcasts, if you will, but interesting and amusing outcasts. he rather liked the looseness of living which does not quite reach the disreputable. behind all this, however, was a high sense of honor. he detested and despised the average stage-door johnny, and he loathed the type of man who seeks to take young girls out of theatrical companies for their ruin. otherwise he had no objection to his women friends being as wise as himself. when they entered into an agreement with him there was no deception. in the first place, he wanted to like them; in the second place he wanted them to like him. his iron-gray hair, contrasting with their youth, not only made him look like their father, but his manner towards them was distinctly paternal. he insisted also on their financial arrangements, being kept on a strictly business basis. the amount of the living expenses was fixed at a definite figure and he expected them to limit themselves to it. he made them distinctly understand that he reserved the right at any time to withdraw his support, or transfer it to some other _inamorata_, and he gave them the same privilege. while he consulted only his own selfish pleasures, brockton was not an uncharitable man. he was always ready to help anyone who was unfortunate, and at heart he sometimes felt sorry for these women who had to barter their self respect to indulge their love of luxury. he hoped that some of them would one day meet the right man and settle down to respectable married life, but he insisted that such an arrangement could be possible only by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she had been and the thorough and complete understanding of her past by the man involved. he was gruff and blunt in manner, yet well liked by his intimates. they thought him a brute, almost a savage, but almost every one agreed with laura that he was "a pretty decent savage." she and the broker had been pals for two years, and she had never been happier in her life. he was most generous with his money and his close relations with several prominent theatrical managers made it possible for him to secure for her desirable engagements. there was no misunderstanding between them. he knew exactly what she was and what she had been. he any way. he always told her that whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue with him, it was her privilege to quit, and he himself reserved the same right. as far as such an irregular marital relation as this could be said to be desirable, it was an ideal arrangement. "how long will you be gone?" asked laura, as she toyed with a lobster claw and glanced around the café, to see who was there. "i've no idea," answered brockton. "i may return day after to-morrow or i may be detained there a week or longer. it's a big job, you know--in connection with floating a big issue of railroad bonds. there's a barrel of money in it. i may not get back before you go to denver." the girl looked up at him quickly, and laying down her knife and fork, leaned across the table. resting her dimpled chin on her ungloved and tapering hands, which were covered with blazing stones, she said with more genuine feeling than she had yet shown: "oh, will--it was awfully good of you to get me that engagement and let me go. a number of girls i know were after it--some with far more experience than i've had. they're all crazy to play stock at this time of year. of course, i don't need the money as much as they do, but i'm fond of acting and it's a bully way to spend some of the summer. besides, i think the air out there--the high altitude--will do me lots of good." "that's all very well," rejoined the broker with a grimace of mock despair, "but what am i going to do all alone in this dusty, thirsty town, while you're playing camille, and what not under the shady trees at denver? i'm an ass to stand for it." she laid a consoling hand on his arm. "no, you're, not. you're a darling boy. you know i had my heart set on getting that stock engagement, and you went to all kinds of trouble to make the manager let me have it. really, will--i can't say how grateful i am! i won't be so long away--only six short weeks--and if you like you can come to denver and bring me east again. it'll be awfully jolly traveling home together, won't it?" brockton looked at her and smiled indulgently. he was only joking, just to see how she would take it. of course he would let her go. he would be a selfish brute if he played the tyrant and consulted only his own convenience. "all right, kid," he said kindly. "go and enjoy yourself. never mind about me--i'll jog along somehow. i'll miss you, though. i don't mind telling you that. when you're ready to come home, just telegraph and i'll take the next train for denver. if you need any money, you know where to write me. meantime, put this in your inside pocket." he pressed his strong fingers down on her open palm, and closed her hand. opening it, she found five new crisp one hundred dollar notes. a crimson glow of pleasure spread over her face and neck. for a moment she was unable to stammer her thanks. "oh, will--you are so good!" "that's nothing," he laughed lightly, "have a good time with it. buy what things you need. you understand--that is only a little extra pin money. your regular weekly cheque will be sent to you at denver." all she could say was to repeat: "oh--will--you are so good!" he lifted his glass and looked whimsically at her through the dancing bubbles of the foaming champagne. in a low voice he said: "here's to my little girl! may she tread the stage of denver with the grace and charm of an ellen terry and return to new york covered with new laurels!" calling for the bill, and tossing a ten dollar note to the waiter, he rose hastily: "i hate to go and leave you here alone, but i must catch that train." "oh, don't mind me," she replied, smiling up at him. "i'll stay a few minutes yet." nodding towards the left, she added: "i see elfie over there. i'll sit with her. don't worry about me. i'll go home in a taxi." he took her hand. he would have liked to kiss her, but like most men, he hated to make public demonstration of his feelings. "good-bye, little one," he said fondly. "be a good girl. write me directly you get to denver. be sure to send me all the press notices----" facetiously he added: "--all the bad ones mind. i'm not interested in the others. and when you're ready to come home, just telegraph, and i'll come for you. good-bye!" "good-bye, will." the next moment he was gone. for some time after his, departure she sat quietly at the table, toying idly with the rich food in front of her. absorbed in her own thoughts she paid no attention to what was transpiring around. she was singularly depressed that evening, she knew not why. it was very foolish, for she had every reason to feel elated. things certainly continued to go her way. after all the storm and stress of her past life, she was at last settled and contented. she had plenty of money, a good friend, influence with the theatre managers, and now she had secured the very engagement she had been longing for. what could any reasonable woman possibly desire more? yet for all that she sometimes felt there was something missing in her life. she was too intelligent not to know the degradation of the kind of existence she was leading, and sometimes the realization of it made her utterly miserable. if it were not for the champagne and the hourly excitement which helped her to forget, she sometimes felt she would take her life. in her heart she knew that she did not love will brockton, and she believed him too clever a man to imagine for a moment that she had any real affection for him. they were pals, that was all. he liked her very much--she was sure of that. but it was not love. how could a woman of her character expect to inspire decent love in any man? theirs was a careless, unconventional tie, which could be broken to-morrow. a quarrel, and she would see him no more. she shivered. the mere thought of such a contingency was decidedly unpleasant. it's so easy, she mused, to become accustomed to automobiles, luxurious apartments, fine gowns and the rest, but so hard--oh, so hard!--to learn how to do without them. emptying her glass, she rose from her seat and strolled toward where elfie st. clair was still sitting with the two men. "hello, laura!" cried her friend as she came up. "we saw you from the distance. come and sit down. these gentlemen are friends of mine--mr. warner--mr. madison--miss murdock." the men bowed, while elfie made room for the newcomer. "won't you take something?" asked warner politely. "no, thank you--i've just had a bite." "why did mr. brockton run away?" demanded elfie, unable to restrain her feminine curiosity. his sudden departure was unusual enough to suggest a lover's quarrel. "he had to catch a train--important business in boston," replied laura carelessly. impulsively she burst out: "oh, elfie--what do you think? i got that stock engagement after all. i'm perfectly daffy about it. i play leads in 'camille,' 'mrs. dane's defense,' and such plays as that." "where is it?" demanded elfie. "in denver. don't you remember? i told you i was after it?" "denver? why that's where mr. madison comes from." both girls turned and looked at the big westerner. laura regarded him with more attention. if this man was from denver, he might be useful to her. she was not the kind to neglect anything that was likely to promote her interests. looking him well over, she noted his big, muscular frame, his steel-gray eyes, and determined, prognathous jaw. it was a type of manhood that was new to her. he was decidedly worth cultivating. "you live in denver?" she said, trying on him the effect of her dimpled smile, which was irresistible to most men. he nodded carelessly. "yes--i'm with one of the newspapers there." "oh!" she was glad now that she had come over to elfie's table. decidedly this man would be very useful. it is always a good thing to know journalists. it suggested favorable paragraphs and good notices in the papers. she remembered what a philosophical chorus girl once told her: "rather a good press agent than great talent." forthwith laura exerted herself to be very amiable. she laughed and chatted and when madison, in his turn, ordered a bottle of wine, she graciously allowed him to drink to her success. "but you must help me!" she said coquettishly. "sure!" he answered gayly, half in jest. she inquired about denver, the life there, the theatres, and their audiences. she asked his advice as to the best hotel for her to stop at, questioned him about his own life and work, and sought to flatter him by appearing to take interest in everything he said. the small hours of the morning still found them there. when at last they parted, she said in that arch, captivating way, which none better than she knew how to employ: "we will be good friends, won't we?" "you bet we will!" was his laconic, careless rejoinder. chapter iii. denver, colorado, june , --. dear will: i've made good all right. the management is delighted and already wants me to sign for next year. my notices are wonderful. they say i'm great. i enclose some of the newspaper dope. it's been awful fun. you should have seen me as the tuberculous camille, expiring to slow music in armand's arms. it was a scream. i had to bite the property bedclothes to keep from exploding outright. but the scene went fine. people sobbed all over the house. denver's a peach of a place. fancy--i found a big "welcome" arch up--no doubt in honor of my arrival--and it's been up ever since. seriously, i'm a big social success--invited everywhere--tea parties, church gatherings and other choice functions. can you imagine yours truly, demure and penitent, taking part in bazaars, solemnly presided over by elderly spinsters in spectacles? you ask why i don't write more regularly. my dear boy--if you only knew how busy i am, what with rehearsals, social duties and so forth! what nonsense to imagine for a moment that it was because my time was taken up by some other man. you must think i'm foolish. no, no, dear--not quite so dippy as that. no other charmer for mine while my will is good to me. write soon to your own laura. p.s.--how's dear old broadway these days? if you see elfie, tell her to write. colorado, land of enchantment, possesses at least one distinct advantage over other states of the union. apart from the rugged grandeur of its scenery, its lofty, awe-inspiring peaks and stupendous cañons, the climate is perhaps without its equal in the world. denver, particularly, is richly favored in this respect. situated near the foothills of the rockies, on a high, broad plateau, sheltered by the majestic mountains from the fierce storms and blizzards that sweep the plains, the winters are delightfully mild and salubrious. owing to the great altitude the atmosphere is pure and dry and in the hot months the breezes which blow almost continuously from the snow-capped heights of pike's peak, make the air deliciously cool, with a temperature rarely rising above the eighties. for this reason denver is almost as popular a summer resort with those who live in the middle west, as colorado springs, manitou, and other fashionable places. nor does this picturesque mountain capital with its , population, lack in up-to-date comforts and amusements. it has beautiful homes, fine hotels, good theatres. its people are cultured and discriminating. they hear the best music and see the latest comedies. in the winter, paderewski plays for them; sembrich sings for them; mrs. fiske and maude adams act for them. in the summer they applaud at an open air theatre pleasantly set among the shady trees, the latest broadway successes performed by a stock company especially engaged in new york. it was as leading lady of this organization that laura murdock made her début in denver. as already intimated, mr. brockton's protégée was not a good actress; she was not even a competent actress. deficient in mentality, lacking any real culture, she failed utterly to rise to the opportunity offered by the rôles with which she was entrusted. fortunately for her, summer audiences are not highly critical. her youth and beauty pleased, and the local reviewers, susceptible like ordinary mortals to the charms of a pretty woman, were unusually indulgent. some of them paid doubtful compliments, but what they said of her acting sounded good to laura, who eagerly cut out the notices and mailed them to brockton. so far her summer season had been a decided success. she liked denver and denver liked her. this she considered most fortunate, for it suited her purpose to make such a hit of this engagement that the echo of it would reach as far east as broadway. it would give her better standing with the theatre managers in new york and put a quietus for good on comment in unfriendly quarters. a clever tactician with an eye always open to the main chance, she exerted herself to the utmost to make friends and neglected no opportunity to advance her interests. she attended church regularly and made liberal donations to the local charities. when entertainments were organized on behalf of the poor, she volunteered her services, which were gratefully accepted. thus her local popularity grew and was firmly and quickly established. the papers spoke eulogistically of her goodness of heart, interviewed her on every possible pretext and published portraits of her by the score. society soon followed suit. the best people of the town took her up and the women gushed over her. she was such a young little thing, they said, so ingenuous and interesting, so refined, so different from most actresses. sorry that she should be all alone in a strange place, exposed to the temptations of a big city, they took her under their wing, and invited her to their homes. one lady, particularly, was most cordial in her invitation. her name was mrs. williams, and laura met her at a church picnic. the wife of a millionaire cattle king, she owned a handsome house in denver and a beautiful country home near colorado springs. mrs. williams took a great fancy to the demure young actress and declined to say good-bye in denver until laura had promised to go and spend a week with her at her country ranch. "it's a lovely spot, dear," she said. "i'm sure you'll enjoy yourself. my house is perched up on the side of ute pass, and overlooks the whole colorado canon, two thousand feet below. it is a wonderful spectacle. you must come. i won't take a refusal." laura promised, willing enough. she would be glad of the rest after her weeks of hard work. of john madison she had seen a great deal. following her old tactics, she had started out to fascinate the tall newspaper man, expecting to find him an easy victim. for once, however, she found that she had met her match. directly she arrived in denver she sent him her card, and he called at the hotel, his manner courteous, but distinctly cold. he had not forgotten, however, the promise made in new york, and he offered to give her such help as he could. aware of his close connection with the local newspapers, she was glad to accept his offer to act as her press representative. she even offered to pay him, but he flatly declined, and the covert smile that accompanied the refusal made her angry. "why do you refuse?" she demanded. "are you so rich?" "i'm dead broke," he answered dryly. "but you see, i'm a queer fellow--there are certain things i can't do--one of them is to take money from a woman." on another occasion, when she went a little out of her way to show him attention he said, with brutal candor: "don't waste your time on me. i'm only a poor devil of a newspaper man. there are plenty of fatter fowl to pluck. denver's full of softheads with money to burn." she hated him for that speech. his careless words and disdainful attitude cut her sensitive nature to the quick. evidently he despised her. yet for all that, he did not neglect her interests. for two weeks after her arrival and previous to her début, she was the most written about person in town. the papers were full of her. it was invaluable advertising and she tried to show her appreciation in other ways, inviting him to dinner, and sending him little presents. but still he held aloof, letting her understand plainly that he knew her record and was not to be hoodwinked or inveigled. the truth was, that women of her class did not interest him. indeed, they filled him with aversion, yet he pitied rather than condemned them. "one never knows," he used to say when the question came up with his men friends, "what kind of a life they were up against, or to what temptations they were subjected. the most virtuous woman alive could not swear exactly what she would do if confronted with certain conditions." this was a pet theory of his, and it made him more charitable than others. meantime, he was studying laura at close range. he found that she was weak rather than really vicious. there was much of the spoiled child in her make-up. her bringing up had been bad. in different environments she might have been entirely different. there was much in her that attracted him. he liked her merry disposition, her girlish ingenuousness. such a naïve nature, he argued, could not be wholly depraved. he frankly enjoyed her society, and it was not long before he let down the barriers of his reserve. laura was quick to notice the change, and she would have belied her sex if it had not given her pleasure. madison interested her; he was refreshingly different from all the men she had ever met. she wondered what his life was. at every opportunity she encouraged him to speak of himself. "do you like this newspaper work?" she demanded, one day. he shook his head. "no; there is nothing in it," he answered. "when a big story breaks loose--a strike or a murder, or a bank robbery--one likes the excitement, but when things quiet down the dull routine palls on you. i won't stay in it." "then what will you do?" "hike it up to the northwest--and dig for gold," he replied. confidentially he went on: "i have the chance of a quarter interest in a mine up there. if i strike luck, i'll be richer than croesus." "and then?" she smiled. "then i'll come back and marry you!" he said laughingly. it was said lightly, but like many words uttered in jest, it sounded as if there might be some truth back of it. both grew silent and the subject was quickly changed. while mortified at her discomfiture, laura thought more of the big fellow for his attitude of utter indifference. she had been so pampered and courted all her life that it was a novelty to find that she made absolutely no impression on this one man. her respect for him grew in consequence. gradually, he, too, seemed to take more pleasure in her society. he called more frequently and became more friendly. he was still on his guard, as if he still distrusted her--or perhaps himself--but he did not avoid her any longer. the theatre naturally took up most of her time. when not acting, she was rehearsing new rôles. it was interesting work, and she felt it was valuable experience. madison declared she had improved wonderfully, and, in his enthusiasm, wrote eulogistic articles about her in the papers that were copied far and wide. indeed, she could thank him for all the success she had had. he was at the theatre every night, watching her from the front, taking the liveliest interest in her success, and promoting it in every possible way. a critic who ventured to find fault he threatened to horsewhip; he put her portrait in the papers and printed interesting stories concerning her that had only his imagination for foundation. he transacted business for her with the local manager, and acted in her behalf in all the necessary negotiations with the church bazaar committees. before very long they were the best of friends. laura found him not only useful, but a delightful companion. what time could be spent from rehearsals, she spent with him. in the familiar, intimate, theatrical style, they already called each other by their first names. they went out horseback riding together, and he took her for long automobile trips, showing her many of the wonderful places with which colorado abounds. they played golf at broadmoor, and fished black-spotted trout in south platte river. they drank health-giving waters at great spirit springs, and viewed the reconstructed ruins of the prehistoric cliff-dwellers at manitou. they traveled on the cog railroad to the dizzy summit of pike's peak, and visited the busy gold-mining camp at cripple creek. here madison was on familiar ground. he showed his companion the manner in which man wrests the coveted treasure from nature, the whole process of mining, the powerful electric drills, the ponderous machinery, the ore deposits in the hard granite. he pointed out the miners' cabins on the mountainsides, replicas of the rough log huts in alaska in which he, himself, had lived. it was all very interesting and so novel that for the first time in her life laura felt the delightful sensation of seeing something new. time had no longer any significance to her. the days and weeks sped by so pleasantly that she gave no thought to returning east. sometimes she even forgot to write her weekly letter to mr. brockton. she marveled herself that she could be so happy and contented far away from the alluring glitter of the great white way. then all at once the truth dawned upon her, and the revelation came with the suddenness and force of an unexpected blow. she was in love with this man. all these weeks, unknown to herself, quite unconsciously, she had been slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love. the man she left behind in new york, the man to whom she owed everything, did not exist any more. john madison was the man she loved. at first she tried to laugh it off as being too absurd. she, laura murdock, with her ripe experience of the world and many adventures with men--to fall in love like a silly, sentimental schoolgirl! it was too ridiculous. how the rialto would laugh if they knew. of course, they never would know, for there was nothing in it. the westerner probably did not care two straws for her. he liked her, of course, or he would not bother to waste his time with her, but, no doubt, he thought of her only as a friend, a lively companion who kept him amused. no doubt, too, he knew her record and secretly despised her. even if he did not care for her and told her so--even if he were willing to marry her, what then? she would be a fool to listen to him. what kind of a life could he, a penniless scribbler, give her compared with the comforts and gifts which willard brockton was able to shower upon her? above all else, laura had sought to be practical in life. she often declared that it was one of the secrets of her success. it was late in the day, therefore, to make a mistake of which only an unsophisticated beginner could be guilty. yet, much as she tried to laugh it off and reassure herself, the matter worried her. when, mentally, she compared the two men, the advantage invariably remained with the younger. john was nearer her own age, they had in common many tastes and interests which the broker cared nothing about, and she felt more exuberant, more youthful, in the newspaper man's society. brockton, she could not help remembering, was more than double her age. it would be unnatural if she had not found the younger man more congenial. in her heart she felt that brockton, with all his money, had no real hold upon her, and that if john really did care for her and asked her to marry him, she would be face to face with the hardest question for which she had ever had to find an answer. chapter iv. early one morning john came to the hotel to take laura for a prearranged excursion. temporarily out of the bill at the theatre, and a long holiday being hers to enjoy, she had suggested a little trip to manitou to see the far-famed garden of the gods, a place of scenic marvels, where, by a strange freak of nature, great rocks and boulders, fantastic in shape and coloring, are thrown together in all kinds of curious formations. the plan was to go by train as far as colorado springs, and then finish the journey by automobile. they started gleefully, by rail, and were soon spinning across the verdant plains in the direction of pike's peak, the snow-capped peak of which rose majestically in the distance. the day was beautiful, and both being in good spirits, they enjoyed to the full the fresh, invigorating air. on reaching colorado springs, they partook of an appetizing luncheon, served merrily under the trees. she laughed and chattered and discussed plans for the future, while john, strangely silent, just looked at her, quietly enjoying her spontaneous gayety, surprised himself at the keen interest he was taking in her society. and the more he watched her laughing eyes and dimpled smiles, the more he realized the loneliness, the solitude of his own empty, aimless life. the summer would soon be at an end. the past few weeks had sped by all too quickly for him, and in the interval this girl, with her vivacious manner and laughing eyes, had strangely grown upon him. what would he do when she was gone? when the meal was finished, he went in search of a machine. an expert chauffeur himself, they could manage the car without aid, and soon they were running smoothly and rapidly along the mountain roads. laura chatted continuously while john kept a watchful eye in front. as they flew along under the murmuring pines, he pointed out the various places of interest. the machine was running fast, with the going none too smooth, when, all at once, while making a sharp turn, the wheels skidded, and they were almost ditched. laura gave a little scream, and, instinctively, grasped her companion's arm. he laughed to reassure her, and, giving the wheel a vigorous twist, the car was again under control and once more on its way. laura had always felt nervous in automobiles, even in new york, where she was accustomed to go at a much slower pace. but to-day, in spite of the mishap they had just escaped, she had no fear. she knew that john was a splendid driver, watchful, resourceful, careful. with his immense strength and skill, the machine seemed but a toy in his hands. she watched him furtively, admiring him. this was no city roué, his constitution undermined by dissipation. he was good to look at, wholesome, frank, virile. perhaps if she had met him earlier, her life might have been very different. she might have been a respectable woman. she could have loved such a man as this. she did love him--she was sure of it now. there was no mistaking the feeling he inspired in her. once, he chanced to glance down, and caught her looking intently at him. "what's the matter?" he smiled. "nothing," she answered gravely. soon they reached their destination. the automobile came to a stop, and, getting down, she took his arm, and together they approached the imposing gateway of the far-famed garden of the gods. when she passed through the red perpendicular portals of the place, laura was filled with awe. it was the first time she had beheld this unique and beautiful demonstration of nature, and she could not repress her enthusiasm. in the wildest flights of her imagination, she had never pictured such a scene as the one now presented to her eyes. it was as if she had been suddenly transported to fairyland, and was treading among the colossal habitations of giants. on all sides were stupendous masses of rock, huge boulders of all colors--white, yellow and red--most fantastically shaped. there were lofty towers, strange, wind-wrought obelisks, pointed pinnacles, bizarre in shape as one sees in nightmares. it reminded her of the settings of wagner's music dramas and the weird pictures of gustave doré. she admired the graces, lofty fragments of strata shaped like obelisks. then there was the cradle, a huge rock so nicely balanced that it seemed as if a child's touch could send it crashing from its pedestal, yet probably it had stood there since creation day. other rocks, strangely colored, were standing on end in all kinds of extravagant postures. some were shaped like fierce animals; others resembled faces, houses, men. it seemed like a vision of another world, a glimpse of some vanished people, a race of titanic beings who had suddenly been petrified into stone. the place was deserted. there was no one there but themselves. a sepulchral silence hung heavy over everything. it was as mournful and awe-inspiring as a city of the dead. by the time they had seen all the wonders of the garden the sun was low on the horizon. a glorious crimson glow shot up out of the west, and, flooding the heavens, tinged each surrounding object with rich color. tired after the day's adventures, they sat on a bench at the base of a tall stone pillar, which, in the growing dark, seemed like a colossal sentinel standing guard in a camp of giants. madison was very silent. deep in his own thoughts, he paid little attention to his companion. "how quiet it is!" murmured laura, almost to herself, as she contrasted the heavy stillness of the place with the roar and excitement of broadway. "how lonely!" added madison. bitterly he exclaimed: "it reminds me of my own life." quickly she looked up at him. it was unusual for him to speak of himself. "are you lonely?" she demanded. he nodded. "often." she looked puzzled, not understanding. "why are you lonely? you are young and strong and clever. the world is before you----" he remained silent for a moment, without replying. in the uncertain light of the late afternoon, she could see that his eyes were fixed steadily on her. in them was a look that every woman understands, be she pure or impure. then slowly, his deep, bass voice beautifully modulated, he said gravely: "i am lonely because i am alone. all these years, ever since i was a boy, i have spent my life alone. i have had many so-called friends--yes; but even friends do not satisfy the longing to have some one still nearer and dearer, some one to whom you can turn in trouble, some one who will be always there to share in your joys. work--yes, i can work, but why should i strive and toil? for myself? bah--i'm sick of it all. to live alone, as i do, is not worth the effort it costs. sometimes i think i'd just as soon blow out my brains as not. what's the use of straining every nerve and sweating blood to make a success in life if there's no one to share success with when it comes?" she understood. a thrill ran through her entire being. her heart throbbed violently and her lips trembled as she said gently: "why don't you marry? any girl would consider herself fortunate if she could go through life with such a man as you." suddenly she winced. his big, muscular hand had caught hers and was holding it firmly in an steel-like grip. bending over so close that she felt his warm breath on her cheek, he said hoarsely: "do you mean that? would you give up all that you have now--to marry me?" something rose up in her throat and choked her. her heart beat furiously as though it would burst. what she had foreseen and dreaded was upon her. "i?" she gasped in unaffected surprise. "yes, you," he said fiercely. "you must have seen what has been in my heart for days--that i care for you. the first moment i set eyes on you i knew that you were just the kind of girl i wanted for a wife. at first i was afraid of you. i had heard things about you--gossip and all that. you came here. we were thrown together. i still mistrusted you, but i watched you, and saw you weren't as bad as i'd been led to believe. i guess people have lied about you. what do i care what they say? you're good enough for me. i soon found out that i loved you. i'm a man of very few words. i'm not an adept at pretty speeches. tell me--will you marry me?" she made no reply. it was now almost dark, and he could not see her face plainly. hoarsely he repeated: "did you hear me? i want you to marry me." she shook her head. "it's impossible," she murmured. "it's impossible." "you don't care for me--i've made a fool of myself. is that it?" she laid her gloved hand gently on his hand. "i do care for you." "then why is it impossible?" he demanded fiercely. he put his arm around her and tried to draw her to him. quietly, but firmly, she disengaged herself, and it was with some show of dignity that she replied: "because i care for you--just because of that." "you are not free?" he demanded. she hesitated. "it is not that--there is another reason." "what is it?" at first she was tempted to deceive him and keep up for his benefit her masterful assumption of innocence. but what was the good? he would soon know her real record, if he did not already know it. kind friends would soon enlighten him, and then he would despise her the more. a man of such broad experience was not to be hoodwinked so easily. no, it was folly to beat about the bush. at one time she might have seized the happiness he held out to her, but now it was too late. "what is it?" he persisted. "do you mean that man brockton? is he the obstacle?" "he is one of them," she answered firmly. she was astonished at her own self-possession, but there was a quiver in her voice as she went on: "my life has been different to what you perhaps think. i am not altogether to blame, although i have no excuses to offer. you understand now?" she half expected an explosion of wrath, but none came. instead, he said calmly: "i know all about your past life. i've known everything from the first: how you went to san francisco as a kid and got into the show business, and how you went wrong, and then how you married--still a kid--and how your husband didn't treat you exactly right, and then how, in a fit of frenzied drunkenness he came home and shot himself." the girl leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. a low moan escaped her lips. madison touched her gently on the shoulder. "but that's all past now," he went on. "we can forget that. i know how you were up against it, after that; how hard it was for you to get along. then, finally, how you've lived, and--and that you and that man brockton have been--well--never mind. i know all this, and still i ask you to marry me. what is past makes no difference. i don't care what you have been but only what you are. if you think you care enough for me to leave this man and begin life anew with me, i'll marry you. i may not be able to give you all the luxuries his money provided, but at least, as my wife, you'll be able to lift your head up in the world. i don't profess to be a saint myself. i'm no better and no worse than the next man, and i'm not unreasonable enough to expect too much in a woman who has had to make her own way in the world--especially on the stage. there's some good in you, yet, laura; i believe in you. something tells me that you'll make good if only given half a chance, and that chance i hold out to you now. break away from this rotten life you've been leading. it can end only in one way. you're young now, and you're beautiful, and it doesn't seem to matter, but some day your youth and beauty will be gone, and what then? quit now, while there's still time. be my wife. i'll work hard for you, and, with god's help and you to inspire me, i'll get there!" she listened in silence. his melodious, earnest voice sounded like sacred music in her ears. it was a glimpse of heaven that he gave her, a promise of redemption and regeneration, yet her heart told her that it was impossible. if she consented, what would the outcome be? one day, sooner or later, he would regret having married her and would taunt her with her past. they would not be able to take a step in new york but some one would point derisively at her. "it's impossible," she murmured weakly. "why?" he persisted. "give me time to consider," she pleaded. "i'll give you until to-morrow." with that, he released her, and went to light the lamps of the automobile. it was now quite dark, and it required skilful manoeuvring to find the right road. the return home was silent; each was engrossed in thought. at the door of the hotel he merely pressed her hand. "to-morrow," he whispered. all night long she tossed feverishly. sleep was out of the question. in a few hours she must decide what her future life would be--the petted, pampered mistress of willard brockton, wealthy member of the new york stock exchange, or the wife of john madison, an interesting but impecunious newspaper reporter. if she married this man, it meant that she must relinquish immediately everything she loved--her sumptuous apartment on riverside drive, her automobile, her beautiful gowns, and gay little midnight champagne suppers in good company. her life henceforth would be dreadfully prosaic and commonplace. she would be comparatively poor, perhaps in actual want. even if she remained on the stage, she could not hope to secure good parts. probably she would not be able to dress even decently; no one would look at her; she would have to darn stockings and be content with one hat a season--all this was a picture depressing and discouraging enough to one who had been accustomed to all the luxuries money can buy. on the other hand there would be compensatory advantages not to be ignored. as john madison's legitimate wife, she could once more take her place in the world as a virtuous woman. she could again lift up her head and look decent people honestly in the face. she would be the lawful wife, entitled to regard, not the despised paramour, a plaything to be discarded and thrown aside at a man's whim. once more she would be able to feel respect for herself. at heart laura was not a bad girl. she was weak and luxury loving, and, when tempted, had been unable to resist entering into a style of living which suited her own peculiar tastes. she had paid the price with a light heart, but as she grew older she was becoming wiser. she realized what an awful price she was paying for her fun. she knew that, with the sacrifice of her chastity, she had surrendered everything a self-respecting woman holds dear, all for what--a few glittering trinkets! in what was she better than a common wanton? and what would her end be, but the end of all women of her kind? when her youth had passed and her beauty had faded, her admirers would grow cold and indifferent. abandoned by all, friendless and homeless, she would go unwept to an early grave. the thought was one to fill her with horror. why not try to save herself now, while there was yet time? she still had a chance. a drowning man will grasp even at a straw. she was not irretrievably lost. the devil might still be cheated of a victim. this man believed in her; he offered to make her his honored wife. he forgave the past and held out a generous hand to save her. a revulsion of feeling suddenly shook the girl to the innermost recesses of her being. burying her face in her pillow, she burst into a flood of tears. for the first time in her life, her better instincts were awakened. she would show the world that it had misjudged her, that she was not as bad as she seemed. her future life, her future conduct should redeem all that had gone before. perhaps the almighty would be merciful and hold out a forgiving hand. she might still be a happy, decent woman. with a prayer on her lips, she dropped down on her knees. the following-day this telegram flashed over the wires to new york: "theatre closes next saturday night. you needn't come for me. am invited to spend a week with a lady at colorado spring's. will return to new york alone. laura." a few hours later this message was received in reply: "am compelled to go to kansas city on business, so will pick you up anyhow. leave address at denver hotel. will." chapter v. mrs. williams' ranch house at colorado springs was universally admitted to be a show place even among the many magnificent summer residences with which this fashionable resort is dotted. perched high on the side of the famous ute pass, a wildly picturesque spot, so called because the ute indians used it as a favorite trail across the mountains, and commanding an unobstructed view of the beautiful valley below, it was a conspicuous land-mark for miles. the house, unusually pretentious for a country home, and built of reddish rough stone in the greek style of architecture, was two stories high, with a square turret on one side and a low, broad roof overhanging a stone terrace. massive stone benches, also of greek design, and strewn with cushions, were placed here and there, while over the western terrace, shading it from the afternoon sun, was suspended a canopy made from a navajo blanket. the well-kept grounds, with trailing vines around the balustrades, groups of marble statuary, a fountain of a marble venus gracefully splashing water into a wide basin in which floated large, white lilies, privet hedges, artistically clipped to represent all kinds of fantastic figures, rattan lounging chairs, and tables with the leading papers and magazines--all suggested a home of culture and wealth. so close was the house to the edge of the declivity that at one end the terrace actually overlooked the cañon, a sheer drop of , feet, while across the yawning chasm, one could see the rolling foothills and lofty heights of the rockies, with pike's peak in the distance, snow-capped and colossal. for more than a week laura had been mrs. williams' guest. the rich society woman had taken a great liking to the young actress, and would not hear of her departure. an inveterate bridge player, she insisted on laura staying, if only to learn the game. so, partly because she was unwilling to give offense, partly because she was comfortable and happy there, and at the same time near the man she loved, she had consented to remain a little longer. but only for a few days, she insisted. autumn was already at hand. there was no time to lose. she realized that if she wanted to find a good engagement for the coming season she must return to new york at once, for, from now on, there would be no influence to aid her. to secure future engagements she must rely on her own efforts alone. she did not regret the step she had taken. on the contrary, for the first time in her life, she felt perfectly happy and carefree. when, the day following their excursion to the garden of the gods, he had come to the hotel for her answer, there was very little said. her eyes spoke to him, and he understood. "very well, john," she said simply. he turned very pale, and, drawing her to him, kissed her solemnly. "it's until death, little one!" "until death!" she repeated gravely. then they both sat down together and enthusiastically began to make plans for the future. it was not without due premeditation that madison had entered into this affair. he was not the kind of man to undertake anything lightly. everything he had done in his life had been long and well thought out. he liked this girl and he wanted her for his wife. both her beauty and her personality pleased him. he knew that she was not the kind of woman to whom men usually give their names, but he had never been conventional. he ridiculed and scoffed at the conventions. he made his own social laws and cared not a rap for the good or bad opinion of the world. if there had been opportunities to meet decent women, of good social standing, he had always thrown them aside with the exclamation that such women bored him to death, and in all his relations with the opposite sex there had never entered into his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until now. he fell, for a moment only, under the spell of laura's fascination, and then, drawing aloof, with cold logic he analyzed her and found out that while outwardly she had every sign of girlhood ingenuousness, sweetness of character and possibility of affection, spiritually and mentally she was nothing more than a moral wreck. at the beginning of their acquaintance he had watched with covert amusement her efforts to win him, and he had likewise noted her disappointment at her failure--not, he believed, that she cared so much for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity not to be successful with this big, good-natured, penniless bohemian, when men of wealth and position she made kneel at her feet. from afar he had watched her slowly changing point of view, how from an artificial ingenuousness she became serious, womanly, sincere. he knew that he had awakened in her her first decent affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him his first desire to accomplish things and be big and worth while. so, together, these two began to drift toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent thought and decent love, until at last they had both found themselves, acknowledged all the badness of what had been, and planned for all the goodness of what was to be. laura's immediate task, and assuredly it was both a difficult and unpleasant one, was to acquaint will brockton with her determination. that the news would astonish him, was certain. she also thought that he would be sorry. in his indifferent, selfish way, she believed that he cared for her--perhaps more than for any of the other women he had known. she knew him too well to believe that he would make a scene. he was too much the gentleman and man of the world for that. he would accept the situation philosophically. besides, any opposition on his part would be in direct violation of their agreement, that it was her privilege to quit whensoever she might choose. she was considerably put out at first when she received his telegram telling her that he was coming to denver to fetch her back, and her first impulse was to send a wire to stop him. she thought she would prefer to wait and tell him in new york. but, on consideration, she did nothing of the kind. perhaps it were better to have it over with at once. why make a mystery of it? there was nothing to conceal. the sooner every one knew it the better. he had reached denver that morning, and, finding she had already left colorado springs, followed here there post haste. he arrived at mr. williams' villa, _débonnair_ and immaculate, as usual, and in the kindly paternal manner characteristic of him, he saluted laura with a chaste kiss. "why, kid, how well you look!" he exclaimed heartily. laura was looking her best that morning. she had not expected brockton so soon. indeed, she had dressed to please john, who came to see her every afternoon. her gown, made of summery, filmy stuff, was simple, girlish and attractive. her hair, arranged in the simplest fashion, was parted in the center. there was about her that sweetness and girlishness of demeanor which had been her greatest asset through life. embarrassed, and temporarily at a loss how to account to her hostess for the broker's presence and evident intimacy, the young girl introduced him as--her uncle. it was not the first white fib she had told in her life, and it was one of the least harmful. with ready tact, she quickly added that mr. brockton was a skilful bridge player. this was enough to insure his welcome. mrs. williams, impressed with the visitor's talents and aristocratic appearance insisted on his staying to dinner, which cordial invitation he politely accepted. diplomatically, he burst into extravagant raptures over the beauty of the view. "what a magnificent panorama! this is worth coming a thousand miles to see." visibly pleased, mrs. williams smiled: "i hope you will afford me the privilege of entertaining you a few days. we could show you views still more beautiful." brockton bowed. "you are very kind, madame. i regret exceedingly that business calls me immediately back to new york." "but not before you've shown us your skill at bridge," she laughed. "we're having a game inside now. i'll be pleased to have you join us." "i shall be delighted," he bowed. the old lady reentered the house to join her friends, and he turned quickly to laura: "when can you get ready?" she made no answer. apparently she had not heard. sitting at the end of the terrace, she leaned over the balustrade of the porch, looking intently into the cañon below, as if expecting to see some one, her eyes shielded with her hands from the hot afternoon sun. approaching her, brockton repeated the question. "when can you get ready?" she started as if suddenly surprised in some secret reverie. "ready? what for?" "why--to go back to new york, of course." "new york?" she echoed. "yes," he said mockingly, "new york. why, laura, what's the matter? you seem dazed. didn't you ever hear of a little old place called new york?" she laughed nervously. "don't be silly." passing her hand over her forehead, she said: "i'm a little stupid to-day--i think it's the sun." at that moment a maid servant approached the broker. "mrs. williams wishes me to show you to your room, sir," she said. "all right," replied brockton, turning to follow her. to laura, he said: "i'll go and brush up. wait for me here. i'll be back in a minute." laura sat motionless, watching the winding road, which, like a long, undulating ribbon, led up the declivity out of the valley. straining her eyes, she tried to make out the little cloud of dust that would warn her of john's approach. she wondered what detained him. he said he would come at four o'clock, and now it was nearly five. yet, perhaps, it was just as well. it would hardly do for the men to meet until she had had her talk with will. the critical moment had come. she must tell brockton everything. nothing must be held back. he must be told that she had finished with him forever. in a few minutes brockton reappeared, smoking a cigar. clean-shaven and comfortable in a tuxedo coat, he had the air of a man at peace with himself and the whole world. laura was still sitting where he had left her. with her head resting on one hand in a meditative manner, she was so intently watching the road that she did not look up as he approached. he watched her for a moment without speaking. then slowly removing his cigar from his mouth, he asked laconically: "blue?" she shook her head. "no." "what's up?" "nothing." "a little preoccupied?" "perhaps." still she did not turn her head, yet her heart was beating fast. this was her opportunity. he looked in the same direction she was looking. "what's up that way?" he demanded. "which way?" "the way you are looking." "that's the road from manitou springs. they call it the trail out here." brockton nodded. "i know that. i've done a lot of business west of the missouri." the girl gave a half-yawn of indifference. "i didn't know it," she said. "oh, yes," he went on; "south of here, in the san juan country. spent a couple of years there once." "that's interesting," replied laura, with another yawn, and still not turning her head. with a chuckle of self-satisfaction, he went on: "it was then that i made some money there. it's always interesting when you make money. still----" "still what?" she asked absent-mindedly. he looked at her, as if surprised at her manner. somewhat impatiently he said: "i can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road. some one coming?" "yes." "one of mrs. williams' friends, eh?" crossing to the other side of the terrace, he seated himself in one of the comfortable lounging chairs. "yes," answered the girl. "yours, too?" he asked dryly. "yes." "man?" "yes, a _real_ man." there was no mistaking the significance of these last words, which she uttered with strong emphasis, as if they came right from the heart. the broker sat up with a start. at first he was too surprised to speak, but quickly he regained his composure, and gave vent to a long, low whistle, which was inaudible to his companion. carelessly throwing his cigar over the balustrade, he rose from his seat, and stood leaning on another chair a short distance away. laura, meantime, had not moved, except to place her left hand on a cushion and lean her head wearily against it. she still sat motionless, her gaze steadfastly fixed on the road in the pass. brockton broke the rather awkward silence. "a _real_ man?" he echoed. "by that you mean----" "just that," she said testily, "a real man." he gave an imperceptible shrug with his shoulders, and his tone was tinged with irony as he inquired with forced mildness: "any different--from the _many_ you have known?" "yes," she retorted; "from _all_ i have known." he laughed derisively. "so that's why you didn't come into denver to meet me to-day, but left word for me to come out here?" "yes." "i thought i was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half-way across the continent in order to keep you company on your way back to new york, and welcome you to our home, but maybe i had the wrong idea." she nodded, and almost mockingly replied: "yes, i think you had the wrong idea." "in love, eh?" he chuckled. "yes," she answered firmly. "just that--in love." he smiled grimly. "a new sensation?" "no," she retorted quick as a flash, "the first conviction." he left the seat on which he was leaning, and approached nearer to where she still sat crouched. "you have had that idea before," he said ironically. "every woman's love is the real one when it comes. do you make a distinction in this case, young lady?" "yes," she answered. "for instance, what?" she rose to her feet, and, going to a chair, sat carelessly on one of the arms, drawing imaginary lines on the ground with her parasol. he could see that she was highly nervous and trying hard to control herself. quickly she said: "this man is poor--absolutely broke. he hasn't even got a good job. you know, will--all the rest, including yourself, generally had some material inducement----" the broker gave a snort of impatience, and, going to the table, picked up a magazine, and made a pretense of becoming deeply interested in its contents. but his fit of sulks did not last long. looking up, he growled: "what's his business?" "he's a newspaper man." "h'm-m! romance, eh?" "yes, if you want to call it that--romance." "do i know him?" she shook her head and smiled. "i hardly think so. he has been to new york only once or twice in his life, and he's not the kind of man one usually finds in your set." brockton sat looking at her with an amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression on his face. in contrast with his big, bluff physical personality, his iron-gray hair and bull-dog expression laura appeared more youthful and girlish than ever. a stranger catching a glimpse of the terrace might have taken them for father and daughter engaged in an intimate chat. "how old is he?" he demanded. "thirty." instantly she added: "you are forty-five." "no," he corrected dryly; "forty-six." laura laughed. she saw that his good-humor had returned. at least there was no immediate danger of his doing anything desperate. the nervous tension was over for the time being. rising and going near to him, she asked archly: "shall i tell you about him, eh?" the broker looked serious. "that depends." "on what?" "yourself." "in what way?" she demanded. he hesitated and looked at her for a moment in silence before he replied: "if it will interfere with the plans i have made for you and myself." the girl turned her head. coldly, she said: "have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you?" lighting another cigar, he said with assumed nonchalance: "why, yes. i have given up the lease of your apartment on west end avenue and bought a house on riverside drive. i thought you would like it better. everything will be quiet and nice. it'll be more comfortable for you. there's a stable nearby. your horses and car can be kept there. i'm going to put the house in your name. that way you'll be your own mistress. besides, i've fixed you up for a new part." [illustration: "i've bought a house for you on riverside drive." _page ._] chapter vi. laura gasped, and opened wide her eyes. a house of her own on riverside drive! she had always wished for that; it had been the dream of her life. why--it meant that independence, wealth were already hers! she need have no more gnawing anxiety about the future. the price? well, had she not paid it already? perhaps she had been foolish. the world is hard--one never gets the credit for trying to be decent. who would care? yes--one would. she saw a pair of honest gray eyes seeking hers and questioning her, demanding if she had been true to their oath--"until death!" "a new part!" she faltered. "what kind of a part?" a covert smile played about the broker's lips. he had noted her hesitation, and well he knew the weight of his words. he had not studied women all these years for nothing. carelessly he went on: "one of charlie burgess's shows, translated from some french fellow. it's been running over in paris, berlin, vienna, and all those places for a year or more, and appears to be a tremendous hit. it's a big production, and it's going to cost a lot of money to do it here. i told charlie he could put me down for a half-interest and i'd give all the money, provided that you got an important rôle. great part, i'm told--just the kind of thing you've been looking for. looks as if it might stay in new york all season. that's the change of plan. how does it strike you?" laura averted her face and made no reply. going to the edge of the terrace, she leaned against the balustrade, and gazed once more into the depths below. the sun had already begun to set behind the distant mountain-tops, and the cañon was beautiful in its tints of purple and amber. "how does it strike you?" he repeated. "i don't know," she replied without turning her head. he rose from his seat and strolled towards her. the good-humor had faded out of his face. the lines about his mouth were more tightly drawn. it was evident that his patience was exhausted and that he was becoming angry. but brockton never made a scene. no matter how incensed he might be, he never lost his _sang froid_ or forgot his manners. quietly he asked: "feel like quitting?" "i can't tell," she replied in the same indifferent tone. "so it's the newspaper man, eh?" "that would be the only reason." turning quickly, he placed himself in a position so that he faced her. looking her steadily in the eyes, he said slowly: "you've been on the square with me this summer, haven't you?" she instantly noted the change in his tone. her face grew a shade paler, but she looked up at him without flinching. quickly she said: "what do you mean by 'on the square'?" "don't evade," he exclaimed, slightly raising his voice. "there's only one meaning when i say that--and you know it. i'm pretty liberal, laura, but you understand where i draw the line----" sternly and more slowly he added: "you've not jumped that, have you?" the girl tossed her head haughtily. there are some questions no one may ask or answer. she looked him straight in the face. he could read nothing there. quietly she said: "this has been such a wonderful summer, such a wonderfully different summer." it was her turn to be ironical when she added: "can you understand what i mean by that, when i say 'a wonderfully different summer'?" the broker smiled in spite of himself. "so--he's thirty and 'broke,' and you're twenty-five and pretty. he evidently, being a newspaper man, has that peculiar gift of gab that we call romantic expression. so i guess i'm not blind. you both think you've fallen in love. that it?" "yes," replied the girl gravely. "i think that's about it, only i don't agree with the 'gift of gab' and the 'romantic' end of it. he's a man and i'm a woman, and we've both had our adventures. his are more respectable than mine, that's all." musingly, as if to herself, she added: "i don't think, will, that there can be much of that element which some folk describe as hallucination. we know what we're about." picking up from the table a box of candies which the broker had brought her, she selected one of the sugared delicacies and popped it in her mouth. brockton walked up and down with long, nervous strides. the girl's calmness disconcerted him. with all his experience, he was at a loss how to handle her. perhaps he might try a final shot. "then the riverside drive proposition and burgess's show offer are off, eh?" he said sharply. hesitatingly she answered: "i don't say that." "and if you go back on the overland limited day after to-morrow," he went on bitterly, "you'd just as soon i'd go to-morrow or wait until the day after you leave!" "i didn't say that, either," she replied, replacing the candy box on the table. he stopped short. "what's the game?" he demanded impatiently. "i can't tell you now." "waiting for him to come?" "exactly." "think he's serious, eh?" "i know he is." "marriage?" "possibly." he laughed ironically. "you've tried that once," he said, "and taken the wrong end. are you going to play the same game again?" "yes--but with a different card," she answered. "what's his name?" "madison--john madison." picking up a magazine, she slowly turned the pages. "and his job?" "i told you--a reporter." the broker gave a low and expressive whistle. sarcastically he inquired: "what are you going to live on--extra editions?" "no, we're young, there's plenty of time," she answered calmly. "i can work in the meantime and so can he. with his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible." brockton chuckled to himself. "sounds well--a year off." irritated at his facetious tone and bantering manner, the girl plainly showed her resentment. her face flushed, and, throwing down the magazine, she went towards the door of the house. petulantly she cried: "if i had thought you were going to make fun of me, will, i wouldn't have talked to you at all." quickly he made a step forward and intercepted her. "i don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't exactly pleasant to be dumped with so little ceremony. maybe you have never given me any credit for possessing the slightest feeling, but even i can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market." she stopped and looked at him kindly. her voice was softened as she said: "it isn't easy for me to do this, will. you've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when i went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. you reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little--maybe a lot--but i should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts." the broker turned away, visibly moved. striding up to the edge of the terrace, he stood looking down into the cañon. laura remained where he had left her, looking after him. there followed a long silence, which at length he broke. "i'm not hedging, laura. if that's the way you want it to be, i'll stand by just exactly what i said." turning and looking at her, he went on: "but i'm fond of you, a damned sight fonder than i thought i was, now that i find you slipping away; but if this young fellow is on the square----" she approached him and slipped her hand in his. he went on: "if he's on the square, and has youth and ability, and you've been on the square with him, why, all right. your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, have a good husband, and maybe some day good children, why--i'm not going to stand in the way. only, i don't want you to make any of those mistakes that you made before." "i know," she smiled sadly, "but somehow i feel that this time the real thing has come and with it the real man. i can't tell you, will, how much different it is, but everything i felt before seemed so sort of earthy--and somehow the love that i have for this man is so different. for the first time in my life it's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble. the only other thing i ever had that i cared the least bit about, now that i look back, was your friendship." impulsively throwing her arms around him, she added: "we have been good pals, haven't we?" he smiled as he fondled her. "yes; it's been a mighty good two years for me. i was always proud to take you around, because i think you are one of the prettiest things in new york." playfully, her good spirits once more in the ascendant, she jumped into the armchair with a little girlish laugh. he went on: "you're always jolly and you never complained. you spent a lot of money, but it was a pleasure to see you spend it, and what's more, you never offended me. most women offend men by coming around looking untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow you always knew the value of your beauty and you always dressed up. i always thought that maybe some day the fellow would come along, grab you, and make you happy in a nice way, but i thought that he'd have to have a lot of money. you know, you've lived a rather extravagant life for five years, laura. it won't be an easy job to come down to cases and suffer for the little dainty necessities you've been used to." she sat leaning forward, her chin resting on her hands, a serious, far-away expression on her face. slowly she said: "i've thought all about that, and i think i understand." "you know how it is," he went on. "if you were working without anybody's help, you might have a hard time getting an engagement. as an actress, you're only fair." laura toyed impatiently with her parasol. "you needn't remind me of that," she said testily. "that part of my life is my own. i don't want you to start now and make it harder for me to do the right thing. it isn't fair; it isn't square, and it isn't right. you've got to let me go my own way." putting her hand on the broker's shoulder, she went on: "i'm sorry to leave you, will, in a way, but i want you to know that if i go with john it changes the spelling of the word 'comradeship' into 'love,' and the word 'mistress' into 'wife.' now, please don't talk any more." "just a word," he interrupted. "is it absolutely settled?" "i told you i didn't know exactly what our plans are," she answered impatiently. "i shall know to-day--that's what i'm waiting for. i can't understand why he doesn't come." the broker, whose gaze had been idly sweeping the cañon, suddenly sat up and pointed up the pass. "is that the fellow, coming up here?" he exclaimed. laura rose quickly from her seat, and, running to the balustrade, peered over. "where?" she asked. "up the road there," said brockton, pointing. "don't you see the man on that yellow horse?" she looked a moment, straining her eyes. "yes--that's john!" waving her handkerchief and putting one hand to her mouth, she cried out: "hello!" from the distance came the sound of a man's voice: "hello yourself!" "hurry up, you're late!" cried laura, her face now flushed from pleasure and excitement. "better late than never," came the rejoinder. "hurry up," she repeated. "not with this horse," was the answer. laura turned to brockton, her face beaming. enthusiastically she exclaimed: "now, will, does he look like a yellow reporter?" the broker's face broke into a rather uncomfortable smile. "he _is_ a good-looking chap." the girl leaned far over the balustrade to watch her lover's progress. "oh, he's just simply more than that!" turning quickly to the broker, she asked: "where's mrs. williams?" he pointed indoors. "she was in there playing bridge when i came out." going hurriedly to the door leading into the house, laura called out: "mrs. williams! oh, mrs. williams!" "what is it, my dear?" replied her hostess from within. "mr. madison is coming up the path." "that's good," came the reply. "he's just in time for dinner." "won't you come out and see him?" "no, my child. i'm up to my neck in bridge. i'm six dollars and twenty cents out now, and up against an awful streak of luck." "shall i invite him to dinner?" "yes, do, dear; and tell him to cross his fingers when he thinks of me." the girl ran back to brockton, who was still standing at the edge of the terrace, watching the rider's progress. slipping her hand involuntarily through the broker's arm and looking eagerly with him over the balustrade, she asked with girlish enthusiasm: "do you like him?" "i don't know him," replied brockton with an amused smile. "well, do you think you'll like him?" she persisted. "i hope i'll like him," he answered reservedly. "well, if you hope you'll like him, you ought to think you'll like him. he'll turn the corner of that rock in just a minute, and then you can see him. do you want to see him?" "why, yes--do you?" he replied, amused at her girlish enthusiasm. "do i?" she echoed. "why, i haven't seen him since last night. there he is!" waving her hand wildly, she cried out: "hello, john!" the rider was now close at hand, for madison's voice was heard in all the fullness of its rich, deep tones: "hello, girlie! how's everything?" "fine!" she called back. "do hurry." "tell that to this horse, will you? the word 'hurry' is not in his dictionary." "i'm coming down to meet you," she called again. "all right!" came the answer. turning quickly to brockton, like a spoilt child, pleading for a favor, she said demurely: "you don't care. you'll wait, won't you?" "sure," replied the broker laconically. the girl ran nimbly down the stairs of the terrace, and disappeared among the cactus bushes. chapter vii. brockton leaned over the balustrade trying, through the increasing dusk, to catch a glimpse of the girl's slender form, as in her light summer gown she flitted among the trees. the autumn afternoon was now far advanced. the shadows of approaching night were already falling across the pass. the golden glow that tinged the distant snow-clad peaks grew deeper in color. the lights were rapidly fading to beautiful opalescent hues. it was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that the broker had retained his composure. what the girl had just told him was a staggering and unexpected blow. underneath the man's stolid, business-like manner, there was a big heart. he was selfish and comfort-loving, like most men of his class and opportunities, but he was far from being as callous and blasé as he pretended. he had grown to be very fond of laura. he knew that up to this time and during her whole career he was the first man who had had any real influence over her. since the day when they first became pals, he had always dominated, and while his moral teaching left much to be desired, he had always endeavored to keep her semi-respectable in the bohemian, unconventional kind of life she had elected to lead. his coming all the way from new york to denver to accompany her home--for the business at kansas city was, of course, only a pleasant fiction--was proof of his keen interest in the girl. and what a disappointment awaited him! he had come after her, only to find that she had drifted away from him. what perhaps made matters worse, he could not in the least object to the manner of her going. she had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement with him. if this new love affair really meant new life to her, respectability, happiness, he would be worse than a cad to stand in her way. nor could he, logically, bear any malice towards the man who was taking her from him. presently he heard voices and footsteps on the walk below, and the next moment laura reappeared, dragging john madison after her. the big fellow's clothes were dusty after the long ride. his corduroy trousers were encased in leggings, and on his boots were brass spurs, such as are worn in the army. in his hand he held rather awkwardly a gray cowboy hat. as the two men faced one another, there was a dramatic pause. each looked at the other interrogatively, with ill-disguised hostility. one felt it needed but a spark to bring about an explosion. physically, they were both fine-looking men, although the contrast was most marked. brockton was tall and well-built, and many considered him a handsome man, but by the side of the big westerner, he suffered by comparison. the broker was the conventional type of eastern business man, the style of man one meets in clubs and drawing-rooms, well dressed, well groomed; john madison, in his six feet of muscular manhood, careless and picturesque in attire, suggested the free, open life on the plains, where men face danger as a matter of course, and are prepared to defend their lives at an instant's notice. each man took the other's measure in silence, neither flinching a muscle. the smile faded from madison's face, and his mouth dropped into an expression of fierce determination. for a moment, laura almost lost her self composure. nervous, frightened, now that she had brought them together, her voice trembled slightly from apprehension: "oh, i beg your pardon! mr. madison--this is mr. brockton, a friend of mine from new york. you've often heard me speak of him. he came out here to keep me company when i go home." madison advanced with hand outstretched. looking the broker straight in the eye, he said: "i am very glad to know you, mr. brockton." "thank you," returned the new yorker with forced cordiality. the newspaper man shuffled uneasily on his feet, as if he realized the false position in which both of them were placed, but was ready enough, if only for convenience sake, to avoid hostilities. indeed, the broker's easy and friendly manner entirely disarmed the antagonism that madison had long been nursing. with a side glance, at laura, he went on: "i've heard a great deal about you and your kindness to miss murdock. anything that you have done for her in a spirit of friendliness, i am sure all her friends must deeply appreciate, and i count myself in as one." brockton smiled amiably, as he replied: "then we have a great deal in common, mr. madison, for i also count miss murdock a friend, and when two friends of a friend have the pleasure of meeting, i daresay that's a pretty good foundation for them to become friends, too." the big fellow nodded and showed his white teeth. with a determined effort not to show himself behind his rival in cordiality, he said: "whatever my opinion may have been of you, mr. brockton, before you arrived, now i have seen you--and i'm a man who forms his conclusions right off the bat--i don't mind saying you've agreeably surprised me. that's just a first impression, but they run kind o' strong with me." brockton carelessly flecked the ash from his cigar as he answered in the same tone: "well, young man, i size up a fellow in pretty short order, and all things being equal, i think you'll do." laura, radiant at this totally unexpected result of the encounter, looked from one man to the other in delighted amazement. she was afraid they would fly at each other's throats, and here they were, apparently, the best of friends. making a move towards the house she said: "shall i get the tea?" "tea?" exclaimed madison in mock dismay. the girl shook her finger in his face. "yes, tea. you know it must be tea--nothing stronger." madison looked comically at the broker: "how strong are you for that tea, mr. brockton?" "i'll pass," rejoined the broker, entering into the spirit of the fun, "it's your deal, mr. madison." "mine?" echoed the westerner, laughing. "no, deal me out this hand." putting on her favorite little pout, laura pretended to be angry. "i don't think you're at all pleasant, but i'll tell you one thing--it's tea this deal or no game." throwing herself into a seat, she picked up a magazine, and made a pretense of becoming interested in the illustrations. brockton moved towards the entrance to the house. "no game then," he said laughingly. "i'm going in to help mrs. williams. maybe she's lost seven dollars by this time. i may be able to get it back for her." he disappeared in the house. directly he was gone laura sprang from her seat, and running up to madison, flung her arms unrestrainedly about his neck. "john!" she exclaimed. "well, dear?" "are you going to be cross with me?" "why?" "because he came?" "because who came?" he demanded, "brockton?" "yes." "you didn't know, did you?" "yes, i did." "that he was coming?" "he wired me when he reached kansas city." "does he know?" "about us?" "yes." "i've told him." "when?" "to-day." "here?" "yes." madison looked at her closely for a moment. then slowly, he asked: "what was the result?" "i think it hurt him." "naturally." thoughtfully, almost pensively, she added: "more than i had any idea it would." madison shrugged his big, square shoulders, and sinking into a chair, said laconically: "i'm sorry." "he cautioned me to be very careful, and to be sure i knew my way." "that's right," nodded madison approvingly. laura took a couple of cushions from a sofa near one of the windows, and returning to where he was sitting, threw them on the ground near his chair. from the interior of the house floated the soulful strains of a chopin nocturne. sitting down quietly at his feet, she said softly: "john." "what, dear?" "we've been very happy all summer." "very." "this thing has gradually been growing on us." "that's true," he assented. musingly she went on: "i little thought when i came out here to denver to play in a little stock company, that it was going to bring me all this happiness; but it has, hasn't it?" he smiled indulgently and caressed her golden hair. changing her position, she got up and sat on his knee, her arms around his neck. after a moment's silence she said: "now the season's over, there's nothing to keep me in colorado. i've got to go back to new york and work." "i know," he replied gloomily. "i've been awake all night thinking about it." "well?" she asked anxiously. "well?" he repeated, without satisfying her curiosity. "what are we going to do?" she inquired. he remained silent for a moment; then he said: "why, you've got to go, i suppose." "is it good-bye?" he nodded gloomily. "for a while, i suppose--it's good-bye." turning his face round so she could see it, she looked searchingly at him. "what do you mean by 'a while'?" "until i get money enough together, and am making enough to support you. then i'll come and take you out of the show business and make you mrs. madison." she tightened her arm around his neck and placed her cheek lovingly against his. in one fond, pure caress she showed him all the affection of which a woman is capable. fondling up against him she seemed like a dainty little kitten purring close to its master. her every thought and desire seemed to be centered on this man, who had taught her for the first time the meaning of the word "love." tenderly she said: "john, that is what i want above everything else." he smiled fondly at her. gravely he said: "but, laura, dear, we must come to some distinct understanding before we start to make our plans. we're not children." "no, we're not," she assented positively. rising from his knee, she went to the side of the porch and, leaning her elbows on the balustrade, gazed meditatively out into the valley. "now, in the first place," he continued, "we'll discuss you, and in the second place we'll discuss me. we'll keep nothing from each other, and we'll start out on this campaign of decency and honor, fully understanding its responsibilities, without a chance of a come-back on either side." laura turned and looked at him. her face was pale and serious. yes, plain words must be spoken between them and the proper time was now--so he might yet draw back, if he found he could not take her as she was. "you mean," she said in a tone so low that he hardly caught it, "that we should tell each other all about each other so, no matter what is said about us by other people, _we'll_ know it first." madison rose and paced the porch nervously: "that's precisely what i'm trying to get at," he said. the girl was silent for a moment; then hesitatingly she said: "well, john, there are so many things i don't want to speak of--even to you. it isn't easy for a woman to go back and dig up a lot of ugly memories and try to excuse them----" he interrupted her: "i don't ask that. i know your life, as i told you. that makes no difference now. the past is past. i love you as i know you, as you are to-day. it's only the future we want to worry about. laura, the habit of life is a hard thing to get away from. you've lived in this way for a long time. as my affianced wife you'll have to give it up. you'll have to go back to new york and struggle along on your own hook, until i get enough together to come for you. i don't know how long that will be." determinedly, almost fiercely, he added: "but it _will_ be. do you love me enough to stick out for the right thing?" the girl said nothing. her bosom heaved and her mouth quivered. she appeared deeply moved. then, suddenly, going quickly up to her companion, she threw her arms affectionately around his neck. earnestly she said: "yes, john. i think this is my one great chance. i do love you, and i want to do just what you say." the big fellow's face beamed with content and happiness as fondly he caressed her hair. "i think you will, little girl," he said. "and i'm going to make the same promise. i've been no angel myself. ever since i've been able to earn my own living, i've abused every natural gift god gave me. this restlessness and love of adventure has kept me where i am. my life hasn't been exactly loose, but it's been all in pieces. i've frittered my time and opportunities away just for the fun of it. but, laura, dear--when i met you and began to know you i realized for the first time that i was making an awful waste of myself. now it's all different. give me time--only a few months--and i'll show you what i can do." "john!" it was all she could say, but he understood, and clasping her passionately, his head dropped lower over her face, until his warm lips met her unresisting mouth. when, after a blissful interval, she looked up, he saw that there were tears in her eyes. tenderly he said: "some lovers place a woman on a pedestal and say: 'she never has made a mistake.' well, we don't need any pedestals. i know you will never make a mistake again." gravely she placed both her hands on his square shoulders. looking him straight in the eyes, she said: "john, i will never make you take those words back." "that goes double," he rejoined laughingly. "you're going to cut out the cafés and the lobster suppers, and i'm going to cut out my shiftlessness and indolence. you're going to be somebody, and if my hunch is worth the powder to blow it up, we'll show folks things they never thought were in us. we'll begin right now. you're ready, ain't you, dear?" "yes, i'm ready." pointing towards the house, he said: "then call him." "brockton?" "yes, tell him you go back to new york without any traveling companion." she hesitated and looked perplexed. she was hardly prepared to act so quickly as this. "now?" she demanded. "now," he said firmly. she clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. timidly she said: "you want to hear me tell him?" he smiled. "we're partners, aren't we? i ought to be in on any important transaction like that, but it's just as you say." the girl nodded. hesitatingly she said: "i think it would be right you should. i'll call him now." "all right." he strolled carelessly in the direction of the stairway, while laura moved towards the house. it was dark now outside, and the interior of the bungalow was already lighted up. halting just outside the front door, she called: "mr. brockton! oh, mr. brockton!" "yes?" answered the broker's voice from inside. "can you spare a moment to come out here?" "i'll be there presently." "no--now," she insisted. "you must come now." "all right, i'm coming." she waited for him until he appeared. chapter viii. there were few things that brockton enjoyed more than a game of bridge. so long as the cards went his way, he was dead to the world. having routed his opponents and carried everything before him for the last half hour, he was feeling in particularly good humor, and it was only with a mock grimace that he protested at being disturbed. "say, laura, it's a shame to lure me away from that mad speculation in there. i thought i might make my fare back to new york, if i played until next summer." dropping his jesting tone, he inquired interrogatively: "what's up?" "mr. madison wants to talk to you, or rather i do, and i want him to listen." the broker gave her one keen look. she did not have to explain what the talk was to be about. he understood instinctively. instantly, his manner changed. the easy jocularity vanished. once more he was the shrewd, hard, calculating business man. coldly he said: "very well--what is it about?" descending the steps, he came down the terrace to where laura and madison were seated. the girl began: "say, will----" "yes," he answered icily. "i'm going home day after to-morrow, on the overland limited." he nodded. "i know." awkwardly and glancing nervously at madison, as if to gain courage, she went on: "it was awfully kind of you to come out here and offer to escort me back to new york, but--under the circumstances--i'd rather you'd take an earlier--or a later train." the broker looked from one to the other. coolly he asked: "may i ask what circumstances you refer to?" timidly she went on: "mr. madison and i are going to be married." she paused for a moment, as if in a dilemma how best to put it. finally she said: "he knows of your former friendship for me, and he thinks it must end." the broker gave a grunt. he was raging within, but what was the use of being unpleasant over it? he could not alter matters. trying to appear unconcerned, he said: "hum! then the riverside drive proposition, with burgess's show thrown in, is off, eh?" "yes," she replied firmly, "everything is absolutely declared off." brockton shrugged his shoulders. with an inward chuckle he said ironically: "can't even be friends any more, eh?" madison, who had listened without interfering, now rose and stepped forward. fixing the broker with a cold stare, he said: "you could hardly expect miss murdock to be friendly with you--under the circumstances." assisting laura to put a scarf across her shoulders, he added: "you could hardly expect me to sanction any such friendship." brockton gave a careless nod. patronizingly he said: "i think i understand your position, young man, and i agree with you perfectly, that is--if your plans turn out successful." "thank you," said madison stiffly. going up to the broker, laura held out her hand. with a smile she said: "then everything is settled, just the way it ought to be--frankly and above board?" brockton took her hand, and held it in his for a minute. with a visible effort to conceal his feelings, he said: "why, i guess so. if i was perfectly confident that this new arrangement was going to result happily for you both, i think it would be great, only i'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become serious and then fail, i know how hard these things hit, having been hit once myself." madison looked at him as if trying to gauge his full meaning. then quietly he said: "so you think we're making a wrong move, and there isn't a chance of success, eh?" "no, i don't make any such gloomy prophecy. if you make laura a good husband, and she makes you a good wife, and together you win out, i'll be mighty glad. as far as i am concerned, i shall absolutely forget every thought of laura's friendship for me." the girl looked grateful. "i thought you'd be just that way," she said. the broker rose and advancing, took both her hands. there was more than a suspicion of emotion in his voice as he said: "good-bye, girlie--be happy." turning to the newspaper man, he said: "madison, good luck." shaking him cordially by the hand he added: "i think you've got the stuff in you to succeed, if your foot don't slip." the newspaper man looked at him inquiringly. curtly he demanded: "what do you mean by my foot slipping, mr. brockton?" the broker returned his gaze steadily. "do you want me to tell you?" "i sure do." brockton turned to laura, who stood listening, rather uneasy at the turn the conversation was taking. "laura," he said quietly, "run into the house and see if mrs. williams has won another quarter. madison and i are going to smoke a cigar and have a friendly chat. when we get through, i think we'll both feel better." she looked at him anxiously. fearfully she asked: "you are sure that everything will be all right?" "sure," he said smilingly. she looked at madison, as if for reassurance. he nodded and she went towards the house. when she had disappeared, brockton held out a handsomely engraved gold cigar case. "have a cigar?" he said cordially, as if to make things as amicable as possible. "no--i'll smoke my own," replied madison coldly. the men sat down and there was a short silence, during which they lit and puffed at their cigars. it was now pitch dark outside, and the brilliant illuminations in the interior of the house only served to intensify the almost opaque blackness of the grounds. nothing could be seen but the glow of each man's cigar, as he puffed it silently. the broker broke the long pause. "what's your business?" he demanded curtly. "what's yours?" retorted the westerner quickly. "i'm a broker." "i'm a reporter." "what kind?" inquired brockton. "general utility--dog fights, and dramatic criticisms." "pay you well?" asked brockton carelessly. the journalist started and looked up sharply at his interlocutor. "that's a pretty fresh question!" he exclaimed. "what's the idea?" "i'm interested--that's all," replied brockton coolly. knocking the ash off his cigar, he continued: "i'm a plain man, mr. madison, and i do business in a plain way. now, if i ask you a few questions and discuss this matter with you in a frank way, don't get it in your head that i'm jealous or sore, but simply i don't want either of you people to make a move that's going to cost you a lot of pain and trouble. if you want me to talk sense to you, all right. if you don't we'll drop it now. what's the answer?" madison listened attentively until he stopped speaking. then he looked up, his manner defiant and aggressive. "i'll take a chance," he said contemptuously, "but before you start i want to tell you that the class of people you belong to, i have no use for--they don't speak my language. you are what they call a manipulator of stocks. that means that you are living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your daily bread--yes--and your cake and your wine, too, from the sweat and toil of others. you're a safe gambler, a 'gambler under cover.' show me a man who's dealing bank; he's free and above board. but you--you can figure the percentage against you, and then if you buck the tiger and get stung, you do it with your eyes open. with you wall street men, the game is crooked twelve months of the year. from a business point of view, i think you're a crook!" he paused, as if to see the effect of his words. then he added: "now i guess we understand each other. if you've got anything to say, why--spill it." brockton rose impatiently. his voice rising in anger, he said: "we're not talking business now, but women. how much money do you earn?" for a moment madison was taken aback by the very impudence of the question. he glared at his questioner, and half rose from his seat with a threatening gesture. but noting the cool and composed manner of the broker, he merely shrugged his shoulders. clenching his teeth, he leaned forward and said warningly: "understand, i don't think it is any of your damned business! but i'm going through with you on this proposition, just to see how the land lays. take my tip, however. be mighty careful how you speak about the girl, if you're not looking for trouble." paying no attention to the covert threat, brockton went on: "how much did you say you made?" "thirty dollars a week." the broker gave vent to a low, but expressive whistle. elevating his eyebrows, he asked: "do you know how much laura could make if she took a job just on her own merits?" madison shook his head. impatiently he replied: "as i don't intend to share in her salary, i never took the trouble to inquire." "she'd get about forty dollars." "that laps me ten," retorted the other. brockton persisted. "but how are you going to support her?" he demanded. "her cabs cost more than your salary, and she pays her week's salary for an every-day walking hat. she's always had a maid. her simplest gown flirts with a hundred dollar note. her manicurist and her hairdresser will eat up as much as you pay for your board. she never walks when it's stormy, and every afternoon there's her ride in the park. she dines in the best places in new york, and one meal costs her more than you make in a day. do you imagine for a moment that she's going to sacrifice these luxuries for any great length of time?" "i intend to give them to her," replied madison promptly. "on thirty dollars a week?" "i propose to go out and make a lot of money." "how?" "i haven't decided yet, but you can bet your sweet life that if i ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be." brockton looked skeptical. "never have made it, have you?" he said. "i have never tried," replied madison doggedly. "then how do you know you can?" "i'm honest and energetic, that's how i know!" retorted the journalist. with a sneer he added: "if you can get great wealth the way you go along, i don't see why i can't earn a little." puffing vigorously at his expensive perfecto, brockton strode leisurely up and down the terrace. he spoke calmly and dispassionately, as if he personally were not in the least concerned with the subject under discussion. from his manner one might take him for an elderly brother advising a junior of life's many pitfalls. "that's where you make a mistake," he said coolly. "money doesn't always come with brilliancy. i know a lot of fellows in new york who can paint a fine picture, write a good play, and when it comes to oratory they've got me lashed to a pole. but, somehow, they never make money. they're always in debt. they never get anything for what they do. in other words, young man, they are like a sky rocket without a stick--plenty of brilliancy, but no direction. they blow up and fizzle all over the ground." "that's in new york," interrupted madison scornfully. "i'm in colorado. i guess you know there is a difference." the broker shrugged his shoulders. "i hope you'll make your money," he said carelessly, "because, i tell you frankly, that's the only way you can hold this girl. she's full of heroics now, self sacrifice, and all the things that go to make up the third act of a play, but the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the windows and send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it from me--she'll change her tune!" suddenly confronting his rival, he went on: "you're in colorado writing her letters once a day with no cheques in them. that may be all right for some girl who hasn't tasted the joy of easy living, full of the good things of life, but one who for ten years has been doing very well in the way these women do, is not going to let up for any great length of time. so take my advice, if you want to hold her, get that money quick, and don't be so damned particular how you get it, either." madison started quickly to his feet, his fists clenched. savagely he exclaimed: "of course, you know you've got the best of me----" "how?" demanded brockton coolly. "we're guests. i have to control myself." "no one's listening," said the broker. "'tisn't that," snapped the other impatiently. "if it was anywhere but here, if there was any way to avoid all the nasty scandal, i'd come a-shootin' for you and you know it----" "you're a fighter, eh?" sneered brockton. "perhaps," snapped the journalist. there was a dangerous gleam in his eye, as he went on: "let me tell you this. i don't know how you make your money, but i know what you do with it. you buy yourself a small circle of sycophants; you pay them well for feeding your vanity, and then you pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation. and those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood. manhood?" he echoed contemptuously. "why, you don't know what the word means! yours is the attitude of a pup and a cur." brockton turned. his lips were compressed, his eyes flashed. starting angrily forward he exclaimed: "wait a minute, young man, or i'll----" madison gave one stride towards him, and for a moment both men stood confronting each other, their fists clenched. their primal instincts were aroused. like wild beasts, full of savage hatred, they were hungry and ready to fly at each other's throats. "you'll what?" demanded madison, raising his fist. "lose my temper and make a damned fool of myself," retorted the broker retaining his _sang froid_ only by the greatest effort. with an attempt at jocularity he went on: "that's something i've not done for--let me see--why, it must be nearly twenty years--oh, yes--fully that----" he smiled and madison, disarmed, fell back. in a sulky undertone, the westerner grumbled: "possibly it's been about that length of time since you were human, eh?" "possibly--but you see, mr. madison, after all, you're at fault----" "yes?" "yes, the very first thing you did was to lose your temper. now people who always lose their temper will never make a lot of money, and you admit that that is a great necessity--i mean now--to you----" turning on his heel, madison picked up a newspaper and slammed it down angrily on a seat. "i can't stand for the brutal way you talk!" leaning on the balustrade and looking into the dark depths below, he lapsed into a sullen silence. brockton approached him. "but you've got to stand it," he said. "the truth is never gentle. most conditions in life are unpleasant, and if you want to meet them squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. that's the only way you can fight them and win!" madison turned around. the rage was gone out of his eyes, and his voice had regained its equanimity. decisively he said: "i believe laura means what she says, in spite of all you say and the disagreeable logic of it. i think she loves me. if she should ever want to go back to the old way of getting along, i think she'd tell me so. so you see, brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop the subject." crossing to the other side of the terrace, he dropped into a chair, and lit another cigar. brockton followed him. "and if she should ever go back and come to me," said the broker slowly and impressively, "i am going to insist that she let you know all about it. it'll be hard enough to lose her, caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be double crossed----" madison laughed scornfully. "that's very kind. thanks!" "don't get sore," said brockton. "it's common sense, and it goes, does it not?" "just what goes?" demanded the journalist, turning sharply. brockton eyed him gravely for a second or two; then he said slowly: "if she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to me, i'll make her let you know just when and why----" a fierce flame again blazed out from the big fellow's eyes. he half started from his chair, and he flung his fist out threateningly. "look out!" he cried. "i said 'common sense,'" rejoined brockton quietly. "all right," replied his rival, more calmly. "agreed?" demanded the broker. "you're on," muttered madison. chapter ix. the rialto, flooded with the warm sunshine of a glorious spring morning, presented its every-day aspect of leisurely gaiety and business bustle. the theatrical season was already on the wane; each day broadway's pavements in the immediate vicinity of forty-second street became more congested with lean-looking thespians, just in from "the road." the rialto--the haven of every disheartened barnstormer, the cradle of every would-be hamlet! an important section of the big town's commercial life, yet a world apart--the world of the theatre, a shallow, artificial, unreal land, with laws and manners all its own; a region of lights and tinsel and mock emotions, its people frankly unmoral and irresponsible as a child, yet ever interesting and not unlovable; luxury-loving and extravagant, flush to-day, bankrupt to-morrow; inflated with false pretense and exaggerated self importance, yet tender-hearted and ingenuous to a fault, and not without their sphere of usefulness--theirs the mission "to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature," and in tragedy and comedy, move mankind to tears and laughter, while upholding the best traditions of a noble art. sweeping northwards from herald square as far as forty-seventh street, the rialto, on this particular morning, did full credit to the famous public mart in venice, from which it took its picturesque name. here in the heart of theatredom was the players' curb market, the theatrical rendezvous of the metropolis, where the mummer comes both to talk shop with his fellow actor, and seek a new engagement. on every side luxurious theatres reared their stately facades, box-offices open for business invited all to enter, obstreperous ticket speculators jostled passersby in their eagerness to sell their seats. street hoardings, ash barrels and sandwich men were plastered with flamboyant multi-colored show bills. the play, and nothing but the play was certainly the thing; the hapless stranger was buffetted in a maelstrom of theatrical activity. the very air reeked of calcium and grease paint. the sidewalks were crowded with actors of all ages, some smartly dressed, others seedy-looking and down at heel. they stood chatting idly in little groups, thronged the doors of managers' offices and dramatic agencies, promenaded up and down with self-conscious strut. if some were seedy, all looked sanguine and happy. actors and actresses both, they laughed and joked and patted one another on the back, as they strove to outdo each other in narrating wonderful experiences on the road. right and left one heard the younger players exclaim exuberantly: "great notices!--made the hit of my life!--am to be starred next season!--manager crazy for me to sign!" the bystanders, older than the speakers, listened politely and nodded approvingly, but did not seem otherwise impressed. old-timers these, they knew too well the symptoms of the novice. every beginner had these illusions, like the measles; then, as one got older in the "perfesh" one became immune. had they not had many such attacks themselves? they had dreamed of playing brutus, macbeth and romeo before crowded houses, and having their names spelled out in blazing electric letters over the entrance of broadway theatres, yet here they were to-day, just where they stood twenty years before, playing general utility at forty dollars a week, and only thirty-six weeks in the year! need one wonder that their eyes were tired and their faces lined? their clothes were shabby, all ambition had been ruthlessly crushed out of them, but no matter. they still stood sunning themselves on the rialto, listening good naturedly to the youngsters' prattle. now and then grim tragedy could be detected stalking behind comedy's mask. haggard faces and shabby clothes spoke eloquently of poverty's pinch. a long summer ahead and nothing saved. well--what of it? that was nothing unusual. if times were hard and engagements few, that was the price the mummer must pay. why did he go into the rotten business? by this time he painfully realized that all cannot be stars, to own automobiles and fine country houses and have the managers and the public worshipping at their feet. some must be content to belong to the humble rank and file, and these were the kind that haunted broadway. two loungers, one a young actor, the other a man considerably his senior, stood talking at the corner of forty-second street, opposite the entrance to the empire theatre. the younger man was pale and sickly looking, and his long hair, classic features, and general seedy appearance stamped him as a "legit," or a player whose theatrical activities had been confined to shakespearian and the classic dramas. why actors who specialize in the legitimate should be invariably careless in their personal appearance has yet to be explained. their fellow-artists, who play in modern comedy, usually appear on the street trig and well groomed. their clothes, cut in the latest fashion, and the way they wear them, constitute valuable factors in their success. but the benvolios, the mercutios and horatios and other heroes of the romantic and standard dramas, are, in private life, a queer and sad-looking lot. their excuse may be that for the historical dramas the manager furnishes the costumes, whereas for the modern play the player has to provide his own. this particular actor wore a faded fedora hat, his trousers were baggy at the knee, and he tapped impatiently on the pavement with a cheap little cane. his attitude was one of general discouragement, which was not surprising, seeing that after playing shakespeare in the one-night stands all season, he found himself stranded on broadway without a cent. while he confided his troubles to his old friend, jim weston, he cast envious glances at other fellow actors, more fortunate than he, who were entering a red-curtained chop house close by. as his olfactory organ caught the delicious odors of grilling steaks and juicy roasts, he winced. that morning he had breakfasted but meagerly, and when again the hunger pangs seized him there would be no chop house for him. he must slink into the little dairy round the corner and lining-up at the lunch counter, together with a dozen other thespians in like straits, shamefacedly order a glass of milk and piece of pie. "do you think it's any merrier for me?" exclaimed weston, after he had listened to the other's hard-luck story. "why, man alive, i'm ready to give up. i've tramped broadway for nine weeks, until every flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet coming. it's something fierce!" jim weston was only one of the many hundred human derelicts cast away on the theatrical strand. an advance agent of the old school, he found himself at the age of fifty outdistanced by younger and more active men. in the three decades of his life, which he had devoted to the service of the stage, he had seen the gradual evolution of the theatrical business. the old-time circus and minstrel men had been pushed aside and younger men, more up-to-date in their methods, had taken their place. jim realized that he was a back number, but he hung on just the same. he was too old now to begin learning a new trade. he had given all the energy of his youth to the service of the theatre and now he was older and not so active the theatre had gone back on him. often he had thought of ending it all, there and then, but that he mused, was the coward's way. there was the "missis" and the "kids." he wasn't going to desert them. so day after day, he kept on tramping broadway, haunting the agencies, in the hope of something turning up. his companion, absorbed in his own gloomy reflections, tapped the pavement nervously with his cane, and weston continued: "got a letter from the missis this morning. the kids got to have more clothes, there's measles in the town and mumps in the next village. i've just got to raise some money, or git some work, or the first thing you'll know, i'll be hanging around central park on a dark night with a club." "hello, jim!" hailed a feminine voice in greeting. the two men quickly looked up. an attractive, stylishly dressed young woman had halted. a smile of recognition lit up the agent's wan face, and starting forward, he shook warmly the proffered hand. the actor, touching his hat, turned to go. to weston, he said: "if you hear of anything in my line, bear me in mind, old man." "i will, ned, never fear. good-bye and good luck." the actor strolled on and the agent turned to his feminine acquaintance: "why, elfie st. clair!" he exclaimed, "i haven't seen you for an age." it was elfie st. clair, bearing, as usual, all the outward signs of prosperity. like most women of her class, she always over-dressed. from her picture hat and jeweled neck, to her silk stockings and dainty patent leather slippers, she had them all on, and more than one passerby turned to stare. extravagant clothes which, on fifth avenue would be taken as a matter of course, caused a mild sensation among the general dullness of the busy rialto. but elfie ignored the attention she attracted, and went on chatting, unconcerned. what did she care if people guessed how she made the money to dress as she did? she was too old at the business for that, too hardened, yet with all her effrontery, she had at least one redeeming virtue. in her days of prosperity she was never too proud to greet or help old friends. she had met jim weston years ago. he was press agent for the first company she joined, and she had not forgotten trifling little services he had rendered her at that precarious time. with a glance at his shabby clothes, she asked: "what are you doing now?" "same as usual--nothing!" he answered dryly. "down on your luck, eh?" she said sympathetically. "never had any luck," he grumbled. "been out long?" "only six weeks the whole season. show busted. i'm on my uppers for fair this time--eligible for the down-and-out club. no prospects, either." the girl made a motion with her pocketbook. kindly she said: "say, jim--let me loan you a ten spot--we're old pals, you and i----" he shook his head determinedly. almost savagely, he exclaimed: "no, i'll be d----d if i do! the river before that. thank god, i still have my self respect left!" quickly changing the topic, he went on: "i met an old friend of yours the other day." "who?" "laura murdock." the girl started. "laura!" she exclaimed. "why, i haven't seen her for months--only once since she went to denver and fell in love with a newspaper man. wasn't that perfectly crazy? i was always afraid she would do something of the sort. there is a sentimental streak in her, you know. i did all i could to dissuade her, but it was no use. she had made up her mind to be good, and that was the end of it. such a pity! she was getting on so fine. you know, of course, that she has cut out brockton, and the rest of the crowd. i've quite lost sight of her. where did you see her?" the agent's thin lips then tightened into a grim smile. "you'd hardly know her now," he said. the girl looked inquiringly at him. "not know her--why?" hesitatingly he went on: "wal--you know how it is when things don't seem to go just right. laura never was over strong with the managers unless she had a good pull, and now she's shifting for herself, they've gone back on her. she got a fairly good part at the beginning of the season, but she didn't make good. the critics hit her pretty hard, and the manager gave her two weeks' notice. since then she's been playing such parts as she can get, but i guess she ain't averaged fifteen dollars a week the whole blessed winter." "where is she now?" "at mrs. farley's. she has a small room there. i think she pays four dollars a week--when she pays it. you know mrs. farley's. i'm stopping there, too. it ain't exactly swell, but it's better than the park, especially on cold nights." elfie turned pale under her cosmetics. too well she knew the horrors of poverty. she was shocked to hear that one of her own sisterhood should be reduced to such straits as these. the lightning had struck uncomfortably near home. besides she had always been fond of laura. yes, she knew mrs. farley's, a shrewish irishwoman, who kept a cheap theatrical boarding house in forty ----th street. ten years ago, in the days when she was a stage beginner, struggling to make both ends meet, she had lived there and as she looked back on those days of self denial and humiliation she shuddered. "i'm awfully sorry," she said, her voice trembling from unaffected emotion. "tell laura you met me and say i had no idea of it. tell her i'll come and see her the very first opportunity. goodbye." a smile and a nod, and she disappeared, swallowed up in the vortex of humanity that swirls in eddies along the great white way. the agent stood looking after her. with a sagacious shake of his head, he murmured to himself: "i don't know but that she's the wise one, after all. what's the good of being decent? the world respects the man who can wear fine duds. nobody asks how he got 'em. one's a fool to care. every one for himself and let the devil take the hindmost." having thus unburdened himself of this philosophical reflection, jim weston proceeded on his way. continuing north up broadway as far as forty-third street, he crossed long acre square and stopping in front of a dilapidated-looking brown-stone house, climbed wearily up the steep stoop. the house was one of the few old-fashioned private residences still left standing in the business section of the city. some forty or more years ago, when long acre was practically a suburb of new york, this particular house was the home of a proud knickerbocker family. its rooms and halls and staircases rang with the laughter of richly-attired men and women--the society of new york in ante-bellum days. but in the modern relentless march uptown of commercialism, all that remained of its one-time glory had been swept away. the house fell into decay and ruin, and while waiting for it to be pulled down entirely, to make room for an up-to-date skyscraper, the present owners had rented it just to pay the taxes. and a queer collection of tenants they had secured. a quick-lunch-counter man occupied the basement: a theatrical costumer had the front parlor, with armor and wigs, and other bizarre exhibits in the window. up one fight of stairs was a private detective bureau, while on the next flight was a theatrical agency, presided over by a mr. quiller--foxy quiller, his clients nicknamed him, where actors and actresses out of employment, might or might not, hear of things to their advantage. there was no elevator and the stairs were dark and fatiguing to climb. by the time he had reached the top, jim weston was out of breath. halting a moment to get his wind, he then continued along a hall until he came to an office, the door of which was opened. he entered. in a large gloomy-looking room, scantily lighted by two windows, which looked as if they had not been washed for months, a score of men and women were sitting in solemn silence, on as many rickety chairs. that they were professionals "out of engagement" was evident at a glance. the women wore smart frocks, and the men were clean shaven, but there was an obsequious deference in their manner and a worried, expectant expression on their faces that one sees only in dependents anxious to please. in the far corner, near the window, was mr. quiller's private office, on the frosted glass door of which was the word "private." above the door, and all about the room were large cards bearing such friendly greetings as: "my time's worth money! don't waste it." "this is my busy day; be brief." "don't come till i send for you--this means you!" the other decorations consisted of a number of theatrical photographs tacked here and there on the walls and a few old playbills. at a desk near the entrance, a slovenly office boy sat reading a dime novel. he looked up as jim entered and nodded with familiar insolence. the advance man was no stranger there. each day for months past, he had climbed those dingy stairs, only to get the same discouraging answer: "nothing doing." yet he had persevered. he never let a day go by without dropping in at least once. there was always the chance of something turning up. approaching the desk he inquired: "mr. quiller in?" "busy!" growled the boy. with a gesture of his hand toward the others already waiting, he said insolently: "all them people is here before you." actors and actresses, when they are recognized as human beings at all, are only "people" in managerial offices. the ordinary courtesies of life do not extend to the humble player. the star, the public favorite, is courted and fawned upon by the cringing theatre director, but the rank and file of the profession are just "people". if the office boy was rude, he merely reflected the scornful attitude of his superiors. weston quickly took a seat and waited. the others were strangers to him. their faces were familiar from seeing them frequently in the same place, and he guessed that they had come on the same mission as himself. secretly, he felt sorry for them, especially for the women, some of whom were young and pretty. they looked thin, careworn and sad. ah, who knew better than he, how hard and disappointing a career it was! they were only beginners and already they were bitterly disillusioned, while he had gone through it all and come out--a wreck! the silence was awkward and oppressive. through the closed door of the private office was heard a man's harsh voice; then a woman's softer tones in reply. one of those waiting whispered to a neighbor and then some one laughed, which relieved the unnatural tension. all forced themselves to appear cheerful and unconcerned, each secretly ashamed to be there, humiliated at being subjected to the same treatment as menials in this intelligence office of the stage. two women were talking in an undertone and weston, sitting close by, could not help hearing what they said. one, an attractive, modest-looking girl, was almost in tears, complaining bitterly of indignities to which she had been subjected by a manager. "i wouldn't stand for it," she said, "so he gave me two weeks' notice, on the pretext that the author didn't like me in the part. he knew he was lying--my notices were fine! such a time as i had with him! i made a hit on the opening night. he came back on the stage and invited me to supper. as he talked of signing with me for five years, i didn't dare refuse. at supper he let me understand what the price would be. i instantly rose from the table and told him i wasn't that kind of a girl. then he got mad. he told me to think well before i made the mistake of my life. he said no girls got along on the stage unless they consented to these conditions, and that if i refused i would be blacklisted by every manager in town. i didn't even deign to answer. i called a cab and left him. the following day i got my walking papers. i did not care so much about leaving the company. under the circumstances i couldn't have stayed and retained my self respect. i laughed at his threat, but i've since found it was no idle one. i've been turned down everywhere." her companion, an older woman, more sophisticated and more worldly, shook her head sympathetically: "nonsense, child, that's only a coincidence. it's preposterous to imagine for a moment that reputable managers would lend themselves to anything of the kind. you happened to come across a scoundrel--that's all. broadway's full of such human vultures--more's the pity--and they're giving the stage a bad name. but a woman doesn't have to be bad unless she wants to be. maybe advancement is quicker by the easiest way, but the good girls get there just the same, if they've talent. look at the women who have succeeded on the stage and whose name not a breath of scandal has ever touched. take, for instance, maude----" before she could complete the name, the door of mr. quiller's sanctum opened, and a young woman emerged, followed to the threshold by the dramatic agent, a jaundiced little man, with ferret-like eyes, and a greasy frock coat. "next!" he exclaimed in a rasping voice. "miss durant!" called out the office boy. the woman whose warm championship of the stage had been so abruptly interrupted, rose with alacrity and disappeared behind mr. quiller's closed door, while the young actress whose interview was ended made her way to the main entrance. her face was veiled and she walked quickly, looking to neither left nor right, her eyes fixed on the floor, as if anxious to avoid observation. as she passed weston, he happened to look up. "hello, laura!" he exclaimed, as he recognized her. "so it was you in there with old skinflint all that time." it was laura murdock, but what a startling change a few months had wrought! who could have recognized in this pale, attenuated-looking young person, whose old-fashioned clothes, and out-of-style hat, suggested poverty's grim clutch, the famous beauty, whose jewelry and gowns used to be the envy of every woman in new york? where the pace is so swift, those who do not keep up with the procession soon drop far behind. the girl had had a hard time of it since she bade john madison good-bye in colorado. he had resigned his newspaper position and had gone with a companion to search for gold. he travelled east with her as far as chicago, where they said farewell. "you'll be true, little one," he cried, as he clasped her in his strong arms. "until death, john!" she said through her tears. they promised to write at least once a week and tell each other everything. the time would soon pass, and when he came back they would get married. and so they parted, he to nevada; she back to new york, once more to take up her work--not her old life. faithful to her solemn promise, she gave up her fine apartment, and took less expensive rooms. she dressed more modestly, eschewed taxicabs, after-theatre suppers, and other unnecessary luxuries and shunned her old associates. little champagne suppers, and the small hours, knew her no more. she was sincere in her determination to break off with that kind of life forever. henceforth she would live within such income as she could legitimately earn on the stage. but she soon found that it was more difficult than she supposed. managers' offices did not seem so easy of access as before. the success of her stock engagement at denver had not impressed the new york managers so favorably as she expected it would. when she called and stated she was at liberty, they were evasive and non-committal; the next time she called they were out. it was the same everywhere. no one seemed to want her at any price. she did not realize that at no time had the stage been clamoring for her services. she saw only that there was a conspiracy of silence and indifference around her now. if she were willing to go on living as before, and use the influence of such men as willard brockton, she could have all the parts she wanted to play, but that was a price she would pay no longer. the weeks went by, and no money coming in, it was not long before her slender earnings were depleted. for a time she managed to keep the wolf from the door by selling some of her old finery, dainty creations in point lace and chiffons, which she would never wear again, but when these were gone, blank destitution stared her in the face. a brief engagement she was lucky enough to secure after unheard-of exertions, helped matters for a while, but the show came to grief, and then things were as bad as ever. visits to the pawnshop became frequent and soon she was compelled to give up her rooms and seek still cheaper quarters. but in all her troubles, she never lost courage. sleeping and waking, the searching, questioning eyes of john madison were continually before her. at all times she could hear him saying: "you'll be true, little one!" and it strengthened her resolve to battle bravely on, until he came to claim her for his bride. "i didn't see you, jim," said laura, sinking wearily into a chair near him. "well, what luck to-day?" he shook his head. "bad--bad. guess you don't want to hear." "i'm sorry," she said. "where have you been?" she listened with sympathetic interest, as he told her of the day's useless trampings. when he had finished, he looked inquiringly at her. abruptly he asked: "and you--got anything yet?" she shook her head despondently. "no, jim, not yet." he made a gesture towards the private office, which she had just vacated. "you were in there such a long time, i made sure there was something doing." laura shrugged her shoulders impatiently: "quiller sent for me, and i hurried here thinking it was serious. then he had the nerve to say he'd guarantee me an engagement, if i could put up five hundred dollars. i could not help laughing. 'where would i get five hundred dollars?' i said. 'you know that better than i,' he replied. 'surely you've plenty of admirers who'd be willing to put the money up for you.' what do you think of his impudence? i felt like slapping his face." the advance man gave a dry chuckle. "up to the old game," he said. "do you think these people live on the petty commissions we pay 'em? not on your life! they gets just such gals as you to find an angel willing to put up the 'dough'. that's why there are so many near-actresses on the stage. it isn't talent they want nowadays, it's money." changing the subject, he went on: "by the way, i met an old chum of yours just now. she asked after you----" "an old chum?" echoed laura, puzzled. "yes--elfie st. clair." the girl's pale face reddened slightly. involuntarily her manner stiffened. indifferently she said: "i haven't seen her for months. what did she say?" "she seemed to know things weren't quite right with you. she's a bad lot, that girl, but she has a good heart. she asked where you lived." "you didn't tell her, i hope," exclaimed laura hurriedly. "yes, i did," answered the advance man doggedly. "why shouldn't i?" "i'm sorry," she said. "she's the last woman in the world i want to see. i never want to see her again. if she calls i won't see her." glancing at the clock, she added: "i must be going. what are you doing here?" weston smiled grimly. "wasting time, i guess. quiller said there might be something to-day. he's said the same every day for three months past." "well, i must go," she said. "good-bye, i'll probably see you at the house." "yes," he nodded. "maybe there'll be some good news to tell you, but i doubt it." the girl disappeared and jim resumed his seat, patiently awaiting his turn to see mr. quiller. chapter x. mrs. farley's establishment was situated on forty ----th street, between eighth and ninth avenues, a neighborhood at one time much in vogue, but now given up almost entirely to boarding-houses of the cheaper kind. old-fashioned brownstone residences, with high ceilings, cracked walls, dirty, paper-patched windows, and narrow little gardens choked up with weeds, they were as unattractive-looking from without as they were gloomy and destitute of comfort within. yet poverty-stricken as were the surroundings, the street itself was respectable enough. as in the case of a homely woman, its very ugliness served to keep its morals above reproach. vice required more alluring quarters than these for profitable pursuit of its red-light trade. if, therefore, a woman stood in need of a certificate of character, all that was necessary was to say that she lived there. the back room, which, for nearly six long, weary weeks laura had occupied on the second floor was characteristic of the place and the class of lodgers who lived there. for years the house had been falling into general decay, with no attempt at repairs. the ceilings were cracked; the wall-paper was old and spotted, and in places hung down brazenly in loose flaps. the cheap carpet was worn threadbare, with here and there large rents, which acted as so many dangerous pitfalls for the unwary. the furniture, of the cheapest possible description, comprised a large, old-fashioned wardrobe, for the most part full of rubbish, a dresser scattered with a few cheap toilet articles, a broken-down washstand and a three-quarter old wooden bed, which, placed against the wall right in the center of the room, monopolized most of the little space there was. at the foot of the bed, a small table, covered with a soiled and ink-stained cloth, was heaped with newspapers and magazines; on the right, facing the door, leading to the hall outside, an old-style mantelpiece surmounted a rusty fireplace. a single arm gas jet served for illuminating purposes, and in a little alcove stood a table with a small gas stove connected by rubber tubing with a gas fixture. there were two windows in the room, opening outward in the french manner on to a dilapidated balcony which overlooked the street below. this was the wretched place for which laura had given up all her former ease and magnificence--her $ , apartment, her crystal bathtub, her french maid, her automobile, and every other conceivable luxury. the descent from affluence to actual want had been gradual, but none the less swift and sure. it had cost her many a bitter pang, many an hour of keen humiliation, but she had made the sacrifice willingly, cheerfully, feeling in her heart that he would wish it and commend her for it. in all her troubles, john was never for a moment out of her thoughts. everywhere about the room were reminders of the man who any day might return to claim her for his wife. on the dresser stood a small photograph of him in a cheap frame; tacked over the head of the bed was a larger portrait. a small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top covered the tack, and underneath was a bunch of violets, now withered, but a silent and touching tribute to the absent one. the room showed every evidence of being occupied, and at a glance it was easy to guess the vocation and also the sex of the tenant. in the wardrobe hung a few old dresses, most of them a good deal worn and shabby, while in an open drawer at the bottom could be seen several old pairs of women's shoes. on an armchair was thrown a cheap kimona. the dresser, in keeping with the general meanness, was adorned with pictorial postcards stuck in between the mirror and the frame, and on it were all the accessories necessary to the actress--powder box and puff, a rouge box and a rabbit's paw, a hand mirror, a small alcohol curling-iron heater, and a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in color, and nearly empty. on the mantelpiece were arranged photographs of actors and actresses and pieces of cheap bric-a-brac. conspicuous in a corner was a huge theatrical trunk, plastered with the labels of hotels and theatres. had the lid been raised, a caller might have seen in the tray, among the remnants of a once elaborate wardrobe, one little token that told at once the whole miserable story--a bundle of pawntickets! another week had gone by, and laura's situation, instead of improving, grew steadily more precarious. an engagement seemed farther away than ever; it was impossible to secure one of any kind. one disappointment followed another. either the companies were all full, or the part offered was not in her line. managers consciencelessly broke their promises; mr. quiller and the other dramatic agents were blandly indifferent. meantime no money was coming in, and the girl was completely at the end of her resources. her clothes were now little better than rags; very soon she would not be able to go out at all, let alone make the round of the managers' offices. she owed three weeks rent to her landlady, a matter-of-fact, hard-as-nails type of woman, who was not to be put off much longer with mere promises. unless she could settle soon, mrs. farley would tell her to get out, and then where could she go? perhaps for the first time in her life laura realized now how utterly alone she was in the world. never had it seemed to her so big, so indifferent, so heartless. her parents were dead, and as far as she knew she had no relatives. friends--so-called friends--were at best only fair weather acquaintances. there was not one from whom she would accept assistance. one man would help her, a man to whose generosity she could appeal with the certainty of instant response--willard brockton. but she would die sooner. she would not confess defeat. the one being who really cared for her and to whom she could properly appeal was thousands of miles away, in complete ignorance of her plight. she could telegraph him for money, but he might not understand, and she was too proud to lay her actions open to misconstruction. no, she must have patience and wait. if she had to go out scrubbing she would hold out until john madison came back for her. but it was a bitter experience for a girl who had grown accustomed to every luxury, and, at times, her fortitude and patience were tried to the utmost. the constant humiliation, to say nothing of the mental and physical suffering, was sometimes more than she could bear, and there were many nights when she sobbed herself to sleep. even her good looks suffered. constant anxiety made her thin; sleepless nights drove the color from her cheeks and put dark circles round her eyes. she did not have even enough to eat. forced to economize, she went without regular meals, satisfying her hunger cravings with what little she could cook herself in her own comfortless room. but in these dark hours, there was one ray of light, and that was her serene faith in her absent lover. she was convinced now that her attachment for the journalist was no passing fancy, no mere caprice of the moment. for the first time in her life, she felt the uplifting, exalted emotion of a pure love, and it seemed to burn in her bosom like a cleansing touch, wiping out the stain in her past. with all her experiences, tragic and otherwise, laura murdock had found nothing equal to this sudden, swiftly increasing love for the young westerner. that he would come back for her sooner or later, she never for a moment doubted. of his perfect loyalty, she was convinced. he was her one thought, night and day, and there was no keener pleasure in this, her new life, than in maintaining their constant correspondence. not a day passed that did not carry a letter westwards; each morning the postman brought a letter from madison, full of what he was doing, setting enthusiastically forth his plans for the future. these letters, which were her most treasured possessions, she kept in a big, cardboard box under the bed. by actual count, there were letters and telegrams, tied in eight separate bundles with dainty blue ribbon. on days when she was particularly depressed and discouraged, she felt comforted if she could drag out the letter-box and reread the messages from the loved one. this is what she was doing one afternoon about a week after her fruitless visit to mr. quiller's office. the weather being stormy, she could not go out, so, after lunching abundantly on a glass of milk and a few dry crackers, she once more dragged the box from under the bed. selecting a bundle of letters, she climbed on the bed, and, squatting down, her feet crossed in oriental fashion, proceeded to enjoy them. every now and then she would glance up from the sheet of closely written paper, and take a long, loving look at the large portrait of her sweetheart over the bed. while thus busily engaged, there suddenly came a knock at the door. quickly laura jumped from the bed, replaced the letters in the box, which she slid back in its place, and called out: "come in." cautiously the door was opened a few inches, and a chocolate-colored negress put her head in. seeing that laura was alone, she pushed the door open wider and came in, letter in hand. "hello, annie!" said laura amiably. "heah's yo' mail, miss laura," said the slavey, with a significant leer. "thank you," said the young actress, taking the proffered missive. she merely glanced at the familiar, beloved superscription, making no attempt to open the envelope in the presence of the maid. but annie, the slovenly type of negress one encounters in cheap theatrical boarding-houses, showed no disposition to withdraw. like most servants, she was inquisitive, and never neglected an opportunity to spy and gossip, considering it a part of her duties to learn everything possible of the private affairs of the lodgers. quite unlike the traditional, smiling, good-natured "mammy" of the south, she was one of those cunning, crafty, heartless, surly northern negresses, who, to the number of thousands, seek employment as maids with women of easy morals, and, infesting a certain district of new york where white and black people of the lower classes mingle indiscriminately, make it one of the most criminal and dangerous sections of the city. innately and brutally selfish, such women prey on those they profess to serve, and are honest and faithful only so long as it serves their purpose. annie kept one eye on the letter, while she pretended to tidy things about the room. presently she said: "one like dat comes every mornin', don't it? used to all be postmahked denver. must 'a' moved." as she spoke, she tried to get a glimpse of the letter over laura's shoulder, but as the actress turned, she quickly looked away, and added: "where is dat place called goldfield, miss laura?" "in nevada." "in _nevada_?" echoed the woman, laying comical stress on the pronunciation. "yes--nevada. what's strange about that?" annie drew her jacket closer around her, as if she were chilly. shaking her head, she said: "must be mighty smaht to write yuh every day. de pos'man brings it 'leven o'clock mos' always, sometimes twelve, and again sometimes tehn. today he was late. but it comes, every day, don't it?" "i know," said laura, with a faint smile. she disliked the negress, but reasons of policy prompted her always to appear cordial. annie began brushing the armchair vigorously, and, as she worked, tried once more to see the postmark on the letter. finally she said: "guess mus' be from yo' husban', ain't it?" laura shook her head. "no, i haven't any." the negress whisked her feather duster triumphantly. "dat's what ah tole mis' farley when she was down talkin' about yo' dis mornin'. she said if he was yo' husban' he might do somethin' to help yo' out. ah tole her ah didn't think yo' had any husban'. den she says yo' ought to have one, yo're so pretty." laura laughed. "don't be so foolish, annie." noticing that she had left the room door ajar, the negress went and banged it shut. then, proceeding to hang a clean towel on the washstand, she continued gossiping: "der ain't a decent door in dis old house. mis' farley said yo' might have mos' any man yo' wanted just for de askin', but ah said yuh was too particular about the man yo'd want. den she did a heap o' talkin'." "about what?" demanded laura quickly. she was amused as well as annoyed at the woman's impudence, but it was just as well to know what was being said about her downstairs. pretending, therefore, to be interested, and curbing her impatience, she placed the still unopened letter on the table, and, going to her trunk, took from it a thimble and thread. closing down the lid again, she sat on the trunk and began to sew a rip in her skirt. annie, meantime, had begun to fuss at making the bed. [illustration: she began to sew a rip in her skirt. _page ._] "well, yo' know," went on the maid, "mis' farley she's been havin' so much trouble wid her roomers. yestuhday dat young lady on de second flo' front, she lef. she's gwine wid some troupe on the road. she owed her room for three weeks, and jus' had to leave her trunk. my! how mis' farley did scold her. mis' farley let on she could have paid dat money if she wanted to, but, somehow, ah guess she couldn't----" she was carrying the pillows round the table, when suddenly she stopped talking and stooped to inspect the letter, which was still lying there. laura happened to look up. indignantly, she exclaimed: "annie!" the negress looked confused, but was not otherwise abashed. going on with her work, she continued coolly: "--for if she could, she wouldn't have left her trunk, would she, miss laura?" "no, i suppose not," replied the actress guardedly. after a pause, she asked: "what did mrs. farley say about me?" the negress picked up the kimona from the chair and carried it to the wardrobe. with some hesitation, she said: "oh, nothin' much." she needed encouragement, and laura gave it to her. "well, what?" thus coaxed, annie went on: "she kinder say somethin' 'bout yo' bein' three weeks behind in yo' room rent, an' she said she t'ought it was 'bout time yuh handed her somethin', seem' as how yuh must o' had some stylish friends when yuh come here." "who, for instance?" "ah don't know. mis' farley said some of 'em might slip yo' enough jest to help yuh out." stopping in her work, she looked curiously at the actress. "ain't yo' got nobody to take care of yo' at all, miss laura?" laura shook her head despondently. sadly, she replied: "no! no one." "dat's too bad." "why?" the negress grinned. significantly, she said: "mis' farley says yuh wouldn't have no trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to." laura averted her head. a chill ran through her. only too well she knew what the girl meant. she wished she would stop gossiping and go. with some display of irritation, she said: "don't talk that way, annie--please." but the negress was not to be put off so easily. in her coarse, brutal way, she felt sorry for the pretty young lady, and aware that in some quarters good looks are negotiable, she felt chagrined that such valuable assets should not be realized upon. playing nervously with a corner of the table-cloth, she continued: "dere's a gemman dat calls on one of de ladies from de circus, in de big front room downstairs. he's mighty nice, and he's been askin' 'bout yo'." "oh, shut up!" cried laura, thoroughly exasperated. the doors of the wardrobe, being loose on their hinges, kept swinging open, and the negress several times had impatiently slammed them shut. turning to laura, she went on: "mis' farley says----" the doors came open again, and hit her in the back. this time the maid lost her temper completely. giving them a vicious push, she exclaimed: "damn dat door!" then going to the washstand, and grabbing a basin which was half-full of water, she emptied it into the waste jar. now thoroughly angry, she went on sourly: "mis' farley says if she don't get some one in the house dat has reg'lar money soon, she'll have to shut up and go to the po'house." a look of distress and annoyance crossed laura's face. it was hard to hear this from a menial. "i'm sorry," she said; "i'll try again to-day." rising from the trunk, she crossed the room, and, taking a desk-pad from the mantel-piece, returned and took a seat at the table. "ain't yo' got any job at all?" demanded annie, who was watching her as closely as she dared. "no." "when yuh come here yuh had lots of money and yo' was mighty good to me. you know mr. weston?" "jim weston?" "yassum, mr. weston, what goes ahead o' shows and lives on the top floor back; he says nobody's got jobs now. dey're so many actors and actresses out o' work. mis' farley says she don't know how she's goin' to live. she said you'd been mighty nice up until three weeks ago, but yuh ain't got much left, have you, miss laura?" the girl shook her head mournfully. "no. it's all gone." the negress threw up her hands and from sheer excitement sat plump down on the bed. "mah sakes!" she exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "all dem rings and things? you ain't done sold them?" "they're pawned," said laura sadly. "what did mrs. farley say she was going to do?" "guess maybe ah'd better not tell." "please do." "yuh been so good to me, miss laura. never was nobody in dis house what give me so much, and ah ain't been gettin' much lately. and when mis' farley said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she would ask yuh for your room, ah jest set right down on de back kitchen stairs and cried. besides, mis' farley don't like me very well since you've been havin' yo' breakfasts and dinners brought up here." "why not?" taking the kimona off the chair-back,' laura went to the dresser, and, putting the kimona in the drawer, took out her purse, an action not unobserved by the stealthy african, who at once grew correspondingly more amiable and communicative. "she has a rule in dis house dat nobody can use huh chiny or fo'ks or spoons who ain't boa'ding heah, and de odder day when yuh asked me to bring up a knife and fo'k she ketched me coming upstairs, and she says, 'where yuh goin' wid all dose things, annie?' ah said, 'ah'm just goin' up to miss laura's room with dat knife and fo'k.' ah said, 'ah'm goin' up for nothin' at all, mis' farley, she jest wants to look at them, ah guess.' she said, 'she wants to eat huh dinner wid 'em, ah guess.' ah got real mad, and ah told her if she'd give me mah pay ah'd brush right out o' here; dat's what ah'd do, ah'd brush right out o' here." she shook out the towel violently, as if to emphasize her indignation. laura could not restrain a smile. "i'm sorry, annie, if i've caused you any trouble. never mind, i'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day, anyway." fumbling in her purse, she took out a quarter, and turned to the servant: "here!" "no, ma'am; ah don' want dat," said annie, making a show of reluctance. "please take it," insisted laura. "no, ma'am; ah don' want it. you need dat. dat's breakfast money for yuh, miss laura." "please take it, annie. i might just as well get rid of this as anything else." rather reluctantly, the negress took the money. with a grin, she said: "yuh always was so good, miss laura. sho' yuh don' want dis?" "sure." "sho' yo' goin' to get plenty mo'?" "sure." suddenly a shrill, feminine voice was heard downstairs, calling loudly: "annie! annie!" the negress hastily went to the door and opened it. "dat's mis' farley!" she said in an undertone. answering in the same key, she shouted: "yassum, mis' farley." "is miss murdock up there?" cried the same voice. "yassum, mis' farley; yassum!" "anything doin'?" "huh?" "anything doin'?" the negress hesitated, and looked at laura. "ah--ah--hain't asked, missy farley." "then do it," said the voice determinedly. laura advanced to the rescue. "i'll answer her," she said. putting her head out of the door, she cried: "what is it, mrs. farley?" the irate landlady's voice underwent a quick change. in a softened voice, she called up: "did ye have any luck this morning, dearie?" "no; but i promise you faithfully to help you out this afternoon or to-morrow." "sure? are you certain?" "absolutely." "well, i must say these people expect me to keep----" there was an exclamation of skeptical impatience, and the door below slammed with a bang. laura quietly closed her door, through which mrs. farley's angry mutterings could still be heard indistinctly. laura sighed, and, walking to the table, sat down again. annie looked at her a moment, and then slowly opened the door. "yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' i can do fo' yuh, miss laura?" "nothing," said laura wearily. the negress reluctantly turned to go. her work now finished, there was no further excuse for remaining. slowly she left the room, carrying her broom and dustpan with her. chapter xi. immediately the maid had disappeared, laura sprang to her feet and picked up john's letter. it was only with the greatest difficulty that she had managed to curb her impatience. eagerly she tore open the envelope. the letter consisted, as usual, of several pages closely written. things were pretty much the same, he said. it was a wonderful country, vast and unconquered, a land where man was constantly at war with the forces of nature. extraordinary finds were being made every day; one literally picked up gold nuggets by the handful. if he and his partner were only reasonably lucky, there was no reason why they should not become enormously rich. he hoped his little girl was happy and prosperous. he was sure she was true. each night when he went to sleep in his tent, he placed two things under his pillow, things that had become necessary to his salvation--a colt revolver and her sweet photograph. he quite understood that it was difficult to secure good engagements, especially since brockton's backing was withdrawn, but he advised her to take heart and accept anything she could get--for the present. it would not be for long. when he came back, rich beyond the dreams of avarice, she would not have to worry about theatre managers any more. she read the letter through hurriedly, re-read it, and then, pressing the missive to her lips, laid it down on the table. "accept anything!" she murmured. "ah, he does not understand. how should he? if only there was something to accept!" rising wearily, she sighed: "hope, just nothing but hope." her mouth quivered, and her bosom, agitated by the emotion she was trying hard to suppress, rose and fell convulsively. he did not understand. how was it possible for her to wait? she had already waited until everything was gone--her rings, her watch and chain, even the clothes on her back. she was absolutely penniless; unless relief came soon she would be turned into the streets. oh, why could he not have guessed the truth from her letters, and come back to her? going to the bed, she fell face down upon it, burying her face in her hands. a convulsive sobbing shook her entire being. it was too hard to bear. she had tried to be brave, but her heart was breaking. ah, if john only knew! what did she care for riches? if only he would come to comfort her and give her courage. for fifteen minutes she lay there, motionless, a pathetic figure of utter despondency. the minutes might have lengthened into hours, when suddenly a hurdy-gurdy in the street below started to play a popular air. often the most trivial and commonplace incident will change the entire current of our thoughts. it was so in this instance. the cheap music had the effect of instantly galvanizing the young actress into life. it suddenly occurred to her that she was ravenously hungry. she rose from the bed, went to the wardrobe and took out a box of crackers. then opening the window, at the same time humming the tune of the hurdy-gurdy, she got a bottle of milk that was standing on the sill outside and placed it on the table. next she went to the washstand and rinsed out a tumbler. while thus engaged, there came a timid knock at the door. startled, not knowing who it could be, unwilling that strangers should detect the traces of tears, she went quickly to the dresser and powdered her nose. the knocking was repeated. "come in!" she called out, without turning round. the door opened and jim weston appeared. he halted on the threshold, holding the knob in his hand. "may i come in?" "hello, jim! of course you may. i'm awfully glad you came. i was feeling horribly blue. any luck?" the advance agent came in, closing the door carefully behind him. "lots of it," he grinned. "that's good," exclaimed laura, who was still at the mirror arranging her hair. "tell me." "it's bad luck--as usual. i kind o' felt around up at burgess's office. i thought i might get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. somehow those fellows always do business to-morrow." laura closed the window, shutting out the sound of the street music, which now could be heard only faintly. grimly, she said: "yes, and there's always to-day to look after." going up to him, she said kindly: "i know just how you feel. sit down, jim." he took a seat near the table, and accepted a dry cracker which she offered him. as he munched it, laura went on: "it's pretty tough for me, but it must be a whole lot worse for you, with a wife and kids." the agent made a wry face. "oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along--turn his hand to anything. but a woman----" "worse, you think?" he eyed her a moment without replying. then he said: "i was just thinking about you and what burgess said." "what was that?" asked the girl indifferently, as she sipped her milk. the agent cleared his throat. with an air of some importance, he said: "you know burgess and i used to be in the circus business together. he took care of the grafters when i was boss canvas man. i never could see any good in shaking down the rubes for all the money they had and then taking part of it. he used to run the privilege car, you know." laura looked puzzled. "privilege car?" she echoed. "yes," he went on, "had charge of all the pick-pockets--dips we called 'em--sure-thing gamblers and the like. made him rich. i kept sort o' on the level and i'm broke. guess it don't pay to be honest----" laura gave him a quick look. in a significant tone of voice, she said: "you don't really think that?" the man shook his head dubiously. "no, maybe not. ever since i married the missis and the first kid come we figured the only good money was the kind folks worked for and earned. but when you can't get hold of that, it's tough." the girl nodded, and, averting her head, looked out of the window. "i know," she said simply. the agent was in a loquacious mood this afternoon, and needed little encouragement to do all the talking. he went on: "burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he turned. he's happy and prosperous, but i guess he ain't any better now than he ought to be." "i guess he isn't," rejoined laura quickly. "i know i've been trying to induce him to give me an engagement, but for some reason i get no satisfaction. there are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that i could do. he has never said absolutely 'no'; but, somehow, he's never said 'yes'." "that's odd," said her visitor, scratching his head, as if puzzled. "he spoke about you to-day." "in what way?" demanded the girl. "i gave him my address, and he saw it was yours, too. he asked if i lived in the same place." "was that all?" "he wanted to know how you was getting on. i let him know you needed work, but i didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. he said something about you being a damned fool." laura looked up in surprise. "how?" she demanded. weston twirled his hat round nervously, and remained silent. "how?" she demanded again. thus encouraged, he proceeded: "well, johnny ensworth--you know he used to do the fights on the _evening screamer_; now he's press agent for burgess; nice fellow and way on the inside--and he told me where you were in wrong." "what have i done?" she asked, taking a seat in the armchair. "burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical comedies--he just trails. of course, he's got a lot of influence, and he's always johnny-on-the-spot to turn any dirty trick that they want. there are four or five rich men in town who are there with the bank-roll, providing he engages women who ain't so very particular about the location of their residence, and who don't hear a curfew ring at eleven-thirty every night." "and he thinks i am too particular?" interrupted laura dryly. "that's what was slipped me. seems that one of the richest men who is in on mr. burgess's address book is that fellow brockton. you're an old friend of his. he's got more money than he knows what to do with. he likes to play show business. and he thought that if you----" rising quickly, the girl went to the wardrobe, and, taking out her hat, picked up a pair of scissors, and proceeded to curl the feathers. the hat was already in so deplorable a condition that this belated home treatment was not likely to help it, but the diversion served its purpose, which was to distract the agent's attention away from her face. "i didn't mean no offence," said jim apologetically. "i thought it was just as well to tell you where he and burgess stand. they're pals." laura jumped up, and, putting the hat and scissors down on the bed, went close up to her visitor. confronting him, she said with angry emphasis: "i don't want you to talk about him or any of them. i just want you to know that i'm trying to do everything in my power to go through this season without any more trouble. i've pawned everything i've got; i've cut every friend i knew. but where am i going to end? that's what i want to know--where am i going to end?" sitting down on the bed, she went on: "every place i look for a position something interferes. it's almost as if i were blacklisted. i know i could get jobs all right, if i wanted to pay the price, but i won't. i just want to tell you, i won't. no!" nervous and restless, she again rose, and, going to the fireplace, rested her elbow on the mantel. the advance agent coughed and nodded his head approvingly. "that's the way to talk," he said. "i don't know you very well, but i've watched you close. i'm just a common, ordinary showman, who never had much money, and i'm going out o' date. i've spent most of my time with nigger minstrel shows and circuses, but i've been on the square. that's why i'm broke." rather sadly he added: "once i thought the missis would have to go back and do her acrobatic act, but she couldn't do that, she's grown so deuced fat." rising and going up to laura, he said: "just you don't mind. it'll all come out right." "it's an awful tough game, isn't it?" she said, averting her face. she wiped away the tears that were silently coursing down her wan cheeks. then, going to the table, she took up the glass, poured the unused milk back in the bottle, and replaced the biscuits in the wardrobe. "tough!" exclaimed the agent. "it's hell forty ways from the jack. it's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, it must be something awful. i ain't blaming the women. they say 'self-preservation is the first law of nature,' and i guess that's right; but sometimes when the show is over and i see them fellows with their hair plastered back, smoking cigarettes in a holder long enough to reach from here to harlem, and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket and turn my head, i feel as if i'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting around this old town." "jim!" protested laura. "yes, i do," he insisted hotly; "you bet!" "that wouldn't pay, would it?" "no; they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in sing sing, and i'm too poor to go to matteawan. but all them fellows under nineteen and over fifty-nine ain't much use to themselves or any one else." "perhaps all of them are not so bad," said laura meditatively. "yes, they are," he insisted angrily; "angels and all. last season i had one of them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a girl. we lost money and he lost his girl; then we got stuck in texas. i telegraphed: 'must have a thousand, or can't move.' he just answered: 'don't move.' we didn't." "but that was business." "bad business," he nodded. "it took a year for some of them folks to get back to broadway. some of the girls never did, and i guess never will." "maybe they're better off, jim." "couldn't be worse. they're still in texas. wish i knew how to do something else--being a plumber or a walking delegate--they always have jobs." "i wish i could do something else, too, but i can't. we've got to make the best of it." weston rose and took his hat. "i guess so. well, i'll see you this evening. i hope you'll have good news by that time." he started to open the door, and then came back a step, and in a voice meant to be kindly, he said: "if you'd like to go to the theatre to-night, and take some other woman in the house, maybe i can get a couple of tickets for one of the shows. i know a lot of fellows who are working." the girl smiled sadly; tears filled her eyes. "no, thanks, jim; i haven't anything to wear to the theatre, and i don't----" he understood. his face broadened into a sympathetic smile, and, putting his arm affectionately round her waist, as a father might with his daughter, he said kindly: "now, you just cheer up! something's sure to turn up. it always has for me, and i'm a lot older than you, both in years and in this business. there's always a break in hard luck some time----" laura dried her eyes, and tried to force a smile. "i hope so," she said. "but things are looking pretty hopeless now, aren't they?" "never mind," he said, as he went toward the door. "i'll go and give mrs. f. a line o' talk and try to square you for a couple of days more, anyway. but i guess she's laying pretty close to the cushion herself, poor woman." "annie says a lot of people owe her." "well, you can't pay what you haven't got. and even if money was growing on trees, it's winter now. i'm off. maybe to-day is lucky day. so long!" "good-by," smiled laura. "keep your nerve," he said, as he closed the door behind him. chapter xii. "keep your nerve!" the words rang mockingly in the girl's ear long after the good-natured advance agent had made his departure. keep her nerve? that was precisely what she was trying to do, and it was proving almost beyond her strength. why had john left her to make this fight alone? he must have known, even better than she, herself, what a terrific, heart-breaking struggle it would be. or did he wish to put her to the test, to find out if her professed determination to live a new and cleaner life was genuine and sincere. if that was his motive, surely she had been tried enough. then, as she gave herself up to reflection, doubts began to creep in, doubts of herself, doubts of him. if he really loved her, truly and unselfishly, would he let her suffer in this way, would he have so completely deserted her? it did not once occur to her that john, being thousands of miles away, could not possibly realize her present plight. a sudden feeling of rebellion came over her. she began to nourish resentment that he should show such little concern, that he should have taken no steps to keep informed of her circumstances. for a long-time she sat in moody silence, engrossed in deep thought, listening only abstractedly to the street sounds without. presently her glance, wandering aimlessly around the room, fell on the letter she had just received from goldfield. she picked it up, as if about to read it; then, as if in anger, she threw it impatiently from her. leaning forward on the table, her face buried in her two hands, she broke down completely: "i can't stand it--i just simply can't stand it," she moaned to herself. a sudden knock on the door caused her to sit up with a jump. rising, confused, as if surprised in some guilty action, she called out: "what is it?" "a lady to see you!" cried annie's shrill voice on the other side of the door. laura went to open. "to see me?" she exclaimed in unaffected surprise. "it's me--elfie," called out a familiar voice below. "may i come up?" laura started. her face turned red and white in turns. elfie st. clair! should she see her, or say she was out? yet, why shouldn't she see her? she needed some one like elfie to cheer her up. drying her eyes, she quickly pulled herself together, and hastened to the top of the stairs. her voice, trembling with suppressed excitement, almost unable to control the agitation that suddenly seized upon her, she cried out: "is that you, elfie?" "yes, shall i come up?" "why, of course--of course!" panting and flushed from the extraordinary exertion of climbing two flights of stairs, elfie at last appeared, gorgeously gowned in the extreme style affected by ladies who contract alliances with wealthy gentlemen without the formality of going through a marriage ceremony. her dress, of the latest fashion and the richest material, with dangling gold handbag and chatelaine, contrasted strangely with laura's shabbiness and the general dinginess of mrs. farley's boarding-house. but the two girls were too glad to see each other to care about anything else. with little cries of delight, they fell into each other's arms. "laura, you old dear!" exclaimed the newcomer in her customary explosive and vivacious manner. "i've just found out where you've been hiding, and came around to see you." "that's awfully good of you, elfie. you're looking bully. how are you, dear?" "fine." "come in, and sit down. i haven't much to offer, but----" laura was visibly embarrassed. even her forced gayety and attempt at cordiality did not quite conceal her nervousness. it was the first time that elfie had seen her living in such surroundings, and, in spite of her efforts to remain cool and self-possessed, her cheeks burned with humiliation. "oh, never mind," said elfie quickly. her first glance had told her how matters stood, but she made no comment. good-naturedly, she rattled on: it's such a grand day outside, and i've come around in my car to take you out. you know, i've got a new one, and it can go some. "i am sorry, but i can't go out this afternoon, elfie." "what's the matter?" "you see, i'm staying home a good deal nowadays. i haven't been feeling very well, and i don't go out much." "i should think not. i haven't seen even a glimpse of you anywhere since you returned from denver. i caught sight of you one day on broadway, but couldn't get you--you dived into some office or other." rising from her chair, for the first time she surveyed the room critically. unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out explosively: "gee! whatever made you come into a dump like this? it's the limit!" laura smiled uneasily. going to the table, she said awkwardly: "oh, i know it isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and, after all--a home's a home." elfie shrugged her shoulders. "looks more like a prison." finding on the mantel a bit of stale candy, she popped it into her mouth from sheer force of habit. but it was no sooner in than, with an expression of disgust, she spat it out on the floor. scornfully, she added: "makes me think of the old days, the dairy kitchen and a hall bedroom," laura sighed. "it's comfortable," she said wearily. "not!" retorted elfie saucily. sitting on the bed, she jumped on the mattress as if trying it: "say, is this here for effect, or do you sleep on it?" "i sleep on it," said laura quietly. "no wonder you look tired," laughed her caller. "say, listen, dearie, what else is the matter with you, anyway?" laura looked up at her companion in pretended surprise. "matter?" she echoed. "why, nothing." "oh, yes, there is," insisted elfie, shaking her head sagaciously. "what's happened between you and brockton?" noticing the faded flowers in the vase on the table, she took them out, and after tossing them into the fireplace, refilled the vase with the fresh gardenias which she was wearing. meantime, she did not stop chattering. "he's not broke, because i saw him the other day." "you saw him? where?" "in the park. he asked me out to luncheon, but i couldn't go. you know, dearie, i've got to be so careful. jerry's so awful jealous--the old fool." laura had to smile in spite of herself. "do you see much of jerry nowadays?" "not any more than i can help and be nice," chuckled elfie. "he gets on my nerves. of course, i have heard about your quitting brockton." "then why do you ask?" demanded laura. "just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the trouble was. now, tell me all about it. can i smoke here?" pulling her gold cigarette-case up with her chatelaine, she opened it, and selected a cigarette. "certainly," said laura, getting the matches from the bureau and putting them on the table. "have one?" said her companion. "no, thank you," said laura, sitting down so that she faced her companion. "h'm-m, h'm-m, hah!" sputtered elfie, lighting her cigarette. "now, go ahead. tell me all the scandal. i'm just crazy to know." "there's nothing to tell," said laura wearily. "i haven't been able to find work, that is all, and i'm short of money. you can't live in hotels, you know, and have cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working." "yes, you can," retorted her visitor. "i haven't worked in a year." "but you don't understand, dear. i--i--well, you know, i--well, you know--i can't say what i want." "oh, yes, you can. you can say anything to me--everybody else does. we've been pals. i know you got along a little faster in the business than i did. the chorus was my limit, and you went into the legitimate thing. but we got our living just the same way. i didn't suppose there was any secret between you and me about that." "i know there wasn't then, elfie; but i tell you i'm different now. i don't want to do that sort of thing, and i've been very unlucky. this has been a terribly hard season for me. i simply haven't been able to get an engagement." "well, you can't get on this way," said elfie. she paused a moment, knocking the ashes off her cigarette to cover her hesitation, and then went on: "won't brockton help you out?" laura rose abruptly and walked over to the fireplace. with some display of impatience, she exclaimed: "what's the use of talking to you, elfie? you don't understand." her legs crossed in masculine style, and puffing the cigarette deliberately, elfie looked at her friend quizzingly: "no?" she said mockingly. "why don't i understand?" "because you can't," cried laura hotly; "you've never felt as i have." "how do you know?" demanded the other, with an elevation of her eyebrows. laura made a gesture of impatience. "oh, what's the use of explaining?" she cried. her visitor looked at her for a moment without making reply. then, with the serious, reproachful manner of a mother reproving a wayward child, she said: "you know, laura, i'm not much on giving advice, but you make me sick. i thought you'd grown wise. a young girl just butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought to be onto the game, and make the best of it." laura was fast losing her temper. her eyes flashed, and her hands worked nervously. angrily, she exclaimed: "if you came up here, elfie, to talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. out west this summer, i met some one, a real man, who did me a lot of good. you know him. you introduced him to me that night at the restaurant. well, we met again in denver. i learned to love him. he opened my eyes to a different way of going along. he's a man who--oh, well, what's the use! you don't know--you don't know." she tossed her head disdainfully as if the matter was not worthy of further discussion, and sank down on the bed. elfie, who had listened attentively, removed the cigarette from her mouth, and threw it into the fireplace. scornfully, she said: "i don't know, don't i? i don't know, i suppose, then, when i came to this town from up-state--a little burg named oswego--and joined a chorus, that i didn't fall in love with just such a man. i suppose i don't know that then i was the best-looking girl in new york, and everybody talked about me? i suppose i don't know that there were men, all ages, and with all kinds of money, ready to give me anything for the mere privilege of taking me out to supper? and i didn't do it, did i? for three years i stuck by this good man, who was to lead me in a good way, toward a good life. and all the time i was getting older, never quite so pretty one day as i had been the day before. i never knew then what it was to be tinkered with by hairdressers and manicures, or a hundred and one of those other people who make you look good. i didn't have to have them then." rising, she went up to the table and faced her companion. "well, you know, laura, what happened." "wasn't it partly your fault, elfie?" her friend leaned across the table, her face flushed with anger. "was it my fault that time made me older and i took on a lot of flesh? was it my fault that the work and the life took out the color, and left the make-up? was it my fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as i'd come, and were chased after, just as i was? was it my fault the cabs weren't waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty i was? and was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no one else wanted me, he got tired and threw me flat----" bringing her hand down on the table with a bang, she added: "cold flat--and i'd been on the dead level with him." with almost a sob, she went up to the bureau, powdered her nose, and returned to the table. "it almost broke my heart. then i made up my mind to get even and get all i could out of the game. jerry came along. he was a has-been, and i was on the road to be. he wanted to be good to me, and i let him. that's all!" "still, i don't see how you can live that way," said laura, lying back on the bed. "well, you did," retorted elfie, "and you didn't kick." "yes," rejoined laura calmly, "but things are different with me now. you'd be the same way if you were in my place." "no," laughed elfie mockingly, "i've had all the romance i want, and i'll stake you to all your love affairs. i am out to gather in as much coin as i can in my own way, so when the old rainy day comes along i'll have a little change to buy myself an umbrella." laura started angrily to her feet. hotly she cried: "what did you come here for? why can't you leave me alone when i'm trying to get along?" "because i want to help you," retorted elfie calmly. with tears streaming down her cheeks, almost hysterical, laura tossed aside the quilt and sank down in a heap on the bed. "you can't help me!" she sobbed. "i'm all right--i tell you i am." peevishly she demanded: "what do you care, anyway?" elfie rose, and going over to the bed, sat down and took her old chum's hand. quietly she said: "but i do care. i know how you feel with an old cat for a landlady, and living up here on a side street with a lot of cheap burlesque people." laura snatched her hand away, and going up to the window, turned her back. it was a direct snub, but elfie did not care. unabashed, she went on: "why, the room's cold, and there's no hot water, and you're beginning to look shabby. you haven't got a job--chances are you won't have one." pointing contemptuously to the picture of john madison over the bed, she went on: "what does that fellow do for you? send you long letters of condolences? that's what i used to get. when i wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a silk petticoat he told me how much he loved me; so i had the other ones re-soled and turned the old petticoat. and look at you--you're beginning to show it." surveying her friend's face more closely, she went on: "i do believe there are lines coming in your face, and you hide in the house because you've nothing to wear." jumping off the bed, laura went quickly to the dresser, and picking up the hand mirror, looked carefully at herself. then laying the glass down, she turned and faced the other. sharply she retorted: "but i've got what you haven't got. i may have to hide my clothes, but i don't have to hide my face. and you with that man--he's old enough to be your father--a toddling dote, hanging on your apron strings. i don't see how you dare show your face to a decent woman!" it was elfie's turn now to lose her temper. she rose, flushed with anger. "you don't, eh?" she cried hotly. "but you did once, and i never caught you hanging your head. you say he's old. i know he's old, but he's good to me. he's making what's left of my life pleasant. you think i like him. i don't--sometimes i hate him--but he understands; and you can bet your life his cheque is in my mail every saturday night, or there's a new lock on the door sunday morning." "how dare you say such things to me?" exclaimed laura indignantly. "because i want you to be square with yourself. you've lost all that precious virtue women gab about. when you've got the name, i say get the game." almost speechless from anger, laura pointed to the door. "you can go now, elfie, and don't come back!" "all right," exclaimed elfie, gathering up her muff and gloves, "if that's the way you want it to be, i'm sorry." she was hurrying toward the door, when suddenly there came a knock. laura, with an effort, controlled herself. "come in," she called out. annie entered, with a note, which she handed to laura. "mis' farley sent dis, miss laura." laura read the note. a look of mingled annoyance and embarrassment came into her face. "there's no answer," she said sharply, crushing the note up in her hand. but annie was not to be put off. "she tol' me not to leave until ah got an answah." "you must ask her to wait," retorted laura doggedly. "she wants an answer," persisted the negress. "tell her i'll be right down--that it will be all right." "but, miss laura, she tol' me to get an answah." she went out reluctantly, closing the door. "she's taking advantage of your being here," exclaimed laura apologetically, half to herself and half to her visitor. "how?" demanded elfie. "she wants money--three weeks' room-rent. i presume she thought you'd give it to me." "huh!" exclaimed the other, tossing her head. changing her tone, laura went up to her. "elfie," she said, "i've been a little cross; i didn't mean it." "well?" demanded her companion. "could--could you lend me thirty-five dollars until i get to work?" "me?" demanded her visitor, in indignant astonishment. "you actually have the face to ask me to lend you thirty-five dollars?" "yes, you've got plenty of money to spare." "well, you certainly have got a nerve!" exclaimed elfie. "you might give it to me," pleaded laura. "i haven't a dollar in the world, and you pretend to be such a friend to me!" elfie turned angrily. "so that's the kind of a woman you are, eh? a moment ago you were going to kick me out of the place because i wasn't decent enough to associate with you. you know how i live. you know how i get my money--the same way you got most of yours. and now that you've got this spasm of goodness, i'm not fit to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. you'll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while you try to play the grand lady. i've got your number now, laura. where in hell is your virtue, anyway? you can go to the devil, rich, poor, or any other way. i'm off!" she rushed toward the door. for a moment laura stood speechless; then, with a loud cry, she broke down and burst into hysterics: "elfie! elfie! don't go now! don't leave me now! don't go!" her visitor stood hesitating, with one hand on the doorknob. laura went on: "i can't stand it. i can't be alone. don't go, please, don't go!" she fell into her friend's arms, sobbing. on the instant elfie's hardness of demeanor changed. with all her coarseness, she was a good-natured woman at heart. melting into the tenderest womanly sympathy, she tried her best to express herself in her crude way. leading the weeping girl to the armchair, she made her sit down. then, seating herself on the arm, she put her arm round her old chum and hugged her to her breast. "there, old girl," she said soothingly, "don't cry, don't cry. you just sit down here and let me put my arms around you. i'm awful sorry--on the level, i am. i shouldn't have said it, i know that. but i've got feelings, too, even if folks don't give me credit for it." laura looked up through her tears. "i know, elfie, i've gone through about all i can stand." her friend smoothed her by stroking her hair. "well, i should say you have--and more than i would. anyway, a good cry never hurts any woman. i have one myself sometimes, under cover." as laura recovered control of herself, she grew meditative. musingly she said: "perhaps what you said was true." "we won't talk about it--there!" said elfie, drying her friend's eyes and kissing her. "but perhaps it was true," persisted laura, "and then----" "and then----" "i think i've stood this just as long; as i can. every day is a living horror----" elfie nodded acquiescence. glancing round the room, she exclaimed, with a comical grimace of disgust: "it's the limit!" "i've got to have money to pay the rent," continued laura anxiously. "i've pawned everything i have, except the clothes on my back----" elfie threw her arms consolingly round her friend. "i'll give you all the money you need, dearie. great heavens, don't worry about that! don't you care if i got sore and--lost my head." laura shook her head. "no, i can't let you do that. you may have been mad--awfully mad--but what you said was the truth. i can't take your money." "oh, forget that!" laughed elfie. laura put up a hand to cool her burning forehead. looking out of the window, she said wistfully: "maybe--maybe if he knew all about it--the suffering--he wouldn't blame me." "who?" cried elfie sarcastically. "the good man who wanted to lead you to the good life without even a bread-basket for an advance agent? huh!" "he doesn't know how desperately poor i am," explained laura half-apologetically. "he knows you're out of work, don't he?" "not exactly. i told him it was difficult to find an engagement, but he has no idea that things are as they are." "then you're a chump!" declared elfie, with an expressive shrug of her shoulders. "hasn't he sent you anything?" "he hasn't anything to send." elfie bounded with indignant surprise. "what? then what does he think you're going to live on--asphalt croquettes with conversation sauce?" sinking down on a chair, laura gave way again. "i don't know--i don't know!" she cried, sobbing. elfie went over to her friend and placed her arms about her. "don't be foolish, dearie. you know there is somebody waiting for you--somebody who'll be good to you and get you out of this mess." laura looked up quickly. "you mean will brockton?" she said, fixing her companion with a steady stare. "yes." "do you know where he is?" "yes." "well?" "you won't get sore again if i tell you, will you?" laura rose. "no--why?" she said. "he's downstairs--waiting in the car. i promised to tell him what you said." "then it was all planned, and--and----" "now, dearie, i knew you were up against it, and i wanted to bring you two together. he's got half of the burgess shows, and if you'll only see him, everything will be fixed." "when does he want to see me?" "now." "here?" "yes. shall i tell him to come up?" motionless as a statue, laura made no sign. her face pale as death, her hands clasped in front of her, she stood as if transfixed, staring out of the window. "shall i tell him to come up?" repeated elfie impatiently. still no answer for a long moment that seemed like an hour. then all at once, with a quick, convulsive movement, as if by a determined effort she had succeeded in conquering her own will, she turned and cried, with a half sob: "yes--yes--tell him to come up!" elfie sprang joyously forward. her arguments had not been in vain, after all. kissing her friend's cold cheeks, she exclaimed: "now you're a sensible dear. i'll bet he's half-frozen down there. i'll send him up at once." anxious to get brockton there before the girl had a chance to change her mind, she was hurrying toward the door, when she happened to notice laura's red eyes and tear-stained face. that would never do. coming back, she exclaimed: "look at you, laura! you're a perfect sight!" throwing her gloves and muff onto a chair, she led the girl to the washstand, and taking a towel, wiped her eyes and face. "it'll never do to have him see you looking like this!" she said. "now, laura, i want you to promise me you won't do any more crying. come over here and let me powder your nose----" incapable of further resistance, feeling herself a helpless victim in the hands of irrevocable fate, laura followed docilely to the dresser, where elfie took the powder-puff and powdered her face. this done, she daubed her cheeks with the rouge-paw and pencilled her lips and eyebrows. as she worked, she rattled on: "now, when he comes up, you tell him he has got to blow us all off to a swell dinner to-night--seven-thirty. let me look at you----" laura put up her face like an obedient child. elfie kissed her. "now you're all right," she said cheerfully. "make it strong, now--seven-thirty, don't forget. i'll be there. so-long." going to the armchair and gathering up the muff and gloves she had thrown there, elfie left the room. chapter xiii. for a minute or two laura remained motionless. sinking inertly onto a chair after the door closed, she sat still, engrossed in deep thought. this, then, was the end of her good resolutions and her hopes of regeneration! what would _he_ say? would he care and grieve after her, or would he treat it as a jest, an idle romance with which they had amused themselves those happy midsummer days in denver? yes--it was a dream--nothing more. life was too hard, too brutal for such ideal longings to be possible of realization. it was just as well that she had come to her senses before it was too late. rising with a sigh, she crossed to the other side of the room, and halting at the wardrobe, stood contemplating john's portrait which was tacked up there. then calmly, deliberately, she loosened the nails with a pair of scissors and took the picture down. proceeding to the dresser, she picked up the small picture in the frame; then, kneeling on the mattress, she pulled down the large picture of him that was over the bed, and placed all three portraits under a pillow. barely was this done, when there was a sharp rap at the door. "come in," she called out. the door opened, and brockton entered, well groomed and immaculately dressed. for a moment he stood irresolute on the threshold, just looking at her. there was obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them. laura went toward him, with hand extended. "hello, laura," he said pleasantly. "i'm--i'm glad to see you, will." "thank you." "won't you sit down?" she said timidly. "thank you again," he smiled. quickly regaining his ease of manner, he put his hat and cane on the table, took off his overcoat, which he placed on the back of the armchair, and sat down. "it's rather cold, isn't it?" said laura, taking a seat opposite him. "just a bit sharp." "you came with elfie in the car?" "she picked me up on broadway; we lunched together." "by appointment?" she asked quickly. "i'd asked her," he answered dryly. "well?" she demanded. "well, laura," he replied calmly. "she told you?" he shrugged his shoulders carelessly. "not a great deal. what do you want to tell me?" avoiding his direct glance, she said very simply: "will, i'm ready to come back." with an effort, the broker concealed his sense of triumph and satisfaction. rising quickly, he went up to her. taking her hand, he said tenderly: "i'm mighty glad of that, laura. i've missed you like the very devil." visibly embarrassed, she asked timidly: "do we--do we have to talk it over much?" "not at all unless you want to. i understand--in fact, i always have." "yes," she said wearily, "i guess you always did. i didn't." "it will be just the same as it was before, you know." "yes--of course----" "i didn't think it was possible for me to miss anyone the way i have you. i've been lonely." she smiled faintly: "it's nice in you to say that." drawing back a few steps he cast a hurried glance around the room. "you'll have to move out of here right away. this place is enough to give one the colly-wabbles. if you'll be ready to-morrow, i'll send my man over to help you take care of the luggage." "to-morrow will be all right, thank you," she replied. he put his hand in his pocket and took out a big roll of money. peeling off five yellow-backed bills and placing them on the table, he said: "and you'll need some money in the meantime. i'll leave this here." "you seem to have come prepared," she smiled. "did elfie and you plan all this out?" he chuckled as he replied: "not planned--just hoped. i think you'd better go to some nice hotel now. later we can arrange." she offered no objection, accepting everything suggested as a matter of course. having sold herself, as it were, to the highest bidder, it was not her place to raise any further obstacles. dispassionately, therefore, she said: "will, we'll always be frank. i said i was ready to go. it's up to you--when and where." he smiled, surprised to find her so tractable. "the hotel scheme is the best, but, laura----" "yes?" he looked at her keenly, trying to penetrate beneath the surface of her almost unnatural calm. he did not wish to be fooled again. "you're quite sure this is in earnest?" he demanded. "you don't want to change? you've time enough now." she shook her head. "i've made up my mind. it's final," she said positively. "if you want to work," he went on, "burgess has a nice part for you. i'll telephone and arrange if you say so." "please do. say i'll see him in the morning." the broker rose and paced nervously up and down the room. so far so good, but he had not yet finished. there was still something unpleasant that must be attended to before all was settled, and now was the proper and only time to do it. turning abruptly, he said: "laura, you remember when we were in denver----" starting forward, the girl raised one hand entreatingly. for the moment her studied quiet was laid aside. "please, please don't speak of that!" she cried. brockton stood still, looking her squarely in the eyes. his manner was extremely serious and determined. "i'm sorry," he said, "but i've got to." slowly and deliberately he went on: "last summer, in denver, i told john madison that if this time ever came--when you would return to me of your own free will--i'd have you write him the truth. before we go any further, i'd like you to do that--now." even under her cosmetics, the girl grew a shade paler. in a trembling, uncertain voice, she faltered: "say good-by?" "just that," said brockton firmly. she looked distressed. the muscles about the corners of her mouth worked convulsively. "i wouldn't know how to begin. it will hurt him terribly." "it will be worse if you don't," insisted the broker. "he'll like you the better for telling him. it would be honest, and that is what he expects." she knew he was right, and that there was no way out of it, yet this was the hardest ordeal of all. in her heart she knew she was lying--lying to brockton, lying to john, lying to herself. but she must lie, for she had not the strength to resist. the world was too hard, the suffering too great. what could she tell john--that she had ceased to love him and gone back to her old life? how he would despise her! yet it must be----. her eyes blinded with scalding tears, she asked: "must i write--now?" "i think you should," he replied kindly but firmly. dropping onto a seat near the table, she took up a pen. "how shall i begin?" she asked tremulously. he looked at her in surprise. "do you mean that you don't know what to say?" she nodded and turned away her head, not daring to let him see her white, tear-stained face. he made a step forward. "then i'll dictate a letter," he said. "that's right," she half-sobbed. "i'll do just as you say. you're the one to tell me now----" "address it the way you want to," he said. "i'm going to be pretty brutal. in the long run, i think that is best, don't you?" "it's up to you," she said quietly. "ready?" "begin." looking-over her shoulder, while she put pen to paper, he began to dictate: "this is the last letter you will ever receive from me. all is over between us. i need not enter into explanations. i have tried and i have failed. do not think badly of me. it was beyond my strength. good-by. i shall not tell you where i've gone, but remind you of what brockton told you the last time he saw you. he is here now, dictating this letter. what i am doing is voluntary--my own suggestion. don't grieve. be happy and successful. i do not love you----" when she came to the last sentence, she stopped, laid her pen down, and looked up at the broker. "will--please--" she protested. but he insisted. "it has got to go just that way," he said determinedly. "'i do not love you.' sign it 'laura.' fold it, put it in an envelope--seal it--address it. shall i mail it?" she hesitated, and then stammered: "no. if you don't mind, i'd sooner mail it myself. it's a sort of a last--last message, you know. i'd like to send it myself." brockton went to the armchair, took his coat, and put it on. "all right," he said cheerily. "you're a little upset now, and i'm going. we are all to dine together to-night at seven-thirty. there'll be a party. of course you'll come." "i don't think i can," she answered, with some embarrassment. "you see----" he understood. nodding and pointing to the money he had left on the table, he said: "i know. i guess there's enough there for your immediate needs. later you can straighten things up. shall i send the car?" "yes, please." he drew nearer and bent over her, as if about to caress her. instinctively she shrank from his embrace. what at any other time would have appeared perfectly natural was now repugnant to her. it seemed indecent when the ink on her letter to john madison was not yet dry. "please don't," she said. "remember, we don't dine until seven-thirty." "all right," he laughed, as he took his hat and cane and went out of the door. for a few minutes after his departure laura sat in meditative silence. there was no drawing back now. she had accepted this man's money. she must go on to the end, no matter where it led her. she had sold herself; henceforth she was this man's slave and chattel. suddenly she was seized with a feeling of disgust. she loathed herself for her weakness, her lack of stamina, her cowardice. she did not deserve that a decent man should love or respect her. angry at herself, angry with the world, she rose, and going to the dresser, got the alcohol lamp and placed it on the table. while she was lighting it there came a knock at the door. "come in," she called out. annie entered. "is that you, annie?" "yassum," said the negress. laura took the bank notes which brockton had left and threw them on the table. with affected carelessness, she said: "mrs. farley wants her rent. there is some money. take it to her." approaching the table, the negress' eyes nearly started out of her head when she caught sight of the bank notes. bewildered, she exclaimed: "dey ain't nothin' heah, miss laura, but five great big one hundred dollah bills!" "take two," said laura. "and look in that upper drawer. you'll find some pawn-tickets there." "yassum," said the negress, obeying instructions. "dat's real money--dem's yellow backs, sure!" "take the two top ones," continued laura, "and go get my lace gown and one of the hats. the ticket is for a hundred and ten dollars. keep ten for yourself, and hurry." annie gasped from sheer excitement. "ten for myself?" she grinned. "i never seen so much money. yassum, miss laura, yassum." as she went toward the door she turned round, and said: "ah'm so mighty glad yo' out all yo' trouble, miss laura. i says to mis' farley, now----" laura cut her off short. "don't--don't!" she exclaimed sharply. "go do as i tell you, and mind your business." annie turned sullenly and walked toward the door. at that moment laura noticed the letter which still lay on the table. she called the maid back: "wait a minute. i want you to mail a letter." picking up the letter, she held it out to the negress, who put out her hand to receive it. laura still hesitated. looking at the envelope long and wistfully, her nerve failed her. dismissing the girl with a gesture, she said: "never mind. i'll mail it myself." the negress went out. when the door shut behind her, laura went quickly to the table and held the letter over the flame of the alcohol lamp. the envelope speedily ignited. as it burned she held it for a moment in her fingers, and when half-consumed, threw it into a waste-jar. sitting on the side of the bed, she watched the letter burn, and when the last tiny flame flickered out, she sank down on the bed, her head supported on her elbows, her chin resting in her hands, thinking, thinking. chapter xiv. hugging the grateful warmth of an expiring camp fire, the figures of two stalwart men lay stretched out on the hard, frozen ground, bundled up in heavy army blankets. the mercury was forty-five below zero and still falling, but they did not appear to mind. gaunt and hollow-eyed, enfeebled from long fasting, they had succumbed at last to utter physical exhaustion, and fallen into a sound and merciful sleep. all nature slept with them. the distant howling of wolves and the occasional scream of an eagle only served to intensify the universal stillness. the sepulchral silence of the far north enveloped everything like an invisible mantle. away to the east, the first gray mists of approaching daylight were creeping over the jagged mountain tops. the cold was intense. the snow was so deep in spots that the entire landscape was obliterated; only the trees, marvellously festooned with lace-like icicles, and a few huge, fire-scarred rocks which here and there thrust their jagged points above the surface, remained of the desolate marsh and forest land. everywhere, as far as the eye could carry, was a trackless waste of snow drift. the men lay motionless; only by their deep, rhythmical breathing could one know that they were alive. dead to the world, they were as insensible to the cutting wind which, with the force of a half-gale, swept over the icy plains, sending the last flickering embers of their fire up in a cloud of flying sparks, as they were to the pain in their fever-racked bodies. it was lucky they were still able to make a fire. the flames gave them warmth and kept the wolves at bay. but for that and the occasional small game they had been able to shoot, they would have perished long ago, and then the gold-fever would have claimed two victims more. for days and days they had tramped aimlessly through that wild region, prospecting for the yellow metal, until, footsore and weary, nature at last gave way. they had lost their bearings and could go no farther. miles away from the nearest human habitation, they were face to face with death from starvation. then the weather changed; it suddenly grew very cold; before they knew it, the blizzard was upon them. the suffering had been terrible, the obstacles inconceivable, yet they never faltered. a goal lay before them, and they pushed right on, determined to attain it. the prospector for gold plays for heavy stakes--a fortune or his life. never willing to acknowledge defeat, undeterred by continual, heart-breaking disappointment, still he pushes on. spurred by the irresistible lure of gold, there is no place so dangerous or so difficult of access that he will not penetrate to it. in winter he perishes of cold, in summer he is overcome by the heat, yet no matter. nothing short of death itself can stop him in his determined, insensate quest for wealth. it grew gradually lighter. the sky was overcast and threatening. a light snow began to fall. one of the men shivered and opened his eyes. looking stupidly about him, with a long-drawn-out yawn, first at the dying fire, then at his still unconscious mate, he jumped up with a shout. at first he was too dazed with sleep to stand straight, and his teeth chattered from the cold. he was also ravenously hungry. but first they must think of the fire. that must be kept up at all costs. he was so weak that he staggered, and his clothes hung from him in rags; but shambling over to where his companion lay, he shook him roughly: "hello, jim--hello, there! the d----d fire is almost out. quick, man!" thus unceremoniously aroused from his trance-like slumber, john madison, or what remained of him, lifted his head and painfully raised himself on one elbow. he was a pitiable-looking object. his hair, all dishevelled and matted, hung down over haggard-looking eyes; his cheeks were hollow from hunger, his ghastly pale face, livid from the cold, was covered with several weeks' growth of beard. from head to foot he was filthy and neglected from lack of the necessaries of life, and there was in his staring eyes a haunted, terrified look--the look of a man who has been face to face with death and yet lived to tell the tale. his remaining rags barely covered his emaciated, trembling frame. shoes had gone long ago. his bleeding, frost-bitten feet were partly protected with coarse sacking tied with string. no one could have recognized in this human derelict the strapping specimen of proud manhood who six weeks before had said good-by to laura and started out light-heartedly to conquer the world. instead, the world had conquered him. throwing off the blanket, he staggered to his feet. he felt sick and dizzy. once he reeled and nearly fell. twenty hours without food takes the backbone out of any man, and it was as bad as that, with no prospect of anything better. weakly he stooped, and gathering up a little snow, put it in his mouth. then his face winced with pain. the hunger pangs were there again. stamping the ground and exercising his arms vigorously for a few moments, to get his blood in circulation, he turned, and, stooping down again to his couch, drew from under the roll of blanket that had served him for a pillow, a formidable-looking colt six-shooter and a girl's photograph. the colt he slipped between his rags; the picture he pressed to his lips. "god bless you, little one!" he murmured. his companion, who was busy bending over the fire, trying to coax it back to life, happened to look up. "say, young feller!" he bellowed. "cut out that mush, and lend a hand with this fire. get some wood, and plenty--quick!" madison made no retort. he was too weak to care. besides, bill was right. he had no business to think only of himself when they were both making a last stand for life itself. hastily gathering an armful of small twigs, he threw them on the fire. as he watched the flames leap up, his mate still grumbled: "this ain't no time for foolin'. i should think yer'd try to get us out of this mess, instead of wastin' time mooning-over that picture." madison stooped over the fire and warmed his frozen hands. shivering, he said: "bill--you don't know--how can you know?--what that picture means to me. it's all that's left to me. i never expect to see her again. i guess we'll both leave our carcasses here for the vultures to feed on. i can't go on much longer like this without food or shelter. i'm almost ready to cash in myself." the other doggedly bit on a piece of ice and said nothing. madison continued: "if i gave up three square meals a day and a comfortable bed to come out here and die in this infernal hole, it was only for her sake. we were to get married soon. i promised to go back with a fortune, and she said she'd wait for me----" the figure crouching on the other side of the fire chuckled grimly: "wait for you, eh?" he echoed dubiously. "yes, wait for me--why not?" snapped john. the other shook his head. "she may and she may not. it depends on the gal. where is she?" "new york." "working?" "yes--in a fashion. she's an actress." "oh!" bill gave another derisive chuckle. irritated, john demanded hotly: "what's the matter?" "queer lot--actresses!" grinned bill. "never knew no good of 'em." john's eyes flashed dangerously, and weak though he was, he sprang up and put his hand to his hip. before he drew his gun, his mate apologized. "no offense, pard. i didn't mean no harm. i guess if she's your gal, she's all right. no offense." madison, mollified, sat down again. warmly he said: "ah, bill--you don't know--you don't know. she means everything to me. i'd sooner cut my throat than think her false for one instant. why--she'd wait for me if it took years. i know her; you don't. she's the best girl in the world." bill nodded. sententiously he said: "that's the right line o' talk, i guess, for a feller wot's in love, but it's not goin' to help us find the trail. we've got to get on and find something to eat. jist at present, wittles is more to the point than spooning." bill branigan was an original. an irish-american, he was earning good wages in one of the chicago stockyards when the gold rush to alaska began. attacked like many others with the get-rich-quick fever, he went to the yukon, and later found his way to goldfield, nevada, where he met madison. the two men were instantly attracted to each other. superb specimens of hardy manhood, both were ambitious, fearless, thirsty for adventure. bill proposed a partnership--a risk-all, divide-all agreement. his other scheme having failed, madison was glad enough to accept the offer. so with renewed hope and determination, both men turned their faces to the setting sun, and wandered across the mountain ranges, looking for gold. a loquacious indian, after being generously dosed with "firewater," had told them of a lonely unknown place in the wilderness, where the ground was literally strewn with gold. nuggets as big as a man's fist, he said, could be found by merely scratching the surface of the soil. they swallowed the yarn with the necessary grain of salt; but in the gold region, where so many miracles have happened, nothing is deemed impossible. the wildest romance receives credence. vast fortunes had been made over night on clues no less preposterous. anyhow, it was worth investigating. so, quietly, almost stealthily, taking no one into their confidence, they started north. after days of strenuous tramping and effort, climbing hills, fording streams, cutting through impenetrable brushwood, they finally reached the region of which the indian had given a fairly accurate description. nearly two hundred miles from the nearest camp, on the top of a mountain plateau, the country was as wild and desolate as it is possible to imagine. probably no white man had ever set foot there before. soon their supplies ran low, and as they advanced further into the wilderness, and game grew scarcer, it became more difficult to find food. in addition to hunger, they suffered severely from the cold, and the jagged rocks tearing their boots made them footsore. of gold they had seen a few traces, but the ore was not present in such quantities as to encourage them to believe they had stumbled across another el dorado, or even to make it worth their while to stake out a claim. branigan, disappointed, was in favor of going back. the indian was lying, he said. there was danger of getting lost in the mountains. the severe winter storms were about due. prudence counselled caution. john took an opposite view. they had picked up several lumps of quartz streaked with yellow. if gold was there in minute particles, he argued, it was there also in larger quantities. the only thing was to have patience, to go on prospecting, and ferret out the hiding-place where jealous nature secreted her treasures. so they had struggled on, hoping against hope, thinking they would soon come across a trapper's hut, fighting for mere existence each inch of the way, becoming more bewildered and demoralized as they realized the gravity of their plight, advancing further and further into the merciless desert, literally stumbling into the jaws of death. then came the snow, and the faint indian trails were completely obliterated. this put the climax on their misery. now there was no knowing where they were. having no compass, they were hopelessly lost. in clear weather it was possible to find the right direction by the stars, but the sky, long-overcast and menacing, vouchsafed no sign. even if the road could be found, escape was impossible. starved and footsore, they were now so weak that they were scarcely able to drag themselves along. yet move they must; to remain in one spot meant to fall down and go to sleep and perish. they had had nothing to eat for days except snow and some roots which bill dug up from under the snow. once they were attacked by wolves. madison shot one of their pursuers with his revolver, and the rest of the pack turned tail and ran. the dead wolf they ate. they did not stop to cook it, but devoured it raw, like famished dogs worrying a bone. it saved their lives for a time, and then the hunger pangs began again, terrible, incessant. the freshly stacked fire send clouds of smoke skywards, and its crimson glow, casting a vivid light on the two men crouching close by, made their abject figures stand out with startling distinctness against the gray background of the snow-clad landscape. madison, who had long been silent, staring stolidly into the flames, listening absent-mindedly to his companion's arguments, at last broke in: "gold! i'm sick of gold--sick of the very word. i'd give all the gold there is in the world just to see laura once again. that's all i'd ask--to see her just once. then i'd be willing to die in peace. she has no idea of this. do you think they'll ever know? maybe some one will find our bodies." bill made no answer. he was paying no attention. his mind was too weak to grasp what was said. he had only one thought--one fixed thought--and that was--gold. pointing off in the distance, where a mass of moss-covered rock rose like some gigantic vessel in an ocean of snow, he said in a thick, uncertain voice: "john, my boy, i had a dream last night. i dreamt i tried some of them high spots yonder. i struck the rock with my pick, and suddenly i was dazzled. wet flakes of shining gold stared up at me from the quartz. i struck again, and there was more gold. i pulled the moss from it, and everywhere there was gold. i struck right and left, and a perfect shower of nuggets as big as my head rolled at my feet. then i woke up." "yes," said john sarcastically, "then you woke up." bill nodded stupidly. "i know it was only a dream," he said, "but somehow i can't get the gold out of my head. i've a notion to go and try them rocks. you might try in the other direction." john shrugged his shoulders. "won't do any harm as i know of," he said wearily. "go and try. i'll stay here a while and nurse my frost bites. when i'm rested i'll go and try my luck." his mate rose, and taking his pick, the weight of which was almost too much for his strength, said cheerily: "if i find anything, i'll holler," he said. "i guess you won't holler," replied his comrade, with a wan smile. when his mate had disappeared, madison remained sitting by the fire, staring meditatively into its red depths. he was not thinking of gold just then, but of a golden-haired girl who was thousands of miles away, little dreaming of the unexpected fate that had befallen him. he wondered what laura was doing, if she was happy and successful. she had written in rather discouraging tone, saying it seemed impossible to find the right kind of engagement, but of course that was long ago, at the beginning of the season. letters took so long to come from new york. by this time she must have found something she liked, and in which she could do herself justice. he did not like to see her on the stage. it was an artificial, unhealthy life. he had intended, when they were married, taking her away from her former surroundings for good. it would not be necessary for her to earn her living. he could have made enough for both. when they were married! what cruel irony that sounded now. perhaps she would never hear of his fate. inquiries would be made at goldfield and search parties might be sent to scour the brush, but it would be too late. they would find only their dead bodies, picked clean by the birds of prey. how happy he might have been. after all his many years, he at last had found a girl who really cared for him, a girl who was willing to give up everything for his sake, a girl whose firmness of character he could not help but respect. what had he cared what her past had been? the very fact that she had been willing to abandon her luxurious way of living, and endure comparative poverty for his sake, was proof enough of her sincerity. he had hoped she would not have to make a sacrifice long. one day he thought he would make a lucky "strike" and go back laden with gold, which he would pour into her lap. how delighted and surprised she would have been. he would have given her a fine house, automobiles, beautiful gowns, precious jewels, everything money can buy. nothing would have been too good to reward her weary months of waiting. and now---- rising wearily to his feet, he threw some more wood on the fire, and then snatching up a short steel pick, proceeded in the direction opposite to that taken by branigan. he soon reached the foothills, and began work scraping the moss-covered rocks, striking deep into boulders, turning over the soil, his eye watchful for a glimpse of glittering gold particles. he toiled for a couple of hours, till his hands were blistered and his muscles ached. there was no sign of his companion. he hollered several times at the top of his voice, but receiving no response, he concluded that bill, in his prospecting, had wandered farther away than he intended. there was no reason for uneasiness. if he did not return soon, he would go in search of him. as he toiled on mechanically, he pondered: even if they were lucky and got out of this plight, it would be years before he was on his feet again. he would not be able to support himself, let alone a wife. it might be months, years before his luck turned again. would she wait? suddenly his brow darkened. he clenched his fist, and the veins on his temple swelled up like whipcord. had she waited? he remembered bill's scoffing words. could it be true of laura? was she false to him? the possibility of such a thing had never entered his head before, but now he was tortured with the agonies and doubts of insensate, unreasoning jealousy. maybe she had found it harder than she anticipated. compelled to economize, deprived of luxuries that had become necessities, perhaps she had repented her bargain and gone back to that scoundrel brockton. possibly at that very moment she was in the broker's arms. the thought was maddening. a cold sweat broke out all over him at the very thought of it what would he do if he found her false? what would he do if he found his happiness destroyed, the future a hopeless blank, his faith in womankind forever shattered. there was only one thing to be done. stern justice--the swift, savage justice of the cold, desolate, blizzard-swept plains. he would shoot them both, and himself afterward. he ceased working, the pick fell from his nerveless hands. the hunger pains were gnawing at his vitals. he felt dizzy and sick. a death chill invaded his entire being. it suddenly grew dark; there was a buzzing in his ears. his knees gave way beneath him. he stumbled and fell. he was still conscious, but he knew he was very ill--if only he could call branigan. suddenly his ear caught an unfamiliar sound. instinctively, ill as he was, he started up. it was the sound of human voices. with difficulty he raised himself on one elbow. a party of hunters and indians were coming in his direction. some were carrying a stretcher formed with rifles and the branches of trees. "gold! gold!" they shouted wildly, as they ran toward him. half a dozen trappers crowded round john's prostrate form. on the stretcher lay bill branigan, asleep. the leader of the party, a big, muscular chap, with a great blond beard, pushed a whiskey flask between madison's clenched teeth. "poor devil!" he exclaimed. "we're just in time. he was about all in." addressing madison, who, with eyes starting from his head, stared up at the newcomers with amazement, as if they were phantoms from another world, he said: "we picked your mate up yonder in the mountains. he's found the biggest gold nugget ever found in this section. there's gold everywhere." "damn the gold! give me some food!" gasped madison. then he fainted. chapter xv. the pomona, on west ---- street, was well known among those swell apartment houses of manhattan which find it profitable to cater to the liberal-spending demi-monde, and therefore are not prone to be too fastidious regarding the morals of their tenants. many such hostelries were scattered throughout the theatre district of new york, and as a rule they prospered exceedingly well. invariably they were of the same type. there was the same monotonous sameness in the gaudy decorations and furnishings; the same hilarious crowd in the café downstairs; the same overdressed, over-rouged women in the elevator and halls. they enjoyed in common the same class of patronage--blonde ladies with lengthy visiting-lists of gentlemen callers. willard brockton occupied a suite on the sixth floor, and it was one of the handsomest and most expensive in the hotel. it consisted of ten large rooms and three baths. the large sitting-room in white and gold had two windows overlooking fashionable fifth avenue. the furnishings were expensive and rich, but lacked that good taste which would naturally obtain in rooms occupied by people a little more particular concerning their reputation and mode of life. at one end of the room a large archway hung with tapestries led to the sleeping chambers. at the other end a door opened onto a small private hall, which, in turn, had another door communicating with the main corridor. the apartment was expensively and elaborately furnished. the inlaid floors were strewn with handsome oriental rugs, the chairs and sofas were heavy gilt, upholstered in crimson silk, while here and there were louis xv writing desks, teakwood curio cabinets, costly bronzes and statuary. the walls were covered with valuable paintings and engravings. near the window stood a superb full-length empire cheval glass, the kind that women love to dress by and survey their beauty. two months had sped quickly by since that cold, stormy day in february, when laura, distracted, half-starved, her spirit broken, despairing of aid from madison or any other decent quarter, threatened with eviction even from mrs. farley's miserable lodgings, weakly surrendered, listened to the call which summoned her back to her former life, and once more became brockton's mistress. at first the sudden transition from misery and absolute want to all the comforts and extravagant luxuries that unlimited means can command was so gratifying that she saw no reason to repent of the step she had taken. on the contrary, she rejoiced that she was still pretty enough, still young and clever enough to hold a man of brockton's influence and wealth. decidedly, she thought to herself, elfie was right. virtue was all very well for nice, good girls who did not mind doing chores, practicing painful economy, wearing shabby clothes, and tiring themselves out for small wages in petty, humiliating occupations, but she could never stand it. she would die rather. life would not be worth living if she were to be always denied the sweets of life, and to her that meant champagne suppers, gorgeous gowns, and all that goes with them. so, banishing from her mind any unpleasant memories or regrets, she plunged headlong into the boiling vortex of gay metropolitan life. thanks to brockton, she secured one of the best parts of the expiring theatrical season, and made such a hit that her name was in everybody's mouth. the newspapers interviewed her, society women copied her, toothpaste and perfume manufacturers solicited her testimonials. in a word, she was famous overnight. burgess, the manager, was now eager to sign for five years, but laura laughed, and tore up the contract before his face. what did she care now? she had the whip hand. the managers had neglected and despised her long enough; they could do the running after contracts now. meantime she drained the cup of pleasure to the very dregs. it was one continual round of gaiety. she seemed insatiable. with elfie st. clair and others, she formed an intimate circle of friends, a little coterie of the swiftest men and women in town, and entertained them lavishly, spending wilfully, recklessly. her extravagances were soon the talk of new york. a thousand dollars for a single midnight supper, $ for a new gown, $ for a hat were as nothing. once more she reigned as the belle of broadway, almost each night, after the play, she was the centre of an admiring throng in the pleasure resorts, and none ventured to dispute the claim that she was the prettiest as well as the best-dressed woman in town. dressmakers, attracted by her matchless figure and eager to profit by her vogue, turned out for her their latest creations; milliners designed for her hats that were the despair of every other woman. she had her carriages, her automobiles, and her saddle horse, her town apartment and her bungalow by the sea, and for a time set a pace so swift that no other woman of her acquaintance could keep up with her. all this cost money, and a lot of it, but brockton gave her free rein. the broker did not care. he smiled indulgently and footed her enormous bills without protest. on the contrary, he was delighted. never had she proved so fascinating a companion or attracted so much attention in public. he was getting plenty of other people's money in the wall street game, so why should he care if his mistress spent a few thousands a year more or less? it amused him to see her plunging, as he put it. besides, he was proud of his protégée. it flattered him when they entered a theatre or restaurant, laura wearing her $ picture hat, to hear people whisper: "that's brockton's girl. isn't she stunning?" she drank more champagne than was good for her, and when this happened, brockton himself would chide her. but she only laughed at him, and, disregarding his rebuke, turned to the waiter and imperiously ordered another bottle. not that she liked the golden, hissing stuff. it made her sick and gave her a bad headache the next morning, but still she must drink it, drink it unceasingly. it was the only way she could deaden that terrible, accusing conscience which persistently demanded an accounting. with her knowledge of her own guilt and her tendency to introspective brooding, it was only natural that her sensitive nature suffered atrociously. all day and all night her conscience tortured her. incessantly it put the agonizing question: have you been true, true to yourself and to the man to whom you gave your word? and always came the damning answer: "no--i've been false, miserably false, both to myself and him." in her quieter moods--the moods she dreaded most--she allowed her mind to dwell on the past. she wondered what john was doing and where he was. had he succeeded or had he failed? for a long time she had received no word. on leaving mrs. farley's, she had left no address and had taken no pains to have her mail forwarded. no doubt his letters had been returned to him. sometimes she regretted having burned the message of farewell which brockton had dictated. it would have been fairer, more honest, to have told him the truth frankly. brockton had wanted to do the right thing, and she had lied, making him believe she had done it. that was why she despised herself, and that was why she drank champagne--so she might forget. sometimes she took too much. one night elfie st. clair celebrated her birthday by giving a supper in her apartment. it was a jolly gathering, and they made merry until the late hours of the morning. laura had been particularly high spirited and hilarious until, toward the end, her face grew deathly white. seized with a sudden dizziness, she had to be wrapped in furs and carried down to her carriage. brockton, embarrassed, declared it to be due to the heat. everybody present knew it was the champagne. but gaiety that is forced and only artificially stimulated cannot be kept up long. one day the reaction inevitably comes, and then the awakening is terrible, disastrous. at times, when, in company of others, she was laughing loudly and appearing to be thoroughly enjoying herself, she would suddenly become serious, talk no more, and go away in the corner by herself. her companions teased her about it, and called such symptoms "laura's tantrums." the truth was that each day the girl realized more the hollowness and rottenness of the life she was leading. she was filled with repulsion and disgust, both for herself and her associates. while she was weak and luxury-loving, she was not entirely devoid of character. there was enough sentimentality and emotion in her moral fibre to make her see the impossibility of continuing to live this irregular, vicious kind of existence. women of elfie st. clair's type could do it, because they had no innate refinement of feeling, but she could not, and, in her saner moments, when she thought of what she had lost, when she remembered how she had been regenerated, purified, by her disinterested love for a good man, she looked wistfully back on those weeks at mrs. farley's boarding-house. her attic, miserable as it was, was a haven of happiness and respectability compared with her present degradation. then, again, she had an uncomfortable idea that there was an accounting still to be made. in her sleep she saw john madison approaching, stern, terrible, exacting some awful penalty, like an implacable judge. she had a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling, vague but nevertheless palpable, that something was going to happen. the idea obsessed her, haunted her; she could not shake it off. she became nervous of her own shadow. gradually, too, she grew to dislike brockton. instead of feeling gratitude for all the luxuries he gave her, she blamed him for having made her what she was. she classed him as the type of man who preys on woman's virtue and exults in the number of souls he is able to destroy. she looked upon him as responsible for all her troubles, for her degradation and sacrifice of her womanhood. he was the eternal enemy of her sex, the arch tempter, the anti-christ. her mind became obsessed with this idea, and a savage, unreasoning hate for him and all his kind sprang up in her heart. meantime, things pursued the even tenor of their way, at least outwardly. brockton was careless, indifferent, good natured as usual. laura was seemingly as gay and carefree as ever. none saw the ripples on the apparently serene surface, except, perhaps, one pair of black eyes which, always spying, never missed anything. annie guessed her mistress' thoughts, but was shrewd enough to hold her tongue. the negress, promoted from the rank of maid of all work at mrs. farley's establishment, had been elevated to the dignity of lady's maid. laura never liked the negress, but well aware of the difficulty she might have in finding a servant, she accepted her voluntary offer to follow when she went with brockton. the woman knew her ways, and in some respects was a good servant--at least as faithful and honest as any she could expect to get, which was not, of course, saying a great deal. but smart as she was, the negress never quite succeeded in deceiving her young mistress. laura never trusted her further than she could see her. a hundred times, her patience tried to the limit, she had discharged her. "you'll go in the morning, annie." "yassum!" but somehow annie always stayed. chapter xvi. late one morning laura and brockton were seated at the little table in the parlor, having breakfast together. they had been out the night before, at a big supper given by some friends, and had only got home in the small hours. laura, attired in an expensive negligée gown, sat at one side of the table, pouring out the coffee; brockton, in a gray business suit, sat opposite, carelessly scanning the _wall street messenger_. neither spoke and both looked tired and out of sorts. brockton was as fond of champagne suppers as anyone, but he was not getting any younger. they did not agree with his constitution as they used to, with the result that he was generally out of humor the next day. while he and his companion toyed listlessly with the silver-plated dishes in front of them, annie busied herself about the room, trying to put it in order. everything lay about just as it had been thrown the night before. the place looked as if a cyclone had devastated a second-hand clothing store. in the alcove a man's dress coat and vest were thrown carelessly on the cushions; a silk hat, badly rumpled, was near it. an opera cloak had been flung on the sofa, and on a chair was a huge picture hat with costly feathers. a pair of women's gloves were thrown over the cheval glass. the curtains in the bay window were half-drawn, filling the room with a rather dim light. laura preferred it so. she did not wish brockton to see the ravages which late hours and overabundance of rich foods were making on her complexion. she still had some feminine vanity left. with a grunt and gesture of annoyance, brockton threw his paper aside. looking around, he demanded impatiently: "have you seen the _recorder_, laura?" his companion was engrossed in the theatrical gossip of the _morning chronicle_. without looking up, she replied indifferently: "no." "where is it?" he growled. "i don't know," she answered calmly, still intent on her own paper. brockton began to lose his temper, as he did easily when not feeling just right. not daring to vent his ill humor on his _vis à vis_, he looked around for the colored maid. loudly he called: "annie----! annie----!! annie!!!" in a savage undertone, half directed at laura, he growled: "where the devil is that lazy nigger?" laura looked up, a mild expression of indignant surprise on her face. quietly she said: "i suppose she's gone to get her breakfast." "well, she ought to be here," he snapped. "did it ever occur to you," said laura quickly, "that she has got to eat, just the same as you have?" "she's your servant, isn't she?" he barked. "my maid," she corrected, with difficulty controlling herself. "well, what have you got her for--to eat, or to wait on you?" again he thundered: "annie!" "don't be so cross," protested laura. "what do you want?" "i want the paper," he growled, pouring out one half-glass of water from a bottle. "i will get it for you," she said, with quiet dignity. wearily she got up and went to the table where there were other morning papers. taking the _recorder_, she handed it to him, and, returning to her seat, reopened the _chronicle_. he relapsed into a sulky silence, and for a few minutes there was peace. suddenly annie entered the room from the sleeping apartments. "do yuh want me, suh?" she asked, with the ludicrous grin characteristic of her race. "yes!" snapped the broker. "i did want you, but don't now. when i'm at home i have a man to look after me, and i get what i want----" laura looked up angrily. her patience was exhausted. "for heaven's sake, will, have a little patience!" she said. "if you like your man so well, you had better live at home, but don't come around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody----" "don't think for a moment that there's much to come around here for. annie, this room's stuffy." "yassuh." "draw those _portières_. let those curtains up. let's have a little light. take away those clothes and hide them. don't you know that a man doesn't want to see the next morning anything to remind him of the night before? make the place look a little respectable." annie stood in considerable awe of brockton. in fact, she was afraid of him, so she did not stand on the order of going. she scurried around, and after picking up the coat and vest, opera cloak and other things, threw them over her arm without any idea of order. "be careful!" angrily shouted the irate broker, who was watching her. "you're not taking the wash off the line." "yassuh!" the negress literally flew out of the room. laura put down her newspaper. "i must say you're rather amiable this morning," she said pointedly. brockton turned his head away. "i feel like h--ll," he growled. "market unsatisfactory?" she inquired. "no, head too big." lighting a cigar, he took a puff and then made a wry face. putting the offending weed into the empty cup, he said, with another grimace: "tastes like punk." "you drank a lot," she said unconcernedly. he nodded. "yes--we'll have to cut out these parties. i can't do those things any more. i'm not as young as i was, and in the morning it makes me sick." looking up at her, he added. "how do you feel?" she rose from the breakfast table and sat down at a small _escritoire_. "a little tired, that's all," she said languidly. "you didn't touch anything, did you?" "no." "that's right--you've been taking too much lately. it was a great old party, though, wasn't it?" laura yawned and gazed listlessly out of the window. "do you think so?" not noticing her expression of wearied disgust, he went on: "yes, for that sort of a blow-out. not too rough, but just a little easy. i like them at night, but i hate them in the morning. were you bored?" picking up his newspaper, he started to glance over it carelessly. still staring idly into the street, she answered laconically: "i'm always bored by such things as that." "you don't have to go." "you asked me." "still, you could say no." rising, she stooped and picked up a newspaper which had fallen on the floor. placing it on the breakfast table, she returned to her seat at the desk. "but you asked me," she insisted. "what did you go for if you didn't want to?" "_you_ wanted me to." "i don't quite get you," he said impatiently. "well, it's just this, will--you have all my time when i'm not in the theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. you pay for it. i'm working for you." he looked up at her quickly. something in the tone of her voice warned him that there was a scene coming, and he hated scenes. but he could not resist inquiring sarcastically: "is that all i've got--just your time?" "that and--the rest," she replied bitterly. looking at her curiously, he said: "down in the mouth, eh? i'm sorry." "no," she retorted, her mouth quivering at the corners; "only, if you want me to be frank, i'm a little tired. you may not believe it, but i work awfully hard over at the theatre. burgess will tell you that. i know i'm not so very good as an actress, but i try to be. i'd like to succeed myself. they're very patient with me. of course, they've got to be--that's another thing you're paying for; but i don't seem to get along except this way." brockton shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "oh, don't get sentimental," he said testily. "if you're going to bring up that sort of talk, laura, do it some time when i haven't got a hang-over, and then, don't forget, talk never does count for much." rising and going to the mirror, laura picked up a hat from a box, put it on, and looked at herself in the mirror. she turned around and looked at her companion steadfastly for a moment without speaking. it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth there and then, tell him she had lied about mailing the letter to madison, and that she had been miserable ever since; tell him that this rotten, artificial life disgusted and degraded her, that she was sick of it and of him. but she had not the courage. meantime, brockton, left to himself, went on perusing the paper more carefully. suddenly he stopped and looked at his watch. "what time is it?" inquired laura. "after ten." "aren't you ever going out?" she demanded crossly. deeply engrossed in his paper, the broker made no answer. his eye had just been attracted to an item which particularly interested him. it was a despatch from chicago, and read as follows: "a story has reached here of an extraordinary gold find just made in nevada by two lucky prospectors. the men set out from goldfield several weeks ago, and got lost in the mountains. after enduring terrible privations, and almost perishing in the blizzard, they were found in last extremity by a party of hunters. they had actually discovered gold, having accidentally stumbled on one of the richest ore deposits in the gold region. a nugget of enormous size was brought in by the rescuing party in support of their well-nigh incredible story. the prospectors quickly recovered from their terrible experience, and one of them, named john madison, is now on his way east for the purpose of organizing a syndicate which will begin at once large operations in the nevada gold fields. rumor has it that mr. madison will also bring back a bride." brockton caught his breath and looked sharply over at laura. did she know about this? was it the explanation of her petulance and discontented attitude? that fellow madison was now a man of means. the coincidence of the despatch brought back to the broker's mind the night scene on the terrace in denver, and later their conversation at the boarding house in new york, and with the subtle intuition of the shrewd man of the world, he at once connected the two. eyeing his companion keenly and suspiciously, he said: "i don't suppose, laura, that you'd be interested now in knowing anything about that young fellow out in colorado? what was his name--madison?" the girl started and changed color. "do you know anything?" she said quickly. "no, nothing particularly," he replied, with affected carelessness. "i've been rather curious to know how he came out. he was a pretty fresh young man, and did an awful lot of talking. i wonder how he's doing and how he's getting along. i don't suppose by any chance you have ever heard from him?" she shook her head. "no, no; i've never heard." "i presume he never replied to that letter you wrote?" "no." "it would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow should happen to come across a lot of money--not that i think he ever could, but it would be funny, wouldn't it?" "yes, yes," she said quickly; "it would be unexpected. i hope he does. it might make him happy." "think he might take a trip east and see you act? you know you've got quite a part now." laura tossed back her head impatiently. petulantly she said: "i wish you wouldn't discuss him. why do you mention it now? is it because you were drinking last night, and lost your sense of delicacy? you once had some consideration for me. what i've done i've done. i'm giving _you_ all that i can. please, please, don't hurt me any more than you can help. that's all i ask." brockton rose, and, going over to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and his cheek close to the back of her head. he was sorry he had spoken so sharply. in his gruff way he was as fond of her as ever, but he could not help it if he sometimes felt under the weather. "you know, dearie," he said kindly, "i do a lot for you because you've always been on the level with me. i'm sorry i hurt you, but there was too much wine last night, and i'm all upset. forgive me." he tried to kiss her, to make up, but she averted her head. holding herself aloof, she shuddered. a feeling of repulsion passed through her. perhaps never so much as now had she realized that this kind of life was becoming more intolerable every hour. in order to avoid his caresses, laura had leaned forward. her hands clasped between her knees, she gazed straight past him, with a cold, impassive expression. brockton looked at her silently for a moment. the man was really fond of her; he wanted to try and comfort her, but of late a wall seemed to have risen between them. he realized now that she had slipped away from the old environment and conditions. he had brought her back, but he had regained none of her affection. with all his money, their old _camaraderie_ was gone forever. these and other thoughts hurt him as such things always hurt a selfish, egotistical man, inclining him to be brutal and inconsiderate. as they both remained there in silence, the front door bell rang, first gently and then more violently. brockton went to open. before he could reach it there was another ring. the caller, whoever it was, seemed in a good deal of a hurry. "d----n that bell!" exclaimed the broker. he opened the parlor door and passed out into the private hall, so he could open the door leading into the public corridor. laura remained seated where she was, immovable and impassive, with the same cold, hard expression on her face. when, she pondered, would she be able to summon up courage enough to tell brockton the truth--that she detested him and his set and loathed herself? why had he mentioned john just now? could he have read her thoughts and guessed of whom she had been thinking? presently the outer door slammed loudly, and brockton re-entered the room, holding a telegram in his hand. "a wire," he said briefly. laura started forward. "for me?" she exclaimed. "yes." she looked surprised. "from whom, i wonder? perhaps elfie, with a luncheon engagement." "i don't know," he said indifferently, handing her the closed yellow envelope. as she broke it open and hastily read the contents, he watched her face closely. she gasped involuntarily as she caught sight of the signature, but by a great effort managed to control herself. outwardly calm and self-possessed, she silently read the message, which was dated buffalo, the night before, and ran as follows: "my own darling: "i have been through the shadow of the valley, but have won out. to-day i am rich. isn't it glorious? i am the happiest man on earth. i shall be in new york before noon to-morrow. i am coming to marry you, and i'm coming with a bank-roll. i wanted to keep it secret, and have a big surprise for you, but i can't hold it any longer, because i feel just like a kid with a new top. don't go out. i'll be with you early. "john." she crushed the telegram up in her hand, and crossed the room so he should not see her face. john was coming back--a rich man. he was coming back to claim her. great god! what could she say to him? "no bad news, i hope?" said brockton suspiciously. "no, no--not bad news," she replied hastily. "i thought you appeared startled." "no, not at all," she stammered. brockton sat down and picked up the newspaper again. carelessly he asked: "from elfie?" "no--just a friend." "oh!" he sat down again, making himself comfortable in the armchair. laura, in an agony of suspense, growing momentarily more nervous, watched him sideways, wondering how she could get rid of him, hoping he would soon go out. it would never do for john to come and find him there. with two men of such violent temper, already jealous to the breaking point, there was no telling what terrible tragedy might happen. besides, she was anxious to be alone, so she might think out some plan of action. something must be done at once. it was near eleven already. john would reach new york about noon; he would probably seek her out at once. she could reasonably expect him that very afternoon. a cold chill ran through her at the thought. what would she say to him? get rid of brockton she must at all costs. timidly she asked: "won't you be rather late getting down town, will?" without lifting his head, he answered carelessly: "doesn't make any difference. i don't feel much like the office now. thought i might order the car and take a spin through the park. the cold air will do me a lot of good. like to go?" "no, not to-day," she replied hastily. a silence followed, and then she went on: "i thought your business was important; you said so last night." "no hurry," he answered. suddenly turning and looking up at her, he asked searchingly: "do you--er--want to get rid of me?" "why should i?" she demanded, with pretended surprise. "expecting some one?" he demanded. "no--not exactly," she replied hesitatingly. turning her back on him, she went to the window, and stood there, gazing out into the street. brockton watched her for a moment; then, with a covert smile, he said dryly: "if you don't mind, i'll stay here." laura left the window, and coming back into the room, sat down at the piano. "just as you please," she said, realizing that he was watching her, and trying her utmost to appear unconcerned. after playing a few bars, she stopped and said in a more conciliatory tone: "will?" "yes." "how long does it take to come from buffalo?" "depends on the train," he answered laconically. "about how long?" she persisted. "between eight and ten hours, i think." looking up, he asked: "some one coming?" ignoring his question, she asked: "do you know anything about the trains?" "not much. why don't you find out for yourself? have annie get the timetable." "i will," she said. leaving the piano, she went to the door and called: "annie! annie!" the negress appeared on the threshold. "yassum!" "go ask one of the hall-boys to bring me a new york central timetable." "yassum!" the maid crossed the room, and disappeared through another door. laura, with forced nonchalance, seated herself on the arm of the sofa, humming a popular air. brockton turned and faced her. "then you _do_ expect some one, eh?" he exclaimed. her heart was in her throat, but she remained outwardly calm as she replied carelessly: "only one of the girls who used to be in the same company with me. but i'm not sure that she's coming here." "then the wire was from her?" "yes." "did she say what train she was coming on?" "no." "well, there are a lot of trains. about what time did you expect her in?" "she didn't say." "do i know her?" "i think not. i met her while i worked in 'frisco." "oh!" he resumed reading his paper, and the next moment annie re-entered with a timetable. "thanks," said laura, taking it. then, pointing to the breakfast table, she said: "now take those things away, annie." the maid started in to gather up the dishes, while her mistress became engrossed in a deep study of the timetable. soon annie left the room with the loaded tray, and laura looked up in despair. "i can't make this out," she cried. brockton looked up and held out his hand. "give it here; maybe i can help you." she rose, and, approaching the table, handed him the timetable, a diabolical labyrinth of incomprehensible figures and words specially compiled by railroad managers to puzzle and befog the traveling public. but brockton, from long practice, seemed familiar with its mysteries. "where is she coming from?" he demanded, as he quickly turned over the leaves. "the west," she answered promptly. "the telegram was from buffalo. i suppose she was on her way when she sent it." brockton had found the right page, and was busy calculating the time made by the different trains. "there's a train comes in here at nine-thirty--that's the twentieth century. that doesn't carry passengers from buffalo. then there's one at eleven-forty-one. one at one-forty-nine. another at three-forty-five. another at five-forty and another at five-forty-eight. that's the lake shore limited, a fast train; and all pass through buffalo. did you think of meeting her?" "no, she'll come here when she arrives." "she knows where you live?" "she has the address." "ever been to new york before?" "i think not." he passed back the timetable. "well, that's the best i can do for you." "thank you." she took the timetable and placed it in the desk. brockton, who had taken up his paper again, gave an exclamation of surprise. "by george--this is funny." "what?" she demanded, looking impatiently at the clock. "speak of the devil, you know." "who?" "your old friend--john madison." laura started involuntarily. she became deathly pale, and put her head on the chair-back to steady herself. controlling her agitation by a supreme effort, she said: "what--what about him?" "he's been in chicago." "how do you know?" brockton held out the newspaper. "here's a dispatch about him." she came quickly forward and looked over the broker's shoulder. her voice was trembling with suppressed excitement, as she said: "what--where--what's it about?" brockton chuckled. holding out the paper so she could see, and watching her face closely, he went on: "i'm damned if he hasn't done what he said he'd do--see! he's been in chicago, and is on his way to new york. he's struck it rich in nevada, and is coming with a pot of money. queer, isn't it? did you know anything about it?" "no, no; nothing at all," she said, laying the paper aside and returning to her former place near the piano. her face was drawn and white, and there was a hard, metallic note perceptible in her voice. "lucky for him, eh?" said the broker. "yes, yes; it's very nice." "too bad he couldn't get this a little sooner, eh, laura?" "oh, i don't know," she said, with a forced laugh. "i don't think it's too bad. what makes you say that?" "oh, nothing. i suppose he ought to be here to-day. are you going to see him if he looks you up?" "no, no," she replied quickly; "i don't want to see him. you know that, don't you--that i don't want to see him? what makes you ask these questions?" brockton shrugged his shoulders. "just thought you might meet him, that's all. don't get sore about it." "i'm not." she still held john's telegram crumpled in one hand. brockton put down his paper, and regarded her curiously. she saw the expression on his face, and, reading its meaning, averted her head in order not to meet his eye. "what are you looking at me that way for?" she demanded hotly. "i wasn't conscious that i was looking at you in any particular way. why?" "oh, nothing. i guess i'm nervous, too." "i dare say you are." "yes, i am." brockton rose slowly from his chair. crossing over to where she sat, he stood with folded arms, looking her squarely in the face. there was a hard look in his eyes, a determined expression around his mouth. he was in one of his obstinate, ungovernable tempers, and laura knew at once by his manner that a critical moment was at hand. he began ominously: "you know i don't want to delve into a lot of past history at this time, but i've got to talk to you for a moment." she rose quickly, and, going to the other side of the room, pretended to be busy. nervously, she said: "why don't you do it some other time? i don't want to be talked to just now." he followed her, and, in the same, hard, determined tone, said firmly: "but i've got to do it, just the same." trying to affect an attitude of resigned patience and resignation, laura shrugged her shoulders and resumed her seat on the sofa. "well, what is it?" she said. he looked at her in silence for a moment, as if not quite sure how to begin. then, quietly, he said: "you've always been on the square with me, laura. that's why i've liked you a lot better than the other women----" she stirred restlessly on her seat, and began to polish her finger-nails. peevishly, she said: "are you going into all that again this morning. i thought we understood each other." "so did i," he replied bitterly; "but somehow, i think that we _don't_ quite understand each other." she looked up, as if surprised. "in what way?" looking steadily at her, he went on: "that letter i dictated to you the day that you came back to me and left for you to mail--did you mail it?" for a sixteenth of a second she hesitated. should she go on lying, or stop right now and confess everything? she dare not. she had not the courage. positively, decisively, almost indignantly, she answered: "yes--of course. why do you ask?" he eyed her keenly, trying to penetrate her thoughts. "you're quite sure?" "yes, i'm quite sure." with an effrontery that surprised herself, she added: "i wouldn't say so if i wasn't." "and you didn't know madison was coming east until you read about it in that newspaper?" "no--no--i didn't know." "have you heard from him?" again an opportunity presented itself to tell the truth, and again her courage failed her. "no--no--i haven't heard from him." peevishly, she exclaimed: "don't talk to me about this thing. why can't you leave me alone? i'm miserable enough, as it is." she walked away, with the idea of leaving the room, but quickly he intercepted her. sternly, he said: "but i've got to talk to you. laura, you're lying to me." "what!" she made a valiant effort to seem angry, but brockton was too old a bird to be deceived. raising his voice in anger he exclaimed: "you're lying to me, and you've been lying to me all along! like a fool i've trusted you. show me that telegram!" "no," she said defiantly. she retreated into a far corner. he followed her. "show me that telegram!" he commanded. "you've no right to ask me," she exclaimed hotly. before he could prevent it, she had torn the telegram in half and run to the window. before she could throw the pieces out, he had caught her by the arm. livid with rage, he almost shouted: "are you going to make me take it away from you? i've never laid my hands on you yet." "it's my business!" she cried in desperation. "yes, and it's mine!" he retorted, trying to seize the fragments. her face flushed from the struggle, now furiously angry, she fought him with all her strength. they battled all over the room. finally he backed her against the dresser, and she was powerless to resist further. he put out his hand to seize the torn pieces of the telegram, which she had stuffed inside her waist. "that telegram's from madison," he cried hotly. "give it here!" "no!" she exclaimed, white as death, and still defiant. "i'm going to find out where i stand," he cried. "give me that telegram, or i'll take it away from you." "no!" "come on!" he said savagely, his teeth clenched, his face white from furious jealousy. the struggle was unequal. he was the stronger. further resistance was futile. "all right," she said breathlessly; "i'll give it to you." slowly, she drew the pieces out of her bosom, and handed them to him. he took them, and, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, slowly smoothed them out, and pieced them together so that he could read the dispatch. when, at last, he began to read, she staggered back apprehensively. he read it slowly, deliberately. when he had finished, he looked up. sternly, he said: "then you knew?" "yes," she faltered. "but you didn't know he was coming until he arrived?" "no." "and you didn't mail the letter, did you?" "no----" his face turned livid with rage. clenching his fists menacingly, he advanced towards her. "what did you do with it?" he thundered. shrinking from him, afraid of his violence, she replied faintly: "i--i burned it." "why?" he shouted, in a fury. dazed, bewildered, almost hysterical, laura was unable to answer. he advanced until he almost stood over her, his arm raised threateningly, as if about to strike her. she cowered before him. "why--why?" he repeated hoarsely. almost in tears, she murmured weakly: "i--i couldn't help it. i simply couldn't help it." folding his arms he looked down at her with an expression in which pity was mingled with contempt. a straightforward man himself, he had no patience with lying. he could forgive her lying--it was natural to her--but she had made him appear a liar. with a sweeping gesture of his hand, which took in the whole room, and its luxurious contents, he said: "and he doesn't know about us?" "no." thoroughly exasperated, he again advanced towards her, his face distorted with rage. "by god!" he exclaimed. "i never beat a woman in my life, but i feel as though i could wring your neck!" white-faced, trembling, she stared at him helplessly. hysterically, she cried: "why don't you? you have done everything else. why don't you?" "don't you know," he continued furiously, "that i gave madison my word that if you came back to me i'd let him know? don't you know that i like that young fellow, and i wanted to protect him, and did everything i could to help him? and do you know what you've done to me? you've made me out a liar--you've made me lie to a man--a man--you understand! what are you going to do now? tell me--what are you going to do now? don't stand there as if you've lost your voice--how are you going to square me?" summoning up all her courage, she faced him, calmly, defiantly. "i'm not thinking about squaring _you_," she said ironically. "what am i going to do for _him_?" "not what _you_ are going to do for him," he retorted. "what am _i_ going to do for him? why, i wouldn't have that young fellow think that i tricked him into this thing for you or all the rest of the women of your kind on earth. good god! i might have known that you, and the others like you, couldn't be square." she made no answer. the attitude of hostility and defiance had gone. she looked at him silently, pleadingly, like some helpless dumb animal trying to placate its master's wrath. brockton glanced at his watch, walked over to the window and then came back to where she stood. shaking his fist at her, he muttered: "you've made a nice mess of it, haven't you?" "there isn't any mess," she answered weakly. "please go away. he'll be here soon. please let _me_ see him--please do that." "no," he replied doggedly, "i'll wait. this time i'm going to tell him myself, and i don't care how tough it is." frightened at this suggestion, which might be so full of dire consequences, she was instantly galvanized into action. starting up again, she cried: "no, you mustn't do that!" approaching him, she said pleadingly: "oh, will, i'm not offering any excuse. i'm not saying anything, but i'm telling you the truth. i couldn't give him up--i couldn't do it. i love him." shrugging his shoulders he made an ironical exclamation: "huh!" "don't you think so?" she went on piteously. "i know you can't see what i see, but i do. and why can't you go away? why can't you leave me this? it's all i ever had. he doesn't know. no one will ever tell him. i'll take him away. it's the best for him--it's the best for me. please go." he laughed, and, going back to the armchair, deliberately reseated himself. ignoring her tearful pleading, he said scornfully: "why--do you think that i'm going to let you trip him the way you tripped me? no. i'm going to stay right here until that man arrives, and i'm going to tell him that it wasn't my fault. you alone were to blame." she listened blankly, staring at him in a bewildered, dazed sort of way. her face was white as death, and her hands twisted convulsively. slowly, with a half-stifled sob, she cried: [illustration: she sank down on her knees beside him. _page ._] "then you are going to let him know?" she said slowly. "you're not going to give me a single, solitary chance?" the plaintive tone in her voice touched him. he hated such scenes, and would willingly have overlooked anything to avoid one. but there was a limit to a man's patience. perhaps, however, he had been a bit brutal. he did not trust himself to look up, but his voice was less harsh as he replied: "i'll give you every chance that you deserve when he knows. then he can do as he pleases, but there must be no more deception, that's flat." approaching the chair in which he sat, she laid a hand on his shoulder. gently, she said: "then you must let me tell him." brockton turned away impatiently. she sank down on her knees beside him. "yes--you must," she went on imploringly. "if i didn't tell him before i'll do it now. you must go. if you ever had any regard for me--if you ever had any affection--if you ever had any friendship, please let me do this now. i want you to go--you can come back. then you'll see--you'll know--only i want to try to make him understand that--that maybe if i'm weak i'm not vicious. i want to let him know that i didn't want to do it, but i couldn't help it. just give me the chance to be as good as i can be----" brockton turned and looked straight at her. she did not flinch under his severe, critical gaze. impulsively, coaxingly, she went on: "oh, i promise you i will tell him, and then--then i don't care what happens--only he must learn everything from me--please--please, let me do this--it's the last favor i shall ever--ever ask of you. won't you?" this last appeal, uttered hysterically, was followed by a flood of weeping. she had controlled herself as long as she could, but at last her nerves could not stand the strain, and she broke down completely. brockton rose, and for a moment stood watching, as if mentally debating himself what was the best thing to do. finally, he said: "all right; i won't be unkind. i'll be back early this afternoon, but remember--this time you'll have to go right through to the end." with a significant warning gesture, he added: "understand?" drying her eyes, she said hastily: "yes, i'll do it--all of it won't you please go--now?" "all right," he replied. the broker disappeared into the bedroom and almost immediately entered again with overcoat on his arm and hat in hand. he went towards the door without speaking. at the threshold he halted and, looking back at her, said firmly: "i am sorry for you, laura, but remember--you've got to tell the truth." "please go," she cried almost hysterically. he went out, closing the door behind him. chapter xvii. with a sigh of intense relief, laura sank utterly exhausted into the armchair which brockton had vacated. everything had come so suddenly that the girl's brain was all awhirl. john might arrive any moment. she must decide at once on what was to be done. what could she say to him? how much did she wish to say; how much would he believe? was it possible that providence had relented, and that, after all, she was to be truly happy, marry the only man she had ever truly, unselfishly loved, and still have all those luxuries which she could not live without? john was now a rich man. that made all the difference in the world. it would not make her love him any the more, but, as a rich man's wife, as _his_ wife, she knew she would be truly happy. she might have married him, even if he had been unsuccessful and returned to her penniless, but would their happiness have lasted, could their love have survived all the hardships which poverty brings in its train? of course, she could not tell him about brockton. he was not the kind of man she dare tell it to. he would never forgive her; he might even kill her. no, she must go on lying to the end, until she was safely married, and then she would turn over a new leaf altogether. while she sat there, her elbows between her knees, her chin on her hands, engrossed in thought, annie entered and began to dust the room. laura watched her in moody silence for a few minutes. then she said: "annie!" "yassum." "do you remember in the boarding-house--when we finally packed up--what you did with everything?" "yassum." "you remember that i used to keep a pistol?" "yo' mean dat one yo' say dat gemman out west gave yuh once?" "yes." "yassum, ah 'membuh it." "where is it now?" "last ah saw of it was in dis heah draw' in de writin'-desk." crossing to the other side of the room, the negress opened the desk and began to fumble among a lot of old papers. finally she drew out a small, thirty-two calibre revolver, which she held out gingerly. "is dis it?" laura turned and looked. "yes," she said quickly. "put it back. i thought that perhaps it was lost." annie had no sooner replaced the weapon in the drawer when the front door-bell rang. laura turned pale and started to her feet. could that be john? instinctively, she gathered her negligée gown closer to her frail, trembling figure, and, hurrying to the mirror, put those little finishing touches to her hair which no woman, jealous of her personal appearance, would think of neglecting, even though the house was on fire. she was so unstrung and agitated that she could hardly stand; she had to hold the table with one hand to maintain her balance. she could not articulate; her voice stuck in her throat. "see--who--that is--and let me know," she gasped. "yassum." the maid went out into the private hall and opened the door. immediately was heard the voice of elfie st. clair. "hello, annie. folks in?" "yassum; she's in." laura breathed more freely, and ran to greet her friend, who bounced in, smiling and good-natured. elfie was beautifully gowned in a morning dress, with an over-abundance of trimmings and all the furbelows that generally accompany the extravagant raiment affected by women of her type. advancing effusively, she exclaimed: "hello, dearie!" "hello, elfie!" said laura, unable to conceal how genuinely glad she was to see her friend. "it's a bully day out," said elfie, looking at herself in the mirror. "i've been shopping all morning long; just blew myself until i'm broke, that's all. my goodness, don't you ever get dressed? listen--talk about cinches! i copped out a gown, all ready made. it fits me like the paper on the wall for thirty-seven and one-half dollars. looks like it might have cost $ . anyway, i had them charge $ on the bill, and i kept the change. there are two or three more down there, and i want you to go down and look them over. models, you know, being sold out. my--how you look this morning! you've got great black circles round your eyes. i don't blame you for not getting up earlier." sitting down at the table without noticing laura further, she rattled on: "that was some party last night! i know you didn't drink a great deal, but gee! what an awful tide will had on! how do you feel?" stopping short in her prattle, and looking at her friend, she exclaimed with concern: "what's the matter, are you sick? you look all in. what you want to do is this--put on your duds and go out for an hour. it's a perfectly grand day out. my gaud! how the sun does shine! clear and cold. well, much obliged for the conversation. don't i get a 'good-morning,' or a 'how-dy-do,' or a something of that sort?" "i'm tired, elfie, and blue--terribly blue." the caller rose, and, going up to her friend, said: "well, now, you just brace up and cut out all that emotional stuff. i came down to take you for a drive. you'd like it; just through the park. will you go?" "not this morning, dear; i'm expecting somebody." "a man?" in spite of herself, laura could not restrain a smile. "no--a gentleman," she corrected. "same thing. do i know him?" "i think you do." "well, don't be so mysterious. who is he?" ignoring the question, laura asked anxiously: "what is your time, elfie?" the girl looked at her watch. "five minutes past eleven." "i'm slow," exclaimed laura. "i didn't know it was so late. just excuse me, won't you, while i get some clothes on. he may be here any moment." going to the end of the room, where the heavy _portières_ separated the parlor from the sitting-room, she called out: "annie!" "who is it?" insisted elfie. "i'll tell you when i get dressed. make yourself at home, won't you, dear?" "i'd sooner hear," replied elfie. "what is the scandal, anyway?" "i'll tell you in a moment," laughed laura; "just as soon as annie gets through with me." she went out, leaving her visitor alone. elfie, left to herself, wandered about the room. finding a candy box on the desk, she helped herself to the sugared contents. aloud, she said: "do you know, laura, i think i'll go back on the stage?" "yes?" came the answer from the inner room. "yes," went on elfie, "i'm afraid i'll have to. i think i need a sort of a boost to my popularity." "how a boost?" "i think jerry is getting cold feet. he's seeing a little too much of me nowadays." "what makes you think that?" "i think he is getting a relapse of that front-row habit. there's no use in talking, laura, it's a great thing for a girl's credit when a man like jerry can take two or three friends to the theatre, and when you make your entrance delicately point to you with his forefinger, and say: 'the third one from the front on the left belongs to muh.' the old fool's hanging around some of these musical comedies lately, and i'm getting nervous every time rent day comes." laura laughed incredulously. she had too high an opinion of her friend's business ability to believe the danger very serious. pointedly, she said: "oh, i guess you'll get along all right." elfie rose, and, going to the mirror, gave her hat and hair a few deft little touches, after which she surveyed herself critically. with serene self-satisfaction, she said: "oh, that's a cinch! but i like to leave well enough alone, and if i had to make a change right now it would require a whole lot of thought and attention, to say nothing of the inconvenience, and i'm so nicely settled in my flat." suddenly her eye lighted on the pianola. going to it, she exclaimed: "say, dearie, when did you get the piano-player? i got one of them phonographs, but this has got that beat a city block. how does it work? what did it cost?" "i don't know," laughed laura. "well, jerry's got to stake me to one of these." looking over the rolls on top, she mumbled to herself: "tannhauser, william tell, chopin." louder, she said: "listen, dear. ain't you got anything else except all this high-brow stuff?" "what do you want?" "oh, something with a regular tune to it." looking at the empty box on the pianola, she exclaimed: "oh, here's one; just watch me tear this off." the roll was the ragtime tune of "_bon-bon buddy--my chocolate drop_." she started to play. pushing wide open the _tempo_ lever she worked the pedals with the ingenuous delight and enthusiasm of a child. "ain't it grand?" she cried. "gracious, elfie, don't play so loud!" exclaimed laura, who reëntered. "what's the matter?" her visitor stopped playing. smiling, she explained: "i shoved over that thing marked 'swell.' i sure will have to speak to jerry about this. i'm stuck on this 'swell' thing. hurry up!" noticing laura's white, anxious-looking face, she exclaimed sympathetically: "gee! you look pale! i'll just bet you and will had a fight. he always gets the best of you, doesn't he, dearie? listen. don't you think you can ever get him trained? i almost threw jerry down the stairs the other night, and he came right back with a lot of american beauties and a cheque. i told him if he didn't look out, i'd throw him downstairs every night. he's getting too d----d independent, and it's got me nervous." sinking into a seat, she exclaimed, with a sigh: "oh, dear, i s'pose i will have to go back on the stage." "in the chorus?" inquired laura quietly. elfie looked up in mock indignation. "well, i should say not. i'm going to give up my musical career. charlie burgess is putting on a new play, and he says he has a part in it for me if i want to go back. it isn't much, but very important--sort of a pantomime part. a lot of people talk about me and just at the right moment i walk across the stage and make an awful hit. i told jerry that if i went on he'd have to come across with one of those irish crochet lace gowns. he fell for it. do you know, dearie, i think he'd sell out his business just to have me back on the stage for a couple of weeks, just to give box parties every night for my entrance and exits." laura went over to the sofa, picked up the candy box, placed it on the desk, and took the telegram from the table. then, taking her friend by the hand, she led her over to the sofa. "elfie," she said seriously. "yes, dear." "come over here and sit down." "what's up?" "do you know what i'm going to ask of you?" elfie took a seat opposite. with a wry face, she said: "if it's a touch, you'll have to wait until next week." "no," smiled laura; "just a little advice." her friend looked relieved. "well, that's cheap," she laughed; "and the lord knows you need it. what's happened?" laura took the crumpled and torn telegram which brockton had left on the table, and handed it to her companion. elfie put the two pieces together, and read it very carefully. when she reached the middle of the despatch she gave an exclamation of surprise and looked up quickly at her companion. then, finishing it, she laid it down. "well?" she demanded. rather at a loss how to explain, laura flushed and stammered: "will suspected. there was something in the paper about mr. madison--the telegram came--then we had a row." "serious?" "yes. do you remember what i told you about that letter--the one will made me write--i mean to john--telling him what i had done?" "yes, you burned it." "i tried to lie to will--he wouldn't have it that way. he seemed to know. he was furious." "did he hit you?" "no, he made me admit that john didn't know, and then he said he'd stay here and tell him himself that i'd made him lie, and he said something about liking the other man and wanting to save him." "save him?" exclaimed elfie derisively. "shucks! he's jealous!" "i told him if he'd only go i'd--tell john myself when he came, and now, you see, i'm waiting--and i've got to tell--and--and i don't know how to begin--and--and i thought you could help me--you seem so sort of resourceful, and it means--it means so much to me. if john turned on me now i couldn't go back to will, and, elfie--i don't think i'd care to--stay here any more." "what!" exclaimed elfie. impulsively, she took laura in her arms. "dearie," she said earnestly, "get that nonsense out of your head and be sensible. i'd just like to see any two men who could make me think about--well--what you seem to have in your mind." "but i don't know what to do," went on laura. "can't you see, elfie, i don't know what to do. if i don't tell him, will will come back and he'll tell him. i know john, and maybe----" fearfully she added: "do you know, i think john would kill him!" "nonsense!" laughed the girl. "don't waste your time worrying about that. now, let's get down to cases. we haven't much time. business is business, and love is love. you're long on love, and i'm long on business, and, between the two of us, we ought to straighten this thing out. now, evidently john is coming on here to marry you." "yes." "and you love him?" "yes." "and, as far as you know, the moment that he comes in here, it's quick to the justice and a wedding?" "yes; but you see how impossible it is----" "i don't see that anything is impossible. from all you've said to me about this fellow, there is only one thing to do." "what is that?" "to get married--quick. you say he has the money, and you have the love. you're sick of brockton, and you want to switch and do it in the decent, respectable, conventional way, and he's going to take you away. haven't you got sense enough to know that once you're married to mr. madison that will brockton wouldn't dare go to him? even if he did, madison wouldn't believe him. a man will believe a whole lot about his girl, but nothing about his wife." laura turned and looked at her. there was a long pause. "elfie--i--i--don't think i could do that to john. i don't think--i could deceive him." her companion made a gesture of impatience. rising, she cried: "you make me sick! you're only a novice! lie to all men--they all lie to you. protect yourself. you seem to think that your happiness depends on this. now do it. listen: don't you realize that you and me, and all the girls that are shoved into this life, are practically the common prey of any man who happens to come along? don't you know that they've got about as much consideration for us as they have for any pet animal around the house, and the only way that we've got it on the animal is that we've got brains? this is a game, laura, _not a sentiment_. do you suppose that madison--now don't get sore--hasn't turned these tricks himself before he met you, and i'll gamble he's done it since. a man's natural trade is a heartbreaking business. don't tell me about women breaking men's hearts. the only thing they can ever break is their bankroll. and, besides, this is not will's business; he has no right to interfere. you've been decent with him, and he's been nice to you; but i don't think that he's given you any the best of it. now, if you want to leave, and go your own way, and marry any tom, dick or harry that you want to, it's nobody's affair but yours." "but you don't understand--it's john. i can't lie to him," cried laura. "well, that's too bad about you. i used to have that truthful habit myself, and the best i ever got was the worst of it. all this talk about love and loyalty and constancy is fine and dandy in a book, but when a girl has to look out for herself, take it from me, whenever you've got that trump card up your sleeve, just play it, and rake in the pot." taking laura's hand, she added affectionately: "you know, dearie, you're just about the only one in the world i've left to care for." "elfie!" cried laura, taking her companion's hand, sympathetically. her eyes filled with tears, elfie put her handkerchief up to her face to conceal her emotion. under the coarseness and flippancy of the courtesan were glimpses of an unhappy woman, a human being conscious of her own irretrievable degradation. for the first time in years, she was making another the confidant of her life's tragedy, the sad, commonplace story of a woman's ruin. recovering herself, she went on quickly: "since i broke away from the folks up-state, and they've heard things, there ain't any more letters coming to me with an oswego postmark. ma's gone, and the rest don't care. you're all i've got in the world, laura, and i'm making you do this only because i want to see you happy. i was afraid this complication would arise. the thing to do now is to grab your happiness, no matter how you get it, nor where it comes from. there ain't a whole lot of joy in this world for you and me and the others we know, and what little you get you've got to take when you're young, because when those gray hairs begin to show and the make-up isn't going to hide the wrinkles, unless you're well fixed, it's going to be h--ll. you know what a fellow doesn't know doesn't hurt him. he'll love you just the same, and you'll love him. as for brockton, let him get another girl. there are plenty around. why, if this chance came to me, i'd tie a can to jerry so quick that you could hear it rattle all the way down broadway!" she rose, and, leaning over the back of laura's chair, put her arms lovingly around her neck. tenderly, she said: "promise me, dearie, that you won't be a d----d fool. will you promise?" laura looked up at her, and smiled faintly: "i promise." elfie took her gloves and parasol. "well, good-by, dear; i must be going. ta-ta, dearie. give my regards to your charmer." laura accompanied her to the door. "good-by, dear." left alone, laura returned to the parlor. drawing aside the portieres that shut off the maid's quarters, she called out: "annie!" "yassum!" "i'm expecting a gentleman, annie. when he comes, ask him in." chapter xviii. the new york central railroad terminus in manhattan is not exactly a spot which one would be apt to select for a rest cure, although a famous nerve specialist has expressed the learned opinion that such little disturbances in the atmospheric envelope as the shrieking of steam whistles, the exploding of giant firecrackers, the bursting of pneumatic tires, the blasting with dynamite, the uproar of street traffic, the shouts of men and boys, the screams of women and the wailing of babes are soothing, rather than harmful, to the human nervous system. all these sounds and others even more discordant, greeted the tired passengers of the buffalo express, as, arriving from the west, they emerged from the train-shed into the deafening turmoil of forty-second street. john madison, tanned and weather-beaten, suitcase in hand, stood hesitating on the curb, as if dazed. after long months spent amid the loneliness and comparative quiet of the nevada desert, the rush and bustle of the colossal metropolis was bewildering and confusing. a hackman hailed him. "cab, sir?" "yes," he answered, throwing his traveling grip on the seat. "drive to the waldorf." as the jehu flourished his whip, and the hack rattled along on its way to the hotel, madison gazed idly out of the windows, watching with interest the luxurious shops and the crowds of busy people hurrying along the sidewalks. how different it all looked to-day than when he was last in new york! now, he viewed the scene with different eyes. then he was a penniless reporter, obliged to stint and count before he ventured to spend a dollar. to-day he was a successful miner, one of those lucky individuals to whom fortune has been more than kind. he was suddenly possessed of more money than he knew what to do with. he could stop at the best hotels, throw gold around him by the handfuls. for the first time in his life he was tasting the sweets of wealth. every one treated him with deference, all were eager to render service. people who formerly affected to be ignorant of his very existence, now fawned upon him and asked him to their houses. he was a rich man. it meant not only immediate creature comforts, but freedom from care, independence for life. and what he prized most of all, it meant happiness, both for himself and the girl he loved, the girl who had waited so faithfully and so patiently. he could hardly restrain his impatience to see her. what rapture would it be to clasp her to his heart and cry: "your long wait is over! i've come to make you happy! henceforth you won't have to work. you'll leave the stage for good." and in his mind's eye, he saw laura's joy, and heard her happy, girlish laugh, as he sat down before her and signed a blank cheque, telling her to fill in the rest for any amount she wished to spend. yes--that was the greatest joy of success and being rich--the power of making happy the girl you loved. thank god, he had won out! to-day, he was a rich man. he had entirely forgotten the doubts and morbid fancies which had seized him in the wilderness. when he had recovered from his terrible experiences, he wondered how he could ever have permitted his mind to haunt such strange, unpleasant paths. the suffering and mental torture he went through was doubtless responsible for his unreasoning suspicions. he would never tell laura; she must never know that he had harbored such thoughts. she would never forgive him. how delighted she would be to see him! probably she was already anxiously on the lookout. by this time she had certainly received his telegram, which he had sent in care of her manager. he wondered where she was stopping. his last letter to her had been returned by the post office authorities marked "address unknown." she was in new york. he was sure of that, for he had read in the chicago papers of her success in the new play. he was glad she had made good at last, because it meant more comforts for her. no doubt she had left the boarding-house, of which she wrote him discouraging accounts early in the winter, and was now installed in some fashionable hotel. the best and quickest way to find her would be to telephone the burgess office. he wondered if she would be willing to throw up at once everything--the theatre, her future contracts and all--to marry him without delay. if he could have his way, he would like to return west with her that same day. they could leave on the limited and get married in chicago. in less than fifteen minutes the waldorf was reached, a room engaged, and madison already had the office of burgess & co. on the telephone. "hello! can you give me the private address of miss laura murdock?" "we don't give private addresses," was the curt reply. this difficulty madison had not foreseen, but his quick wit came to his aid, and in his most persuasive tone, he said: "i'm sure you will, when you know the circumstances. i am a personal friend--i might say, relative, of miss murdock. i've just got in from chicago. she expects me, but i've mislaid her address." "oh--that's different," said the voice more civilly. "there's so many johnnies around that we have to be careful. miss murdock is at the pomona, west ---- street." madison did not wait to eat or anything else. jumping into the first taxicab he saw, he said: "west ---- street." a few minutes later the cab drew up before the rather imposing entrance of the pomona apartments. dismissing the taxi, he turned to the uniformed attendant, who stood surveying the weather-tanned six-footer with some respect. judging by his clothes, the new arrival looked as if he had done some traveling. "is miss murdock in?" "i'll see, sir. who shall i say?" "mr. madison." airily, he added: "miss murdock expects me." a moment later the man returned, and politely ushered him into an elevator lined with mirrors, and luxuriously upholstered in red satin. at the fifth floor, the smooth-running car stopped, and the attendant pointed to an apartment across the corridor. before madison could reach the door, it was thrown wide open. there was a wild rush of rustling silks and white lace, a woman's stifled sob, and laura was in his arms. "oh, john!" she cried almost hysterically, as the door closed behind him. "i'm so happy!" for a moment he held her clasped tightly to him, as if afraid some one else might appear in this strange apartment to rob him of her. this was the supreme moment for which he had toiled and waited all these cruel, weary months. when at last, all red under his kisses, she released herself from his embrace, he took her face in his hands and held it up towards his. tenderly, he said: "i'm not much on the love-making business, laura, but i never thought i'd be as happy as i am now. i've been counting mile-posts ever since i left chicago, and it seemed like as if i had to go round the world before i got here." following close behind, as she went into the sitting room, he gave an exclamation of surprise as he took in the beautiful gilded furniture and rich furnishings. his eye seemed to ask questions he found no words for. she caught the look, and she trembled. nervously waving him to a seat, she said: "you never told me about your good fortune. if you hadn't telegraphed, i wouldn't even have known you were coming." "i didn't want to," he replied, smiling. "i'd made up my mind to sort of drop in here and give you a great big surprise--a happy one, i knew--but the papers made such a fuss in chicago that i thought you might have read about it--did you?" "no, tell me," she said eagerly. he sat down and began the story of his wanderings. he told her of his adventures in the search for gold, of his sufferings, and his narrow escape from death. in those dark hours, he had only had one thought, one hope--that he might be spared to see her once again. "it's been pretty tough sledding out there in the mining country," he said. "it did look as if i never would make a strike; but your spirit was with me, and i knew if i could only hold out that something would come my way. i had a pal--a fine fellow. we started out to find gold. the first thing we knew we were lost--lost in the howling wilderness. we nearly perished of cold and hunger. it was a close call, little girl. i never thought i should see you again. but one day, when we were about all in, we struck gold--quantities of it, nuggets as big as my fist. we staked our claims in two weeks, and i went to reno to raise enough money for me to come east. now, things are all fixed, and it's just a matter of time." he took the girl's delicate hand in his big brown ones, and looked fondly into her eyes. "so you're very, very rich, dear?" she murmured. he released her hand, and leaned back carelessly in his chair. "oh, not rich; just heeled. i'm not going down to the wall street bargain counter and buy the union pacific, or anything like that; but we won't have to take the trip on tourists' tickets, and there's enough money to make us comfortable all the rest of our lives." "how hard you must have worked and suffered!" he smiled, and, rising from his chair, stood looking down at her from the other side of the table. "nobody else ever accused me of that, but i sure have to plead guilty to you. why, dear, since the day you came into my life, hell-raising took a sneak out the back door, and god poked his toe in the front, and ever since then i think he's been coming a little closer to me. i used to be a fellow without much faith, and kidded everybody who had it, and i used to say to those who prayed and believed, 'you may be right, but show me a message.' you came along, and brought that little document in your sweet face and your dear love. laura, you turned the trick for me, and i think i'm almost a regular man now." she turned her head away, unwilling that he should see her face, afraid that he might read there the whole miserable truth. as he spoke, his words brought to her a full realization of all she was to this man, and she became more and more unnerved. it was more than she could bear. feebly she murmured: "please, john, don't. i'm not worth it." rising suddenly from the sofa, she went to the window. the air of the room was hot and stifling. she felt herself growing faint. "not worth it?" he exclaimed lightly, going up to her. "why, you're worth that and a whole lot more. and see how you've got on! brockton told me you never could get along in your profession, but i knew you could." he walked around the room, inspecting the furnishings and knickknacks. finally, he turned, and, with an interrogative note in his voice, said: "gee! fixed up kind o' scrumptious, ain't you? i guess you've been almost as prosperous as i have." she forced a laugh. with affected carelessness, she said: "you can get a lot of gilt and cushions in new york at half-price, and, besides, i've got a pretty good part now." "of course, i know that," he smiled; "but i didn't think it would make you quite so comfortable. great, ain't it?" "yes." taking her by the shoulders, and shaking her playfully, he went on: "i knew what you had in you, and here you are. you succeeded, and i succeeded, but i'm going to take you away; and after a while, when things sort of smooth out, we're going to move back here, and go to europe, and just have a great time, like a couple of kids." she turned and looked up at him. slowly, she said: "but if i hadn't succeeded, and if things--things weren't just as they seem--would it make any difference to you, john?" he took her in his arms and kissed her, drawing her onto the sofa beside him. "not the least in the world. now, don't get blue. i should not have surprised you this way. it's taken you off your feet." looking at his watch, he jumped up, and, going behind the sofa, he got his overcoat. "but we've not any time to lose. how soon can you get ready?" laura knelt on the sofa, leaning over the back. "you mean to go at once?" she asked. "nothing else." "take all my things?" "all your duds," he smiled. "can't you get ready?" "why, my dear, i can get ready most any time." he came over and stood by her chair, looking down at her affectionately. with a smile, he said: "well, are you ready?" she looked up quickly, a faint flush on her pale face. "for what, dear?" "you know what i said in the telegram?" "yes." her head dropped forward on his shoulder. in a low tone, she murmured: "yes." "well, i meant it," he said tenderly. "i know," she whispered. he took a seat on the other side of the table facing her. "i've got to get back, laura, just as soon as ever i can. there's a lot of work to be done out in nevada, and i stole away to come to new york. i want to take you back. can you go?" "yes--when?" "this afternoon. we'll take the eighteen-hour train to chicago, late this afternoon, and connect at chicago with the overland, and i'll soon have you in a home." he hesitated a moment; then he said: "and here's another secret." "what, dear?" "i've got that home all bought and furnished, and while you wouldn't call it a fifth avenue residence, still it has got something on any other one in town." looking into the bedroom, he asked: "is that your maid?" "yes--annie." "well, you and she can pack everything you want to take; the rest can follow later." putting his coat on, he went on: "i planned it all out. there's a couple of boys downtown, one's glenn warner--you know him--he introduced me to you that night--the other is a newspaper man. i telephoned them when i got in, and they're waiting for me. i'll just get down there as soon as i can. i won't be gone long." "how long?" she demanded. "i don't know just how long, but we'll make that train. i'll get the license. we'll be married, and we'll be off on our honeymoon this afternoon. can you do it?" she went up to him, put her hands in his, and they confronted each other. "yes, dear," she said. "i could do anything for you." he took her in his arms and kissed her again. looking at her fondly, he said: "that's good. hurry now. i won't be long. good-by." "hurry back, john." "yes. i won't be long." the next instant the door banged behind him. chapter xix. for several minutes after john's departure, laura stood motionless. every vestige of color had left her face; her large lustrous eyes stared blankly into vacancy. she looked as if she had been suddenly petrified into stone. yet, inert as she seemed, her brain was working hard. perhaps all was not yet lost! john knew nothing, suspected nothing. she might still be happy. why should he know what had occurred during his absence? there was no one to enlighten him. a life of happiness with the one man she truly loved, might still be hers. instantly she was galvanized into action. there was no time to be lost. she must get away from new york and be safely married before brockton or any one else had a chance to ruin her life. she must pack her things at once, so as to be ready for john when he returned. feverishly, she began her preparations. going rapidly over to the dresser, she picked up a large jewel case, and, taking down a doll that was hanging on the dresser, put them on her left arm. with her disengaged hand, she picked up her black cat and carried it over to the center-table. then, opening the door leading to the kitchen, she called out: "annie! annie! come here." the negress entered the room. "yassum." "annie, i'm going away, and i've got to hurry." "going away!" exclaimed the maid in blank astonishment. her mistress had already begun to pile things in the center of the room. hurriedly, laura said: "yes--i want you to bring both my trunks out here--i'll help you--and start to pack. we can't take everything, but bring all the clothes out, and we'll hurry as fast as we can." they entered the sleeping apartments together, and in a short time reappeared, carrying a large trunk between them. pushing the sofa back, they laid it down in the center of the room. "look out for your feet, miss laura!" exclaimed the maid. "i think i'll take two trunks," said her mistress thoughtfully. [illustration: laura commenced to pack the trunk. _page ._] the negress pushed the table out of the way, and, in her flurry, nearly fell over the armchair. "golly, such excitement!" she exclaimed. "wheah yuh goin', miss laura?" "never mind where i'm going," snapped her mistress. "i haven't any time to waste now talking. i'll tell you later. this is one time, annie, that you've got to move. hurry up!" giving the maid a push, she hustled her out of the room, and followed closely behind herself. presently they returned with a smaller trunk. "look out fo' yo' dress, miss laura," exclaimed the maid. the trunks were set down, side by side. laura opened one and commenced to throw the things out, while annie stood watching her. soon the actress was down on her knees in front of the trunk, humming "_bon bon buddy_" packing for dear life, while the maid watched her in amazement. "ah nevah see you so happy, miss laura." "i never was so happy!" cried laura almost hysterically. giving the girl a push, she exclaimed impatiently: "for heaven's sake, girl, go get something! don't stand there looking at me. i want you to hurry." thus admonished, annie ran helter-skelter in the direction of her mistress' room. "i'll bring out all de fluffy ones first," she cried as she disappeared. "yes, everything!" cried laura, who was on her knees busy laying the things neatly away in the trunk. presently the maid returned laden with an armful of dresses and a hat-box. the box she placed on the floor, the dresses on top of the trunk. going out again for more, she asked: "yuh goin' to take dat opera cloak?" "yes, everything--everything!" answered laura, breathless from the speed at which she was working. annie reëntered with more dresses. there seemed no end to them, each more beautiful and costly than the other. the maid put them on the sofa; then, picking up the opera cloak, she laid it out on top of the dresses in the trunk. even the humble colored menial was spellbound by the beauty of these adjuncts of feminine loveliness. "my, but dat's a beauty! i jest love dat crushed rosey one." laura looked up impatiently. the girl's chatter made her nervous. sharply, she said: "annie, go and put the best dresses on the foot of the bed. i'll get them myself. you heard what i said?" the girl ran. she stood in awe of her mistress when she was in ill-humor. "yassum!" while the negress was in the inner room taking the garments from the cupboards, laura continued busily arranging the contents of the trunk, placing garments here, and some there, sorting them out. while she was thus engaged, with her back to the door, the door leading to the outer corridor opened, and brockton appeared. he entered quietly, without disturbing laura, and for a minute or two stood watching her in silence. then, suddenly, he said: "going away?" startled, laura jumped up and confronted him. "yes," she said, with some confusion. "in somewhat of a hurry, i should say," he said dryly. "yes." "what's the plan?" he inquired. "i'm just going--that's all," she said calmly. "madison been here?" he asked in the same even tone. "he's just left," she answered. "of course you are going with him?" "yes." "west?" "to nevada." "going--er--to get married?" he demanded. "yes, this afternoon." he looked at her keenly, and said significantly: "so he didn't care then?" flushing, she flared up: "what do you mean, when you say 'he didn't care'?" "of course you told him about the letter, and how it was burned up, and all that sort of thing, didn't you?" "why, yes," she replied, averting her eyes. "and he said it didn't make any difference?" "he--he didn't say anything. we're just going to be married, that's all." "did you mention my name, and say that we'd been--rather companionable for the last two months?" "i told him--you'd been--a very good friend to me." she spoke with hesitation, at moments with difficulty, as if seeking to gain time, to find answers for his awkward questions. but she did not deceive him. brockton was too much the man of the world to be easily hoodwinked. he knew she was lying, and his face flushed with anger. "how soon do you expect him back?" he demanded. "quite soon," she replied, with an effort to be calm. "i don't know just exactly how long he'll be." she turned her back and proceeded with her packing. he came nearer and stood overlooking the trunk. "and you mean to tell me that you kept your promise and told him the truth?" he persisted. she stammered confusedly, and then, her patience exhausted, she broke out into open defiance. "what business have you got to ask me that? what business have you got to interfere, anyway?" rising and going to the bed in the alcove, she took the dresses and carried them to the sofa. brockton followed her, his fists clenched. "then you've lied again!" he cried furiously. "you lied to him, and you just tried to lie to me now. you're not particularly clever at it, although i don't doubt but that you've had considerable practice." with a contemptuous shrug of his shoulders, he walked over to the chair at the table and sat down, still holding his hat in his hand, and without removing his overcoat. laura came back laden with more things. seeing brockton sitting, she stopped, and, turning on him, laid the dresses down. "what are you going to do?" she demanded. "sit down here and rest a few moments; maybe longer," he replied coolly. she looked at him in dismay. "you can't do that!" she exclaimed. "i don't see why not. this is my own place." "but don't you see that he'll come back here soon and find you here?" "that's just exactly what i want him to do." laura looked at him helplessly. with suppressed emotion, almost on the verge of hysteria, she broke out: "i want to tell you this. if you do this thing, you'll ruin my life. you've done enough to it already. now, i want you to go. i don't think you've got any right to come here now, in this way, and take this happiness from me. i've given you everything i've got, and now i want to live right and decently. he wants me to marry him. we love each other. now, will brockton, it's come to this. you've got to leave this place, do you hear? you've got to leave this place. please get out!" brockton was white and determined looking. for the first time in his life, he was really angry. leaving his chair and advancing towards her, he said menacingly: "do you think i'm going to let a woman make a liar out of me? i'm going to stay right here. i like that boy, and i'm not going to let you put him to the bad." "i want you to go!" she cried. shutting the trunk-lid down, she went over to the dresser and opened the drawer, to get more things out. "and i tell you i won't go," he retorted furiously. "i'm going to show you up. i'm going to tell him the truth. it isn't you i care for--he's got to know." slamming the drawer shut, she turned and faced him, almost tiger-like in her anger. "you don't care for me?" she cried. "no." "it isn't me you're thinking of?" "no." "who's the liar now?" "liar?" "yes, liar. you are! you don't care for this man, and you know it." "you're foolish." "yes, i am foolish, and i've been foolish all my life, but i'm getting a little sense now." kneeling in the armchair facing him, her voice shaking with anger, she went on: "all my life, since the day you first took me away, you've planned and planned and planned to keep me, and to trick me and bring me down with you. when you came to me i was happy. i didn't have much, just a little salary and some hard work." he shrugged his shoulders, and smiled skeptically. ironically, he said: "but, like all the rest, you found that wouldn't keep you, didn't you?" ignoring his taunt, she went on: "you say i'm bad, but who's made me so? who took me out night after night? who showed me what these luxuries were? who put me in the habit of buying something i couldn't afford? you did." "well, you liked it, didn't you?" "who got me in debt, and then, when i wouldn't do what you wanted me to, who had me discharged from the company, so i had no means of living? who followed me from one place to another? who, always entreating, tried to trap me into this life? i didn't know any better." "didn't know better?" he echoed derisively. "i knew it was wrong--yes; but you told me everybody in this business did that sort of thing, and i was just as good as any one else. finally you got me and you kept me. then, when i went away to denver, and for the first time found a gleam of happiness, for the first time in my life----" "you're crazy," he said contemptuously. "yes, i am crazy!" she cried hysterically. her patience was at an end. she felt that if he stayed there another minute to taunt and torture her, she would go stark, raving mad. a choking sensation rose in her throat. seized with a sudden fury, she swept the table cover off the table, and, making one stride to the dresser, knocked all the bottles off. then she turned on him furiously. almost screaming, she shouted: "you've made me crazy! you followed me to denver, and then when i got back you bribed me again. you pulled me down, and you did the same old thing until this happened. now, i want you to get out, you understand? i want you to get out!" he turned to pacify her. more gently, he said: "laura, you can't do this." but she refused to listen. walking up and down the room, gesticulating wildly, she kept crying: "go--do you hear--go!" he took a seat on a trunk. instantly she turned on him like an infuriated tigress, attempting to push him off by sheer strength. "no, you won't," she screamed; "you won't stay here! you're not going to do this thing again. i tell you, i'm going to be happy. i tell you, i'm going to be married. you won't see him! i tell you, you won't tell him! you've got no business to. i hate you! i've hated you for months! i hate the sight of your face! i've wanted to go, and now i'm going. you've got to go, do you hear? you've got to get out--get out!" such an exhibition of rage in this usually mild girl was something so strange and uncanny that it suddenly aroused in him a feeling of disgust. after all, why should he care? he ought to be glad to get out and be through with her. as she pushed him again, he rose, and threw her off, causing her to stagger to a chair. with a gesture of impatience, he went towards the door. "what the hell is the use of fussing with a woman?" he exclaimed. the door slammed noisily behind him. sinking down on her knees, laura started to pack with renewed vigor, crying hysterically: "i want to be happy! i'm going to be married, i'm going to be happy!" chapter xx. two hours later, laura, fully dressed for a journey, sat on a trunk, nervously watching the clock, patiently awaiting john's return. annie was still on her knees, struggling with the key of an obstinate suitcase. a remarkable transformation had been effected in the apartment. the entire place had been dismantled, and the elegantly appointed sitting room was now littered with trunks, grips, umbrellas and the usual paraphernalia that accompanies a woman when she is making a permanent departure from her place of living. all the _bric à brac_ had been removed from the sideboard and tables. some of the dresser drawers were half open, and pieces of tissue paper and ribbons were hanging out. on the armchair was a small alligator bag, containing toilet articles and a bunch of keys. the writing-desk had all its contents removed, and was open, showing scraps of torn-up letters. lying on the floor, where it had been dropped, was a new york central timetable. between the desk and the bay-window stood a milliner's box, inside of which was a huge picture hat. under the desk were a pair of old slippers, a woman's shabby hat and old ribbons. the picture frames and basket of flowers had been removed from the pianola, while the music-stool was on top of the instrument, turned upside down. between the legs of this stool was an empty _white rock_ bottle, with a tumbler turned over it. the big trunk stood in front of the sofa, all packed, and it had a swing-tray, in which lay a fancy evening gown. on top of the lid was an umbrella, a lady's traveling-coat, hat, and gloves. on the sofa was a large gladstone bag, packed and fastened, and close by a smaller trunk-tray with lid. in the end of the tray was a revolver wrapped in tissue paper. the trunk was closed, and apparently locked. the room had the general appearance of having been stripped of all personal belongings. old magazines and newspapers were scattered all over the place. pale and perturbed, laura sat nervously, starting at each little sound she heard from the street. every now and then she consulted the small traveling clock which she held in her hand. why didn't john come. she was all ready. everything was packed. all they had to do now was to call a cab and drive to the railroad station. thank god, she had got rid of brockton! that danger, at least, was removed. john knew nothing, could hear nothing now until they were safely married. if afterwards he heard things and demanded an explanation, she would tell him everything and he would forgive her. "ain't yuh goin' to let me come to yuh at all, miss laura?" asked the maid with a pout. "i don't know yet, annie. i don't even know what the place is like that we're going to. mr. madison hasn't said much. there hasn't been time." "why, ah've done ma best for yuh, miss laura; yes, ah have. ah've jest been with yuh ev'ry moment of ma time, an' ah worked for yuh an ah loved yuh, an, ah doan wan' to be left 'ere all alone in dis town er new york." laura turned to the door for a moment, and, while her back was turned annie stooped, grabbed up a ribbon, and hid it behind her back. "ah ain't the kind of culled lady knows many people. can't yuh take me along wid yuh, miss laura? yuh all been so good to me." getting up from the trunk, laura went to the outer door and listened. hearing nothing, she returned with a gesture of disappointment. with some irritation, she said: "why, i told you to stay here and get your things together, and then mr. brockton will probably want you to do something. later i think he'll have you pack up, just as soon as he finds i'm gone. i've got the address that you gave me. i'll let you know if you can come on." hiding the ribbon inside her waist, the negress said suddenly: "ain't yuh goin' to give me anything at all, jes' to remembuh yuh by? ah've been so honest----" "honest?" echoed her mistress scornfully. "honest, ah have." "you've been about as honest as most colored girls are who work for women in the position that i am in. you haven't stolen enough to make me discharge you, but i've seen what you've taken." "now, miss laura!" protested the girl. "don't try to fool me!" cried laura indignantly. "what you've got you're welcome to, but for heaven's sake don't prate around here about loyalty and honesty. i'm sick of it." "ain't yuh goin' to give me no recommendation?" laura shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "what good would my recommendation do? you can always go and get another position with people who've lived the way i've lived, and my recommendation to the other kind wouldn't amount to much." overcome by emotion and disappointment, annie collapsed on a trunk. "ah can just see wheah ah'm goin'!" she cried; "back to dat boa'din-house fo' me." "now, shut your noise," cried laura impatiently. "i don't want to hear any more. i've given you twenty-five dollars for a present. i think that's enough." "ah know," replied the negress, putting on a most aggrieved appearance, "but twenty-five dollars ain't a home, and i'm losin' my home. dat's jest my luck--every time i save enough money to buy my weddin' clothes to get married, i lose my job." laura paced nervously from window to door, from door to window, listening for every footstep. "i wonder why he doesn't come," she murmured anxiously. "we'll never be able to make that train!" picking the timetable off the floor, she sat down in a chair and began to study it intently. while thus engaged, she heard the elevator stop on their floor. she jumped to her feet. there he was! after a few seconds' interval, the bell rang. yes--that was he. without waiting for annie, she rushed to open the door, and fell back, visibly disappointed. it was not john, after all. "how-dy-do, miss laura?" the visitor was her old friend, jim weston. the advance agent was neatly dressed in black, and he had about him an appearance of prosperity which she was not accustomed to see. he looked different, more staid and respectable, but his drollness of speech and kindly manner were the same as ever. he held out his hand to laura, who invited him in. he came at an inopportune time, but she could not forget his kindness to her during those terrible days at mrs. farley's. "i'm mighty glad to see you, jim," she said cordially. "looks as if you were going to move," he grinned, looking around. "yes, i am going to move, and a long ways, too. how well you're looking--fit as a fiddle." "yes; i am feelin' fine. where yer goin'? troupin'?" "no, indeed." "thought not. what's comin' off now?" "i'm going to be married this afternoon," she said proudly. "married?" he exclaimed in astonishment. "and then i'm going west." leaving the trunks, which he had been inspecting, he walked toward her and held out his hands. "now, i'm just glad to hear that," he said warmly. "ye know when i heard how--how things was breakin' for ye--well, i ain't knockin' or anythin' like that, but me and the missis have talked ye over a lot. i never did think this feller was goin' to do the right thing by yer. brockton never looked to me like a fellow who would marry anybody, but now that he's going through just to make you a nice, respectable wife, i guess everything must have happened for the best." he looked at her, and paused, as if expecting she would take him more into her confidence, but she made no reply, and averted her eyes. sitting on the trunk beside her, he went on: "ye see, i wanted to thank you for what you did a couple of weeks ago. burgess wrote me a letter, and told me i could go ahead of one of his big shows if i wanted to come back, and offered me considerable money. he mentioned your name, miss laura, and i talked it over with the missis, and--well, i can tell ye now when i couldn't if ye weren't to be hooked up--we decided that i wouldn't take that job, comin' as it did from you, and the way i knew it was framed up." "why not?" she asked in surprise. "well, ye see," he said with some embarrassment, "there are three kids, and they're all growing up, all of them in school, and the missis, she's just about forgot the show business, and she's playing star part in the kitchen, juggling dishes and doing flip-flaps with pancakes; and we figured that as we'd always gone along kinder clean-like, it wouldn't be good for the kids to take a job comin' from brockton--because you--you--well--you--you----" laura rose hastily, and her face reddened. "i know. you thought it wasn't decent. is that it?" "oh, not exactly; only--well, you see i'm gettin' along pretty good now. i got a little one-night stand theatre out in ohio--manager of it, too. the town is called gallipolis." "gallipolis?" she echoed, puzzled. "oh, that ain't a disease," he smiled. "it is the name of a town. maybe you don't know much about gallipolis, or where it is." "no." "well, it looks just like it sounds. we got a little house, and the old lady is happy, and i feel so good that i can even stand her cookin'. of course, we ain't makin' much money, but i guess i'm getting a little old-fashioned around theatres, anyway. the fellows from newspapers and colleges have got it on me. last time i asked a man for a job he asked me what i knew about the greek drama, and when i told him i didn't know the greeks had a theatre in new york, he slipped me a laugh and told me to come in again on some rainy tuesday. then gallipolis showed on the map, and i beat it for the west." noticing that his words had hurt her, he stopped, and in an embarrassed kind of way went on: "sorry if i hurt ye--didn't mean to; and now that yer goin' to be mrs. brockton, well, i take back all i said, and while i don't think i want to change my position, i wouldn't turn it down for--for that other reason, that's all." "but, mr. weston, i'm not going to be mrs. brockton!" she cried hastily, with a note of defiance in her voice. "no?" he exclaimed in surprise. "no." "oh--oh----" "i'm going to marry another man, and a good man." "the h--ll you are!" she rose and put her hand on his shoulder. gently, she said: "it's going to be altogether different. i know what you meant when you said about the missis and the kids, and that's what i want--just a little home, just a little peace, just a little comfort, and--and the man has come who's going to give it to me. you don't want me to say any more, do you?" "no, i don't," he said emphatically, in a tone of hearty approval; "and now i'm just going to put my mit out and shake yours and be real glad. i want to tell ye it's the only way to go along. i ain't never been a rival to rockefeller, nor i ain't never made morgan jealous, but since the day my old woman took her make-up off for the last time and walked out of that stage door to give me a little help and bring my kids into the world, i knew that was the way to go along; and if you're goin' to take that road, by jiminy, i'm glad of it, for you sure do deserve it. i wish yer luck." "thank you." "i'm mighty glad you sidestepped brockton," he went on. "you're young, and you're pretty, and you're sweet, and if you've got the right kind of a feller, there ain't no reason on earth why you shouldn't jest forgit the whole business and see nothin' but laughs and a good time comin' to you, and the sun sort o' shinin' every twenty-four hours in the day. you know the missis feels just as if she knew you, after i told her about them hard times we had at farley's boarding-house, so i feel that it's paid me to come to new york, even if i didn't book anything but 'east lynne' and 'uncle tom's cabin'." rising and moving towards the door, he added: "now, i'm goin'. don't forget--gallipolis's the name, and sometimes the mail does get there. i'd be awful glad if you wrote the missis a little note tellin' us how you're gettin' along, and if you ever have to ride on the kanawha and michigan, just look out of the window when the train passes our town, because that is about the best you'll get." "why?" "they only stop there on signal. and make up your mind that the weston family is with you, forty ways from the jack, day and night. good-by, and god bless you!" "good-by, jim," she said, with some emotion. "i'm so glad to know you're happy." "you bet," he grinned. "never mind, i can get out all right. good-by again." "good-by," she said very softly. the door closed behind him, and once more she took up her solitary vigil at the window. if john would only come! the precious minutes were slipping away. they would never be able to make that train. she wondered what had detained him. suddenly, a cold chill ran through her. suppose he had met some one downtown who had told him about her and brockton. then he would never come back again, or, if he did, it would be only to wreak his vengeance. in spite of herself she trembled at the mere idea. to change her thoughts, she began to busy herself about the room, collecting the small packages, counting the trunks, showing annie how to close the apartment when they had gone. suddenly the front doorbell rang. she gave a joyful exclamation. "hurry, annie--there's mr. madison!" the girl passed into the corridor and a moment later her voice was heard saying: "she's waitin' for yuh, mr. madison." laura hastened forward to greet him. john came in, hat in hand, followed by annie. he stopped short as he entered, and looked long and searchingly at laura, who had hurried joyously to embrace him. instinctively she felt that something had happened. that look of suspicion and distrust was not in his eyes when he left her that morning, she trembled but remained firm. annie disappeared and laura took his hat and coat and placed them on a trunk. "aren't you a little late, dear?" she said timidly. he remained gloomily silent for a moment. then, he said: "i--i was detained downtown a few minutes. i think that we can carry out our plan all right." "has anything happened?" she inquired, trying to conceal her anxiety. "no," he replied hesitatingly. "i've made all the arrangements. the men will be here in a few minutes for your trunks." feeling in his pocket, he added: "i've got the railroad tickets and everything else, but----" "but what, john?" he went over to her. instinctively she understood that she was about to go through an ordeal. she seemed to feel that he had become acquainted with something which might interfere with the realization of her long-cherished dream. he looked at her long and searchingly. evidently he, too, was much wrought up, but when he spoke it was with a calm dignity and force which showed the character of the man. "laura," he began. "yes?" she answered timidly. "you know when i went downtown i said i was going to call on two or three of my friends in park row." "i know." "i told them who i was going to marry." "well?" "they said something about you and brockton, and i found that they'd said too much, but not quite enough." "what did they say?" "just that--too much and not quite enough. there's a minister waiting for us over on madison avenue. you see, then you'll be my wife. that's pretty serious business, and all i want now from you is the truth." she looked at him inquiringly, fearfully--not knowing what to say. "well?" she stammered. "just tell me what they said was just an echo of the past--that it came from what had been going on before that wonderful day out there in colorado. tell me that you've been on the level. i don't want their word, laura--i just want yours." the girl shrank back a moment before his anxious face, then summoned up all her courage, looked frankly into his eyes, and with as innocent an expression as she was able to put on, said: "yes, john, i have been on the level." he sprang forward with a joyful exclamation: "i knew that, dear, i knew it!" he cried. taking her in his arms, he kissed her hotly. she clung to him in pitiful helplessness. his manner had suddenly changed to one of almost boyish happiness. "well," he went on joyfully, "now everything's all ready, let's get on the job. we haven't a great deal of time. get your duds on." "when do we go?" "right away. the idea is to get away." "all right," she said gleefully. getting her hat off the trunk, she crossed to the mirror and put it on. he surveyed the room and laughed. "you've got trunks enough, haven't you? one might think we're moving a whole colony. and, by the way, to me you are a whole colony--anyway, you're the only one i ever wanted to settle with." "that's good," she laughed lightly. taking her bag off the bureau, she went to the trunk and got her purse, coat and umbrella, as if ready to leave. hurriedly gathering her things together and adjusting her hat, she said, almost to herself, in a low tone: "i'm so excited. come on!" madison went to get his hat and coat, and both were about to leave, when suddenly they heard the outer door slam. instinctively both halted and waited. who could it be? john looked questioningly at laura, who stood, pale as death and as motionless as if changed into marble. a moment later brockton entered leisurely, with his hat on and his coat, half-drawn off, hanging loosely on his arm. he paid no attention to either of them, but walked straight through the room, without speaking, and disappeared through the _portières_ into the sleeping apartments beyond. his manner was that of a man who knows he is at home and has no account to render to anyone either for the manner of his entrance or what rooms he may enter. laura, who at first had made a quick movement forward, as if to bar his further progress, fell back, terrified. putting her coat, bag and umbrella down on a chair, she stood, dazed and trembling, powerless to avert the crisis which she realized was at hand. madison, who had watched the broker's actions with amazement, suddenly grew rigid as a statue. his square jaw snapped with a determined click, and one hand slipped stealthily into his hip pocket. no one spoke. the tense silence was ominous and painful. it seemed like an hour, but less than a minute had elapsed when brockton reëntered, with coat and hat off. carelessly picking up a newspaper, he took a seat in the armchair, and, leisurely crossing his legs, looked over at the others, who still stood motionless, watching him. greeting john lightly, he said: "hello, madison, when did you get in?" slowly john seemed to recover himself. suddenly his hand went swiftly to his hip pocket and he drew out a revolver. eyeing the broker with savage determination, he deliberately and slowly covered him with the deadly weapon. brockton, who had seen the movement, sprang quickly to his feet. laura, terror stricken, screamed loudly and threw herself right in the line of fire. "don't shoot!" she pleaded hoarsely. madison kept his rival covered, but he did not shoot. there was an uncertain expression in his face, as if he was wavering in his own mind as to whether he would kill this man or not. slowly his whole frame relaxed. he lowered the pistol and quietly replaced it in his pocket, much to the relief of brockton, who, notwithstanding the danger that confronted him, had stood his ground like a man. turning to laura, the westerner said slowly: "thank you. you said that just in time." there was an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of laura weeping half hysterically. finally brockton, who had recovered his self-possession, said: "well, you see, madison--what i told you that time in denver----" john made another threatening gesture which brought him face to face with the broker. "look out, brockton," he said. "i don't want to talk to you----" "all right," rejoined the broker, with a shrug of his shoulders. madison turned to laura. peremptorily he said: "now get that man out of here." "john--i----" she protested cheerfully. "get him out!" he almost shouted. "get him out before i lose my temper, or they'll--or they'll take him out without his help!" the girl laid a supplicating hand on the broker's arm. "go--go! please go!" she pleaded. "all right," he replied. "if that's the way you want it, i'm willing." he turned and went into the inner room to get his hat and coat, while john and laura stood facing each other, without speaking. brockton soon reëntered, and without a word moved in the direction of the door. the others remained motionless. as the broker put his hand on the door, laura started forward. turning to madison, she pointed at the man who was leaving. "before he goes," she cried, "i want to tell you how i learned to despise him. john, i know you don't believe me, but it's true--it's true. i don't love anyone in the world but just you. i know you don't think that it can be explained--maybe there isn't any explanation. i couldn't help it. i was so poor, and i had to live. he wouldn't let me work. he's let me live only one way, and i was hungry. do you know what that means? i was hungry and didn't have clothes to keep me warm, and i tried, oh, john! i tried so hard to do the other thing--the right thing--but i couldn't." he listened in silence. there was no anger in his eyes, no menace in his attitude. he merely appeared dumbfounded, crushed; there was in his face a look of mute, helpless astonishment, as a child might look when it saw an edifice of sand carefully and lovingly erected, levelled to the ground by the first careless wave. almost apologetically he said: "i--i know i couldn't help much, and perhaps i could have forgiven you if you hadn't lied to me. that's what hurt." he turned fiercely on brockton, and approaching close so he could look him straight in the eyes, he said contemptuously: "i expected you to lie; you're that kind of a man. you left me with a shake of the hand, and you gave me your word, and you didn't keep it. why should you keep it? why should anything make any difference to you? why, you pup, you've no right to live in the same world with decent folks. now you make yourself scarce, or take it from me, i'll just kill you, that's all!" "i'll leave, madison," replied the broker coolly; "but i'm not going to let you think that i didn't do the right thing with you. she came to me voluntarily. she said she wanted to come back. i told you she'd do that when i was in colorado; you didn't believe me. i told you that when she did this sort of thing i'd let you know. i dictated a letter to her to send to you, and i left it, sealed and stamped, in her hands to mail. she didn't do it. if there's been a lie, she told it. i didn't." madison looked at laura, who hung her head in mute acknowledgment of her guilt. as he suddenly realized how she had tricked him he turned pale, and with a smothered cry sank down on one of the trunks. until this very moment he still believed in her. he could have forgiven her returning to brockton, everything; but she had deliberately lied to him and deceived him. that he could never forgive. there was a moment's silence, and brockton advanced towards him. "you see! why, my boy, whatever you think of me or the life i lead, i wouldn't have had this come to you for anything in the world. no, i wouldn't. my women don't mean a whole lot to me because i don't take them seriously. i wish i had the faith and the youth to feel the way you do. you're all in and broken up, but i wish i could be broken up just once. i did what i thought was best for you because i didn't think she could ever go through the way you wanted her to. i'm sorry it's all turned out bad. good-bye." he looked at john for a moment, as if expecting some reply, but the big westerner maintained a dogged silence. with a shrug of his shoulders and without so much as glancing at laura, brockton strode to the door and slammed it shut behind him. [illustration: john stood looking at her in silence. _page ._] madison stood looking at her in silence. there was nothing more to say or do. the broker was right. he had been a poor fool; he had taken this woman too seriously. she was no better than all of her kind. yet it seemed as if there was something wrong somewhere. it had ended so differently to what he expected. he would never believe in womankind again. slowly he made his way toward the door, while she, her heart breaking, her face white as death, the hot tears streaming down her cheeks, stood still, not daring to say a word or make a movement. his drawn face and haunted eyes looked as though some great grief had suddenly come into his life, a grief he could not understand. but he gave her no chance to speak. he seemed to be feeling around for something to say, some way to get out and away without further delay. he went towards the door, and with a pitiful gesture of his hand, seemed to be saying farewell forever. with a stifled sob, she darted forward. "john, i----" he turned and looked at her sternly. "i'd be careful what i said if i were you. don't try to make excuses. i understand." "it's not excuses," she sobbed. "i want to tell you what's in my heart, but i can't; it won't speak, and you don't believe my voice." "you'd better leave it unsaid." "but i must tell," she cried hysterically. "i can't let you go like this." going over to him, she made a weak attempt to put her arms around him; but calmly, dispassionately, he took her hands and put them down. wildly, pleadingly, she went on: "i love you! i--how can i tell you--but i do, i do, and you won't believe me." he remained silent for a moment, and then taking her by the hand, he led her over to the chair and placed her in it. he drew back a few steps, and in a gentle but firm tone, tinged with grief which carried tremendous conviction with it, he said: "i think you do as far as you are able; but, laura, i guess you don't know what a decent sentiment is. you're not immoral, you're just unmoral, kind o' all out of shape, and i'm afraid there isn't a particle of hope for you. when we met neither of us had any reason to be proud, but i believed that you would see in this the chance of salvation which sometimes comes to a man and a woman fixed as we were then. what had been had been. it was all in the great to-be for us, and now, how you've kept your word! what little that promise meant, when i thought you handed me a new lease of life!" she cowered before him, unable to say a word in her own defense, almost wishing he would beat her. "you're killing me--killing me!" she cried in anguish. he shrugged his shoulders skeptically. "don't make such a mistake," he replied ironically. "in a month you'll recover. there will be days when you will think of me, just for a moment, and then it will be all over. with you it is the easiest way, and it always will be. you'll go on and on until you're finally left a wreck, just the type of the common woman. and you'll sink until you're down to the very bed-rock of depravity. i pity you." laura quickly raised her head and looked at him. her eyes were swollen, her face haggard and drawn. madison found himself wondering how he could ever have thought her even good looking. her voice was metallic and hard. "you'll never leave me to do that. i'll kill myself!" she cried hoarsely. "perhaps that's the only thing left for you to do," he replied cynically; "but you'll not do it. it's easier to live." he went to get his hat and coat. then he turned and looked at her. laura rose at the same time. there was an unnatural glitter in her eyes. she breathed hard. her bosom rose and fell spasmodically. "john," she cried exaltedly, "i said i'd kill myself, and i mean every word of it. if it's the only thing to do, i'll do it, and i'll do it before your very eyes!" quickly she snatched up the satchel, opened it, and took out the revolver. then she stood facing him, waiting. "you understand," she cried hysterically, "that when your hand touches that door i'm going to shoot myself. i will, so help me god!" he halted and looked back at her, a covert smile of contempt hovering about his mouth. "kill yourself--before me!" he exclaimed ironically. "you'll wait a minute, won't you?" returning to the inner room, he called out: "annie! annie!" the colored maid came running in. "yessuh!" madison pointed to laura. "you see your mistress there has a pistol in her hand?" the girl, frightened out of her wits, could only gurgle an incoherent: "yessuh!" "she wants to kill herself," said madison. "i just called you to witness that the act is entirely voluntary on her part." turning to the frenzied, hysterical woman, he said indifferently: "now go ahead!" in a state bordering on collapse, laura dropped the pistol on the floor. "john, i--can't----" madison waved the maid away. "annie, she's evidently changed her mind. you may go." "but, miss laura, ah----" "you may go!" he cried peremptorily. bewildered and not understanding, the negress disappeared through the _portières_. in the same gentle tone, but carrying with it an almost frigid conviction, he went on: "you didn't have the nerve. i knew you wouldn't. for a moment you thought the only decent thing for you to do was to die, and yet you couldn't go through. i am sorry for you--more sorry than i can tell." he took a step toward the door. "you're going--you're going?" she wailed. "yes," he replied firmly. she wept softly. between her sobs she cried: "and--and--you never thought that perhaps i'm frail, and weak, and a woman, and that now, maybe, i need your strength, and you might give it to me, and it might be better. i want to lean on you--lean on you, john. i know i need some one." coaxingly she entreated him; in her tenderest, most seductive tones she made a last desperate effort to win him back. "aren't you going to let me? won't you give me another chance?" she pleaded tearfully. he repelled her coldly. "i gave you your chance, laura," he replied. "give me another!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck. he struggled with her, disentangling himself from her frantic embrace. pulling away, he said determinedly: "you leaned the wrong way. good-bye." going quickly to the door before she could again stop him, he opened the door and disappeared. an instant later she heard the outer corridor door slam. he was gone--forever! she uttered a shrill scream of despair. "john--john--i----" only a dead silence answered her frenzied, pitiful call. john was no longer there to hear her. he was gone from her--forever. she would never look on his face again. she could not blame him. she alone was at fault. but what a blow! her dream of a life of happiness with the man she loved, her dream of self-redemption and regeneration, all that was blasted at one stroke! and now will brockton was gone also. she had lost them both. abandoned and despised by the man she loved and also by the man to whom she owed everything, her future life was a blank. she must begin her career all over again. she had sunk to what she was before. for several minutes she crouched motionless on the trunk, her entire body shaken by convulsive sobbing. then suddenly she sat up and looked wildly around her. rising in a dazed fashion from the trunk, she staggered a few steps across the room. all at once her eyes caught the gleam of the pistol lying on the floor. with a loud cry of mingled despair and anger, she picked the weapon up, and, crossing to the bureau, threw it in a drawer. then, with a sigh of intense relief, she called out loudly: "annie! annie!" the negress put her head through the _portières_, her eyes as big as saucers. she had heard the loud talking, but had been afraid to come near the room. looking at her mistress with blank astonishment, she exclaimed: "ain't yuh goin' away, miss laura?" [illustration: she crouched down motionless on the trunk. _page ._] by a supreme effort, laura pulled herself together. she was a fool to show such weakness. why should she allow these men to interfere with her and dictate to her? defiantly she cried: "no, i'm not! i'm going to stay right here. open these trunks. take out those clothes. get me my prettiest dress. hurry up!" going to the mirror, while annie obeyed her orders, she added: "get my new hat! dress up my body and paint up my face--it's all they've left of me." in a lower, agonized tone, to herself, she added bitterly: "they've taken my soul away with them!" "yes'm, yes'm," cried annie, happy at anything which promised a change. opening the big trunk, the negress took out the handsome dresses which had been so carefully packed only a few moments before. then unfastening a box, she lifted out the large picture hat with plumes which her mistress took from her. as laura stood in front of the mirror, putting her hat on and touching up her complexion to hide the traces of recent tears, she forced herself to hum. "doll me up, annie!" she cried lightly, as if by sheer force of will power compelling herself to be light hearted and gay. "yuh goin' out, miss laura?" "yes, i'm going to broadway to make a hit, and to h--ll with the rest!" as she spoke, a hurdy-gurdy in the street under her window began to play the tune of "_bon-bon buddy, my chocolate drop_." laura stopped her humming and listened. there was something in this rag-time melody which at that moment particularly appealed to her. it was peculiarly suggestive of the low life, the criminality and prostitution that constitute the night excitement of that section of new york city known as "the tenderloin." the common tune and its vulgar associations was like the spreading before her eyes of a vivid panorama showing with terrific realism the inevitable depravity that awaited her. rudely torn from every ideal which she had so weakly endeavored to grasp, she had been, thrown back into the mire and slime at the very moment when her emancipation seemed to be assured. standing before the tall mirror, with her flashy dress on one arm and her equally exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, she recognized in herself the type of woman depicted by the vulgar street melody, and the full realization of her ignominy came to her now, perhaps for the first time. the negress, in the happiness of continuing to serve her mistress in her questionable career, picked up the tune as she started to unpack the finery which only a short time before had been so carefully and lovingly laid away in the trunk. shaken by convulsive sobs, resigned to what she was powerless to prevent, laura turned and tottered towards the bedroom. then, as the true significance of her pitiful position dawned upon her, she sank, limp and helpless, on the sofa, gasping pathetically: "oh, god! oh, my god!" in the street below the hurdy-gurdy continued grinding out "_bon-bon buddy, my chocolate drop_," with the negress idly accompanying it. roxana [illustration: _i was rich, beautiful, and agreeable, and not yet old_ page ] the cripplegate edition the works of daniel defoe the fortunate mistress or a history of the life of mademoiselle de beleau known by the name of the lady roxana new york · · _mcmviii_ george d. sproul _copyright, , by_ the university press university press · john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. list of illustrations roxana _frontispiece_ the brewer and his men _page_ the jeweller is about to leave for versailles the visit of the prince the dutch merchant calls on roxana. the amour draws to an end roxana's daughter and the quaker roxana is confronted with her daughter introduction in march, , was published the narrative in which defoe came, perhaps even nearer than in _moll flanders_, to writing what we to-day call a novel, namely: _the fortunate mistress; or, a history of the life and vast variety of fortunes of mademoiselle de' belau; afterwards called the countess of wintelsheim, in germany. being the person known by the name of the lady roxana, in the time of king charles ii_. no second edition appeared till after defoe's death, which occurred in . then for some years, various editions of _the fortunate mistress_ came out. because defoe had not indicated the end of his chief characters so clearly as he usually did in his stories, several of these later editions carried on the history of the heroine. probably none of the continuations was by defoe himself, though the one in the edition of has been attributed to him. for this reason, and because it has some literary merit, it is included in the present edition. that this continuation was not by defoe is attested in various ways. in the first place, it tells the history of roxana down to her death in july, , a date which defoe would not have been likely to fix, for he died himself in april, . moreover, the statement that she was sixty-four when she died, does not agree with the statement at the beginning of defoe's narrative that she was ten years old in . she must have been born in , and consequently would have been sixty-nine in . this discrepancy, however, ceases to be important when we consider the general confusion of dates in the part of the book certainly by defoe. the title-page announces that his heroine was "known by the name of the lady roxana, in the time of king charles ii." she must have been known by this name when she was a child of eleven or twelve, then, for she was ten when her parents fled to england "about ," and charles ii. died in february, . moreover, she was not married till she was fifteen; she lived eight years with her husband; and then she was mistress successively to the friendly jeweller, the prince, and the dutch merchant. yet after this career, she returned to london in time to become a noted toast among charles ii.'s courtiers and to entertain at her house that monarch and the duke of monmouth. a stronger argument for different authorship is the difference in style between the continuation of _roxana_ and the earlier narrative. in the continuation defoe's best-known mannerisms are lacking, as two instances will show. critics have often called attention to the fact that _fright_, instead of _frighten_, was a favourite word of defoe. now _frighten_, and not _fright_, is the verb used in the continuation. furthermore, i have pointed out in a previous introduction[ ] that defoe was fond of making his characters _smile_, to show either kindliness or shrewd penetration. they do not _smile_ in the continuation. there are other differences between the original story of _the fortunate mistress_ and the continuation of . the former is better narrative than the latter; it moves quicker; it is more real. and yet there is a manifest attempt in the continuation to imitate the manner and the substance of the story proper. there is a dialogue, for example, between roxana and the quakeress, modelled on the dialogues which defoe was so fond of. again, there is a fairly successful attempt to copy defoe's circumstantiality; there is an amount of detail in the continuation which makes it more graphic than much of the fiction which has been given to the world. and finally, in understanding and reproducing the characters of roxana and amy, the anonymous author has done remarkably well. the character of roxana's daughter is less true to defoe's conception; the girl, as he drew her, was actuated more by natural affection in seeking her mother, and less by interest. the character of the dutch merchant, likewise, has not changed for the better in the continuation. he has developed a vindictiveness which, in our former meetings with him, seemed foreign to his nature. i have said that in _the fortunate mistress_ defoe has come nearer than usual to writing what we to-day call a novel; the reason is that he has had more success than usual in making his characters real. though many of them are still wooden--lifeless types, rather than individuals--yet the prince, the quakeress, and the dutch merchant occasionally wake to life; so rather more does the unfortunate daughter; and more yet, amy and roxana. with the exception of moll flanders, these last two are more vitalised than any personages defoe invented. in this pair, furthermore, defoe seems to have been interested in bringing out the contrast between characters. the servant, amy, thrown with another mistress, might have been a totally different woman. the vulgarity of a servant she would have retained under any circumstances, as she did even when promoted from being the maid to being the companion of roxana; but it was unreasoning devotion to her mistress, combined with weakness of character, which led amy to be vicious. roxana, for her part, had to the full the independence, the initiative, which her woman was without,--or rather was without when acting for herself; for when acting in the interests of her mistress, amy was a different creature. like all of defoe's principal characters, roxana is eminently practical, cold-blooded and selfish. after the first pang at parting with her five children, she seldom thinks of them except as encumbrances; she will provide for them as decently as she can without personal inconvenience, but even a slight sacrifice for the sake of one of them is too much for her. towards all the men with whom she has dealings, and towards the friendly quakeress of the minories, too, she shows a calculating reticence which is most unfeminine. the continuator of our story endowed the heroine with wholly characteristic selfishness when he made her, on hearing of amy's death, feel less sorrow for the miserable fate of her friend, than for her own loss of an adviser. and yet roxana is capable of fine feeling, as is proved by those tears of joy for the happy change in her fortunes, which bring about that realistic love scene between her and the prince in regard to the supposed paint on her cheeks. again, when shipwreck threatens her and amy, her emotion and repentance are due as much to the thought that she has degraded amy to her own level as to thoughts of her more flagrant sins. that she is capable of feeling gratitude, she shows in her generosity to the quakeress. and in her rage and remorse, on suspecting that her daughter has been murdered, and in her emotion several times on seeing her children, roxana shows herself a true woman. in short, though for the most part monumentally selfish, she is yet saved from being impossible by several displays of noble emotion. one of the surprises, to a student of defoe, is that this thick-skinned, mercantile writer, the vulgarest of all our great men of letters in the early eighteenth century, seems to have known a woman's heart better than a man's. at least he has succeeded in making two or three of his women characters more alive than any of his men. it is another surprise that in writing of women, defoe often seems ahead of his age. in the argument between roxana and her dutch merchant about a woman's independence, roxana talks like a character in a "problem" play or novel of our own day. this, perhaps, is not to defoe's credit, but it is to his credit that he has said elsewhere:[ ] "a woman well-bred and well-taught, furnished with the ... accomplishments of knowledge and behaviour, is a creature without comparison; her society is the emblem of sublime enjoyments; ... and the man that has such a one to his portion, has nothing to do but to rejoice in her, and be thankful." after reading these words, one cannot but regret that defoe did not try to create heroines more virtuous than moll flanders and roxana. it is not only in drawing his characters that defoe, in _the fortunate mistress_, comes nearer than usual to producing a novel. this narrative of his is less loosely constructed than any others except _robinson crusoe_ and the _journal of the plague year_, which it was easier to give structure to. in both of them--the story of a solitary on a desert island and the story of the visitation of a pestilence--the nature of the subject made the author's course tolerably plain; in _the fortunate mistress_, the proper course was by no means so well marked. the more credit is due defoe, therefore, that the book is so far from being entirely inorganised that, had he taken sufficient pains with the ending, it would have had as much structure as many good novels. there is no strongly defined plot, it is true; but in general, if a character is introduced, he is heard from again; a scene that impresses itself on the mind of the heroine is likely to be important in the sequel. the story seems to be working itself out to a logical conclusion, when unexpectedly it comes to an end. defoe apparently grew tired of it for some reason, and wound it up abruptly, with only the meagre information as to the fate of roxana and amy that they "fell into a dreadful course of calamities." g.h. maynadier. footnotes: [ ] see memoirs of a cavalier [ ] _an essay upon projects, an academy for women._ author's preface the history of this beautiful lady is to speak for itself; if it is not as beautiful as the lady herself is reported to be; if it is not as diverting as the reader can desire, and much more than he can reasonably expect; and if all the most diverting parts of it are not adapted to the instruction and improvement of the reader, the relator says it must be from the defect of his performance; dressing up the story in worse clothes than the lady whose words he speaks, prepared for the world. he takes the liberty to say that this story differs from most of the modern performances of this kind, though some of them have met with a very good reception in the world. i say, it differs from them in this great and essential article, namely, that the foundation of this is laid in truth of fact; and so the work is not a story, but a history. the scene is laid so near the place where the main part of it was transacted that it was necessary to conceal names and persons, lest what cannot be yet entirely forgot in that part of the town should be remembered, and the facts traced back too plainly by the many people yet living, who would know the persons by the particulars. it is not always necessary that the names of persons should be discovered, though the history may be many ways useful; and if we should be always obliged to name the persons, or not to relate the story, the consequence might be only this--that many a pleasant and delightful history would be buried in the dark, and the world deprived both of the pleasure and the profit of it. the writer says he was particularly acquainted with this lady's first husband, the brewer, and with his father, and also with his bad circumstances, and knows that first part of the story to be truth. this may, he hopes, be a pledge for the credit of the rest, though the latter part of her history lay abroad, and could not be so well vouched as the first; yet, as she has told it herself, we have the less reason to question the truth of that part also. in the manner she has told the story, it is evident she does not insist upon her justification in any one part of it; much less does she recommend her conduct, or, indeed, any part of it, except her repentance, to our imitation. on the contrary, she makes frequent excursions, in a just censuring and condemning her own practice. how often does she reproach herself in the most passionate manner, and guide us to just reflections in the like cases! it is true she met with unexpected success in all her wicked courses; but even in the highest elevations of her prosperity she makes frequent acknowledgments that the pleasure of her wickedness was not worth the repentance; and that all the satisfaction she had, all the joy in the view of her prosperity--no, nor all the wealth she rolled in, the gaiety of her appearance, the equipages and the honours she was attended with, could quiet her mind, abate the reproaches of her conscience, or procure her an hour's sleep when just reflection kept her waking. the noble inferences that are drawn from this one part are worth all the rest of the story, and abundantly justify, as they are the professed design of, the publication. if there are any parts in her story which, being obliged to relate a wicked action, seem to describe it too plainly, the writer says all imaginable care has been taken to keep clear of indecencies and immodest expressions; and it is hoped you will find nothing to prompt a vicious mind, but everywhere much to discourage and expose it. scenes of crime can scarce be represented in such a manner but some may make a criminal use of them; but when vice is painted in its low-prized colours, it is not to make people in love with it, but to expose it; and if the reader makes a wrong use of the figures, the wickedness is his own. in the meantime, the advantages of the present work are so great, and the virtuous reader has room for so much improvement, that we make no question the story, however meanly told, will find a passage to his best hours, and be read both with profit and delight. a history of the life of roxana i was born, as my friends told me, at the city of poitiers, in the province or county of poitou, in france, from whence i was brought to england by my parents, who fled for their religion about the year , when the protestants were banished from france by the cruelty of their persecutors. i, who knew little or nothing of what i was brought over hither for, was well enough pleased with being here. london, a large and gay city, took with me mighty well, who, from my being a child, loved a crowd, and to see a great many fine folks. i retained nothing of france but the language, my father and mother being people of better fashion than ordinarily the people called refugees at that time were; and having fled early, while it was easy to secure their effects, had, before their coming over, remitted considerable sums of money, or, as i remember, a considerable value in french brandy, paper, and other goods; and these selling very much to advantage here, my father was in very good circumstances at his coming over, so that he was far from applying to the rest of our nation that were here for countenance and relief. on the contrary, he had his door continually thronged with miserable objects of the poor starving creatures who at that time fled hither for shelter on account of conscience, or something else. i have indeed heard my father say that he was pestered with a great many of those who, for any religion they had, might e'en have stayed where they were, but who flocked over hither in droves, for what they call in english a livelihood; hearing with what open arms the refugees were received in england, and how they fell readily into business, being, by the charitable assistance of the people in london, encouraged to work in their manufactories in spitalfields, canterbury, and other places, and that they had a much better price for their work than in france, and the like. my father, i say, told me that he was more pestered with the clamours of these people than of those who were truly refugees, and fled in distress merely for conscience. i was about ten years old when i was brought over hither, where, as i have said, my father lived in very good circumstances, and died in about eleven years more; in which time, as i had accomplished myself for the sociable part of the world, so i had acquainted myself with some of our english neighbours, as is the custom in london; and as, while i was young, i had picked up three or four playfellows and companions suitable to my years, so, as we grew bigger, we learned to call one another intimates and friends; and this forwarded very much the finishing me for conversation and the world. i went to english schools, and being young, i learned the english tongue perfectly well, with all the customs of the english young women; so that i retained nothing of the french but the speech; nor did i so much as keep any remains of the french language tagged to my way of speaking, as most foreigners do, but spoke what we call natural english, as if i had been born here. being to give my own character, i must be excused to give it as impartially as possible, and as if i was speaking of another body; and the sequel will lead you to judge whether i flatter myself or no. i was (speaking of myself at about fourteen years of age) tall, and very well made; sharp as a hawk in matters of common knowledge; quick and smart in discourse; apt to be satirical; full of repartee; and a little too forward in conversation, or, as we call it in english, bold, though perfectly modest in my behaviour. being french born, i danced, as some say, naturally, loved it extremely, and sang well also, and so well that, as you will hear, it was afterwards some advantage to me. with all these things, i wanted neither wit, beauty, or money. in this manner i set out into the world, having all the advantages that any young woman could desire, to recommend me to others, and form a prospect of happy living to myself. at about fifteen years of age, my father gave me, as he called it in french, , livres, that is to say, two thousand pounds portion, and married me to an eminent brewer in the city. pardon me if i conceal his name; for though he was the foundation of my ruin, i cannot take so severe a revenge upon him. with this thing called a husband i lived eight years in good fashion, and for some part of the time kept a coach, that is to say, a kind of mock coach; for all the week the horses were kept at work in the dray-carts; but on sunday i had the privilege to go abroad in my chariot, either to church or otherways, as my husband and i could agree about it, which, by the way, was not very often; but of that hereafter. before i proceed in the history of the married part of my life, you must allow me to give as impartial an account of my husband as i have done of myself. he was a jolly, handsome fellow, as any woman need wish for a companion; tall and well made; rather a little too large, but not so as to be ungenteel; he danced well, which i think was the first thing that brought us together. he had an old father who managed the business carefully, so that he had little of that part lay on him, but now and then to appear and show himself; and he took the advantage of it, for he troubled himself very little about it, but went abroad, kept company, hunted much, and loved it exceedingly. after i have told you that he was a handsome man and a good sportsman, i have indeed said all; and unhappy was i, like other young people of our sex, i chose him for being a handsome, jolly fellow, as i have said; for he was otherwise a weak, empty-headed, untaught creature, as any woman could ever desire to be coupled with. and here i must take the liberty, whatever i have to reproach myself with in my after conduct, to turn to my fellow-creatures, the young ladies of this country, and speak to them by way of precaution. if you have any regard to your future happiness, any view of living comfortably with a husband, any hope of preserving your fortunes, or restoring them after any disaster, never, ladies, marry a fool; any husband rather than a fool. with some other husbands you may be unhappy, but with a fool you will be miserable; with another husband you may, i say, be unhappy, but with a fool you must; nay, if he would, he cannot make you easy; everything he does is so awkward, everything he says is so empty, a woman of any sense cannot but be surfeited and sick of him twenty times a day. what is more shocking than for a woman to bring a handsome, comely fellow of a husband into company, and then be obliged to blush for him every time she hears him speak? to hear other gentlemen talk sense, and he able to say nothing? and so look like a fool, or, which is worse, hear him talk nonsense, and be laughed at for a fool. in the next place, there are so many sorts of fools, such an infinite variety of fools, and so hard it is to know the worst of the kind, that i am obliged to say, "no fool, ladies, at all, no kind of fool, whether a mad fool or a sober fool, a wise fool or a silly fool; take anything but a fool; nay, be anything, be even an old maid, the worst of nature's curses, rather than take up with a fool." but to leave this awhile, for i shall have occasion to speak of it again; my case was particularly hard, for i had a variety of foolish things complicated in this unhappy match. first, and which i must confess is very unsufferable, he was a conceited fool, _tout opiniatre_; everything he said was right, was best, and was to the purpose, whoever was in company, and whatever was advanced by others, though with the greatest modesty imaginable. and yet, when he came to defend what he had said by argument and reason, he would do it so weakly, so emptily, and so nothing to the purpose, that it was enough to make anybody that heard him sick and ashamed of him. secondly, he was positive and obstinate, and the most positive in the most simple and inconsistent things, such as were intolerable to bear. these two articles, if there had been no more, qualified him to be a most unbearable creature for a husband; and so it may be supposed at first sight what a kind of life i led with him. however, i did as well as i could, and held my tongue, which was the only victory i gained over him; for when he would talk after his own empty rattling way with me, and i would not answer, or enter into discourse with him on the point he was upon, he would rise up in the greatest passion imaginable, and go away, which was the cheapest way i had to be delivered. i could enlarge here much upon the method i took to make my life passable and easy with the most incorrigible temper in the world; but it is too long, and the articles too trifling. i shall mention some of them as the circumstances i am to relate shall necessarily bring them in. after i had been married about four years, my own father died, my mother having been dead before. he liked my match so ill, and saw so little room to be satisfied with the conduct of my husband, that though he left me five thousand livres, and more, at his death, yet he left it in the hands of my elder brother, who, running on too rashly in his adventures as a merchant, failed, and lost not only what he had, but what he had for me too, as you shall hear presently. thus i lost the last gift of my father's bounty by having a husband not fit to be trusted with it: there's one of the benefits of marrying a fool. within two years after my own father's death my husband's father also died, and, as i thought, left him a considerable addition to his estate, the whole trade of the brewhouse, which was a very good one, being now his own. but this addition to his stock was his ruin, for he had no genius to business, he had no knowledge of his accounts; he bustled a little about it, indeed, at first, and put on a face of business, but he soon grew slack; it was below him to inspect his books, he committed all that to his clerks and book-keepers; and while he found money in cash to pay the maltman and the excise, and put some in his pocket, he was perfectly easy and indolent, let the main chance go how it would. i foresaw the consequence of this, and attempted several times to persuade him to apply himself to his business; i put him in mind how his customers complained of the neglect of his servants on one hand, and how abundance broke in his debt, on the other hand, for want of the clerk's care to secure him, and the like; but he thrust me by, either with hard words, or fraudulently, with representing the cases otherwise than they were. however, to cut short a dull story, which ought not to be long, he began to find his trade sunk, his stock declined, and that, in short, he could not carry on his business, and once or twice his brewing utensils were extended for the excise; and, the last time, he was put to great extremities to clear them. this alarmed him, and he resolved to lay down his trade; which, indeed, i was not sorry for; foreseeing that if he did not lay it down in time, he would be forced to do it another way, namely, as a bankrupt. also i was willing he should draw out while he had something left, lest i should come to be stripped at home, and be turned out of doors with my children; for i had now five children by him, the only work (perhaps) that fools are good for. i thought myself happy when he got another man to take his brewhouse clear off his hands; for, paying down a large sum of money, my husband found himself a clear man, all his debts paid, and with between two and three thousand pounds in his pocket; and being now obliged to remove from the brewhouse, we took a house at ----, a village about two miles out of town; and happy i thought myself, all things considered, that i was got off clear, upon so good terms; and had my handsome fellow had but one capful of wit, i had been still well enough. i proposed to him either to buy some place with the money, or with part of it, and offered to join my part to it, which was then in being, and might have been secured; so we might have lived tolerably at least during his life. but as it is the part of a fool to be void of counsel, so he neglected it, lived on as he did before, kept his horses and men, rid every day out to the forest a-hunting, and nothing was done all this while; but the money decreased apace, and i thought i saw my ruin hastening on without any possible way to prevent it. i was not wanting with all that persuasions and entreaties could perform, but it was all fruitless; representing to him how fast our money wasted, and what would be our condition when it was gone, made no impression on him; but like one stupid, he went on, not valuing all that tears and lamentations could be supposed to do; nor did he abate his figure or equipage, his horses or servants, even to the last, till he had not a hundred pounds left in the whole world. it was not above three years that all the ready money was thus spending off; yet he spent it, as i may say, foolishly too, for he kept no valuable company neither, but generally with huntsmen and horse-coursers, and men meaner than himself, which is another consequence of a man's being a fool; such can never take delight in men more wise and capable than themselves, and that makes them converse with scoundrels, drink, belch with porters, and keep company always below themselves. this was my wretched condition, when one morning my husband told me he was sensible he was come to a miserable condition, and he would go and seek his fortune somewhere or other. he had said something to that purpose several times before that, upon my pressing him to consider his circumstances, and the circumstances of his family, before it should be too late; but as i found he had no meaning in anything of that kind, as, indeed, he had not much in anything he ever said, so i thought they were but words of course now. when he had said he would be gone, i used to wish secretly, and even say in my thoughts, i wish you would, for if you go on thus you will starve us all. he stayed, however, at home all that day, and lay at home that night; early the next morning he gets out of bed, goes to a window which looked out towards the stable, and sounds his french horn, as he called it, which was his usual signal to call his men to go out a-hunting. it was about the latter end of august, and so was light yet at five o'clock, and it was about that time that i heard him and his two men go out and shut the yard gates after them. he said nothing to me more than as usual when he used to go out upon his sport; neither did i rise, or say anything to him that was material, but went to sleep again after he was gone, for two hours or thereabouts. it must be a little surprising to the reader to tell him at once, that after this i never saw my husband more; but, to go farther, i not only never saw him more, but i never heard from him, or of him, neither of any or either of his two servants, or of the horses, either what became of them, where or which way they went, or what they did or intended to do, no more than if the ground had opened and swallowed them all up, and nobody had known it, except as hereafter. i was not, for the first night or two, at all surprised, no, nor very much the first week or two, believing that if anything evil had befallen them, i should soon enough have heard of that; and also knowing, that as he had two servants and three horses with him, it would be the strangest thing in the world that anything could befall them all but that i must some time or other hear of them. but you will easily allow, that as time ran on, a week, two weeks, a month, two months, and so on, i was dreadfully frighted at last, and the more when i looked into my own circumstances, and considered the condition in which i was left with five children, and not one farthing subsistence for them, other than about seventy pounds in money, and what few things of value i had about me, which, though considerable in themselves, were yet nothing to feed a family, and for a length of time too. [illustration: the brewer and his men i heard him and his two men go out and shut the yard gates after them] what to do i knew not, nor to whom to have recourse: to keep in the house where i was, i could not, the rent being too great; and to leave it without his orders, if my husband should return, i could not think of that neither; so that i continued extremely perplexed, melancholy, and discouraged to the last degree. i remained in this dejected condition near a twelvemonth. my husband had two sisters, who were married, and lived very well, and some other near relations that i knew of, and i hoped would do something for me; and i frequently sent to these, to know if they could give me any account of my vagrant creature. but they all declared to me in answer, that they knew nothing about him; and, after frequent sending, began to think me troublesome, and to let me know they thought so too, by their treating my maid with very slight and unhandsome returns to her inquiries. this grated hard, and added to my affliction; but i had no recourse but to my tears, for i had not a friend of my own left me in the world. i should have observed, that it was about half a year before this elopement of my husband that the disaster i mentioned above befell my brother, who broke, and that in such bad circumstances, that i had the mortification to hear, not only that he was in prison, but that there would be little or nothing to be had by way of composition. misfortunes seldom come alone: this was the forerunner of my husband's flight; and as my expectations were cut off on that side, my husband gone, and my family of children on my hands, and nothing to subsist them, my condition was the most deplorable that words can express. i had some plate and some jewels, as might be supposed, my fortune and former circumstances considered; and my husband, who had never stayed to be distressed, had not been put to the necessity of rifling me, as husbands usually do in such cases. but as i had seen an end of all the ready money during the long time i had lived in a state of expectation for my husband, so i began to make away one thing after another, till those few things of value which i had began to lessen apace, and i saw nothing but misery and the utmost distress before me, even to have my children starve before my face. i leave any one that is a mother of children, and has lived in plenty and in good fashion, to consider and reflect what must be my condition. as to my husband, i had now no hope or expectation of seeing him any more; and indeed, if i had, he was a man of all the men in the world the least able to help me, or to have turned his hand to the gaining one shilling towards lessening our distress; he neither had the capacity or the inclination; he could have been no clerk, for he scarce wrote a legible hand; he was so far from being able to write sense, that he could not make sense of what others wrote; he was so far from understanding good english, that he could not spell good english; to be out of all business was his delight, and he would stand leaning against a post for half-an-hour together, with a pipe in his mouth, with all the tranquillity in the world, smoking, like dryden's countryman, that whistled as he went for want of thought, and this even when his family was, as it were, starving, that little he had wasting, and that we were all bleeding to death; he not knowing, and as little considering, where to get another shilling when the last was spent. this being his temper, and the extent of his capacity, i confess i did not see so much loss in his parting with me as at first i thought i did; though it was hard and cruel to the last degree in him, not giving me the least notice of his design; and indeed, that which i was most astonished at was, that seeing he must certainly have intended this excursion some few moments at least before he put it in practice, yet he did not come and take what little stock of money we had left, or at least a share of it, to bear his expense for a little while; but he did not; and i am morally certain he had not five guineas with him in the world when he went away. all that i could come to the knowledge of about him was, that he left his hunting-horn, which he called the french horn, in the stable, and his hunting-saddle, went away in a handsome furniture, as they call it, which he used sometimes to travel with, having an embroidered housing, a case of pistols, and other things belonging to them; and one of his servants had another saddle with pistols, though plain, and the other a long gun; so that they did not go out as sportsmen, but rather as travellers; what part of the world they went to i never heard for many years. as i have said, i sent to his relations, but they sent me short and surly answers; nor did any one of them offer to come to see me, or to see the children, or so much as to inquire after them, well perceiving that i was in a condition that was likely to be soon troublesome to them. but it was no time now to dally with them or with the world; i left off sending to them, and went myself among them, laid my circumstances open to them, told them my whole case, and the condition i was reduced to, begged they would advise me what course to take, laid myself as low as they could desire, and entreated them to consider that i was not in a condition to help myself, and that without some assistance we must all inevitably perish. i told them that if i had had but one child, or two children, i would have done my endeavour to have worked for them with my needle, and should only have come to them to beg them to help me to some work, that i might get our bread by my labour; but to think of one single woman, not bred to work, and at a loss where to get employment, to get the bread of five children, that was not possible--some of my children being young too, and none of them big enough to help one another. it was all one; i received not one farthing of assistance from anybody, was hardly asked to sit down at the two sisters' houses, nor offered to eat or drink at two more near relations'. the fifth, an ancient gentlewoman, aunt-in-law to my husband, a widow, and the least able also of any of the rest, did, indeed, ask me to sit down, gave me a dinner, and refreshed me with a kinder treatment than any of the rest, but added the melancholy part, viz., that she would have helped me, but that, indeed, she was not able, which, however, i was satisfied was very true. here i relieved myself with the constant assistant of the afflicted, i mean tears; for, relating to her how i was received by the other of my husband's relations, it made me burst into tears, and i cried vehemently for a great while together, till i made the good old gentlewoman cry too several times. however, i came home from them all without any relief, and went on at home till i was reduced to such inexpressible distress that is not to be described. i had been several times after this at the old aunt's, for i prevailed with her to promise me to go and talk with the other relations, at least, that, if possible, she could bring some of them to take off the children, or to contribute something towards their maintenance. and, to do her justice, she did use her endeavour with them; but all was to no purpose, they would do nothing, at least that way. i think, with much entreaty, she obtained, by a kind of collection among them all, about eleven or twelve shillings in money, which, though it was a present comfort, was yet not to be named as capable to deliver me from any part of the load that lay upon me. there was a poor woman that had been a kind of a dependent upon our family, and whom i had often, among the rest of the relations, been very kind to; my maid put it into my head one morning to send to this poor woman, and to see whether she might not be able to help in this dreadful case. i must remember it here, to the praise of this poor girl, my maid, that though i was not able to give her any wages, and had told her so--nay, i was not able to pay her the wages that i was in arrears to her--yet she would not leave me; nay, and as long as she had any money, when i had none, she would help me out of her own, for which, though i acknowledged her kindness and fidelity, yet it was but a bad coin that she was paid in at last, as will appear in its place. amy (for that was her name) put it into my thoughts to send for this poor woman to come to me; for i was now in great distress, and i resolved to do so. but just the very morning that i intended it, the old aunt, with the poor woman in her company, came to see me; the good old gentlewoman was, it seems, heartily concerned for me, and had been talking again among those people, to see what she could do for me, but to very little purpose. you shall judge a little of my present distress by the posture she found me in. i had five little children, the eldest was under ten years old, and i had not one shilling in the house to buy them victuals, but had sent amy out with a silver spoon to sell it, and bring home something from the butcher's; and i was in a parlour, sitting on the ground, with a great heap of old rags, linen, and other things about me, looking them over, to see if i had anything among them that would sell or pawn for a little money, and had been crying ready to burst myself, to think what i should do next. at this juncture they knocked at the door. i thought it had been amy, so i did not rise up; but one of the children opened the door, and they came directly into the room where i was, and where they found me in that posture, and crying vehemently, as above. i was surprised at their coming, you may be sure, especially seeing the person i had but just before resolved to send for; but when they saw me, how i looked, for my eyes were swelled with crying, and what a condition i was in as to the house, and the heaps of things that were about me, and especially when i told them what i was doing, and on what occasion, they sat down, like job's three comforters, and said not one word to me for a great while, but both of them cried as fast and as heartily as i did. the truth was, there was no need of much discourse in the case, the thing spoke itself; they saw me in rags and dirt, who was but a little before riding in my coach; thin, and looking almost like one starved, who was before fat and beautiful. the house, that was before handsomely furnished with pictures and ornaments, cabinets, pier-glasses, and everything suitable, was now stripped and naked, most of the goods having been seized by the landlord for rent, or sold to buy necessaries; in a word, all was misery and distress, the face of ruin was everywhere to be seen; we had eaten up almost everything, and little remained, unless, like one of the pitiful women of jerusalem, i should eat up my very children themselves. after these two good creatures had sat, as i say, in silence some time, and had then looked about them, my maid amy came in, and brought with her a small breast of mutton and two great bunches of turnips, which she intended to stew for our dinner. as for me, my heart was so overwhelmed at seeing these two friends--for such they were, though poor--and at their seeing me in such a condition, that i fell into another violent fit of crying, so that, in short, i could not speak to them again for a great while longer. during my being in such an agony, they went to my maid amy at another part of the same room and talked with her. amy told them all my circumstances, and set them forth in such moving terms, and so to the life, that i could not upon any terms have done it like her myself, and, in a word, affected them both with it in such a manner, that the old aunt came to me, and though hardly able to speak for tears, "look ye, cousin," said she, in a few words, "things must not stand thus; some course must be taken, and that forthwith; pray, where were these children born?" i told her the parish where we lived before, that four of them were born there, and one in the house where i now was, where the landlord, after having seized my goods for the rent past, not then knowing my circumstances, had now given me leave to live for a whole year more without any rent, being moved with compassion; but that this year was now almost expired. upon hearing this account, they came to this resolution, that the children should be all carried by them to the door of one of the relations mentioned above, and be set down there by the maid amy, and that i, the mother, should remove for some days, shut up the doors, and be gone; that the people should be told, that if they did not think fit to take some care of the children, they might send for the churchwardens if they thought that better, for that they were born in that parish, and there they must be provided for; as for the other child, which was born in the parish of ----, that was already taken care of by the parish officers there, for indeed they were so sensible of the distress of the family that they had at first word done what was their part to do. this was what these good women proposed, and bade me leave the rest to them. i was at first sadly afflicted at the thoughts of parting with my children, and especially at that terrible thing, their being taken into the parish keeping; and then a hundred terrible things came into my thoughts, viz., of parish children being starved at nurse; of their being ruined, let grow crooked, lamed, and the like, for want of being taken care of; and this sunk my very heart within me. but the misery of my own circumstances hardened my heart against my own flesh and blood; and when i considered they must inevitably be starved, and i too if i continued to keep them about me, i began to be reconciled to parting with them all, anyhow and anywhere, that i might be freed from the dreadful necessity of seeing them all perish, and perishing with them myself. so i agreed to go away out of the house, and leave the management of the whole matter to my maid amy and to them; and accordingly i did so, and the same afternoon they carried them all away to one of their aunts. amy, a resolute girl, knocked at the door, with the children all with her, and bade the eldest, as soon as the door was open, run in, and the rest after her. she set them all down at the door before she knocked, and when she knocked she stayed till a maid-servant came to the door; "sweetheart," said she, "pray go in and tell your mistress here are her little cousins come to see her from ----," naming the town where we lived, at which the maid offered to go back. "here, child," says amy, "take one of 'em in your hand, and i'll bring the rest;" so she gives her the least, and the wench goes in mighty innocently, with the little one in her hand, upon which amy turns the rest in after her, shuts the door softly, and marches off as fast as she could. just in the interval of this, and even while the maid and her mistress were quarrelling (for the mistress raved and scolded her like a mad woman, and had ordered her to go and stop the maid amy, and turn all the children out of the doors again; but she had been at the door, and amy was gone, and the wench was out of her wits, and the mistress too), i say, just at this juncture came the poor old woman, not the aunt, but the other of the two that had been with me, and knocks at the door: the aunt did not go, because she had pretended to advocate for me, and they would have suspected her of some contrivance; but as for the other woman, they did not so much as know that she had kept up any correspondence with me. amy and she had concerted this between them, and it was well enough contrived that they did so. when she came into the house, the mistress was fuming, and raging like one distracted, and called the maid all the foolish jades and sluts that she could think of, and that she would take the children and turn them all out into the streets. the good poor woman, seeing her in such a passion, turned about as if she would be gone again, and said, "madam, i'll come again another time, i see you are engaged." "no, no, mrs. ----," says the mistress, "i am not much engaged, sit down; this senseless creature here has brought in my fool of a brother's whole house of children upon me, and tells me that a wench brought them to the door and thrust them in, and bade her carry them to me; but it shall be no disturbance to me, for i have ordered them to be set in the street without the door, and so let the churchwardens take care of them, or else make this dull jade carry 'em back to ---- again, and let her that brought them into the world look after them if she will; what does she send her brats to me for?" "the last indeed had been the best of the two," says the poor woman, "if it had been to be done; and that brings me to tell you my errand, and the occasion of my coming, for i came on purpose about this very business, and to have prevented this being put upon you if i could, but i see i am come too late." "how do you mean too late?" says the mistress. "what! have you been concerned in this affair, then? what! have you helped bring this family slur upon us?" "i hope you do not think such a thing of me, madam," says the poor woman; "but i went this morning to ----, to see my old mistress and benefactor, for she had been very kind to me, and when i came to the door i found all fast locked and bolted, and the house looking as if nobody was at home. "i knocked at the door, but nobody came, till at last some of the neighbours' servants called to me and said, 'there's nobody lives there, mistress; what do you knock for?' i seemed surprised at that. 'what, nobody lives there!' said i; 'what d'ye mean? does not mrs. ---- live there?' the answer was, 'no, she is gone;' at which i parleyed with one of them, and asked her what was the matter. 'matter!' says she, 'why, it is matter enough: the poor gentlewoman has lived there all alone, and without anything to subsist her a long time, and this morning the landlord turned her out of doors.' "'out of doors!' says i; 'what! with all her children? poor lambs, what is become of them?' 'why, truly, nothing worse,' said they, 'can come to them than staying here, for they were almost starved with hunger; so the neighbours, seeing the poor lady in such distress, for she stood crying and wringing her hands over her children like one distracted, sent for the churchwardens to take care of the children; and they, when they came, took the youngest, which was born in this parish, and have got it a very good nurse, and taken care of it; but as for the other four, they had sent them away to some of their father's relations, and who were very substantial people, and who, besides that, lived in the parish where they were born.' "i was not so surprised at this as not presently to foresee that this trouble would be brought upon you or upon mr. ----; so i came immediately to bring word of it, that you might be prepared for it, and might not be surprised; but i see they have been too nimble for me, so that i know not what to advise. the poor woman, it seems, is turned out of doors into the street; and another of the neighbours there told me, that when they took her children from her she swooned away, and when they recovered her out of that, she ran distracted, and is put into a madhouse by the parish, for there is nobody else to take any care of her." this was all acted to the life by this good, kind, poor creature; for though her design was perfectly good and charitable, yet there was not one word of it true in fact; for i was not turned out of doors by the landlord, nor gone distracted. it was true, indeed, that at parting with my poor children i fainted, and was like one mad when i came to myself and found they were gone; but i remained in the house a good while after that, as you shall hear. while the poor woman was telling this dismal story, in came the gentlewoman's husband, and though her heart was hardened against all pity, who was really and nearly related to the children, for they were the children of her own brother, yet the good man was quite softened with the dismal relation of the circumstances of the family; and when the poor woman had done, he said to his wife, "this is a dismal case, my dear, indeed, and something must be done." his wife fell a-raving at him: "what," says she, "do you want to have four children to keep? have we not children of our own? would you have these brats come and eat up my children's bread? no, no, let 'em go to the parish, and let them take care of them; i'll take care of my own." "come, come, my dear," says the husband, "charity is a duty to the poor, and he that gives to the poor lends to the lord; let us lend our heavenly father a little of our children's bread, as you call it; it will be a store well laid up for them, and will be the best security that our children shall never come to want charity, or be turned out of doors, as these poor innocent creatures are." "don't tell me of security," says the wife, "'tis a good security for our children to keep what we have together, and provide for them, and then 'tis time enough to help keep other folks' children. charity begins at home." "well, my dear," says he again, "i only talk of putting out a little money to interest: our maker is a good borrower; never fear making a bad debt there, child, i'll be bound for it." "don't banter me with your charity and your allegories," says the wife angrily; "i tell you they are my relations, not yours, and they shall not roost here; they shall go to the parish." "all your relations are my relations now," says the good gentleman very calmly, "and i won't see your relations in distress, and not pity them, any more than i would my own; indeed, my dear, they shan't go to the parish. i assure you, none of my wife's relations shall come to the parish, if i can help it." "what! will you take four children to keep?" says the wife. "no, no, my dear," says he, "there's your sister ----, i'll go and talk with her; and your uncle ----, i'll send for him, and the rest. i'll warrant you, when we are all together, we will find ways and means to keep four poor little creatures from beggary and starving, or else it would be very hard; we are none of us in so bad circumstances but we are able to spare a mite for the fatherless. don't shut up your bowels of compassion against your own flesh and blood. could you hear these poor innocent children cry at your door for hunger, and give them no bread?" "prithee, what need they cry at our door?" says she. "'tis the business of the parish to provide for them; they shan't cry at our door. if they do, i'll give them nothing." "won't you?" says he; "but i will. remember that dreadful scripture is directly against us, prov. xxi. , 'whoso stoppeth his ears at the cry of the poor, he also shall cry himself, but shall not be heard.'" "well, well," says she, "you must do what you will, because you pretend to be master; but if i had my will i would send them where they ought to be sent: i would send them from whence they came." then the poor woman put in, and said, "but, madam, that is sending them to starve indeed, for the parish has no obligation to take care of 'em, and so they will lie and perish in the street." "or be sent back again," says the husband, "to our parish in a cripple-cart, by the justice's warrant, and so expose us and all the relations to the last degree among our neighbours, and among those who know the good old gentleman their grandfather, who lived and flourished in this parish so many years, and was so well beloved among all people, and deserved it so well." "i don't value that one farthing, not i," says the wife; "i'll keep none of them." "well, my dear," says her husband, "but i value it, for i won't have such a blot lie upon the family, and upon your children; he was a worthy, ancient, and good man, and his name is respected among all his neighbours; it will be a reproach to you, that are his daughter, and to our children, that are his grandchildren, that we should let your brother's children perish, or come to be a charge to the public, in the very place where your family once flourished. come, say no more; i will see what can be done." upon this he sends and gathers all the relations together at a tavern hard by, and sent for the four little children, that they might see them; and they all, at first word, agreed to have them taken care of, and, because his wife was so furious that she would not suffer one of them to be kept at home, they agreed to keep them all together for a while; so they committed them to the poor woman that had managed the affair for them, and entered into obligations to one another to supply the needful sums for their maintenance; and, not to have one separated from the rest, they sent for the youngest from the parish where it was taken in, and had them all brought up together. it would take up too long a part of this story to give a particular account with what a charitable tenderness this good person, who was but an uncle-in-law to them, managed that affair; how careful he was of them; went constantly to see them, and to see that they were well provided for, clothed, put to school, and, at last, put out in the world for their advantage; but it is enough to say he acted more like a father to them than an uncle-in-law, though all along much against his wife's consent, who was of a disposition not so tender and compassionate as her husband. you may believe i heard this with the same pleasure which i now feel at the relating it again; for i was terribly affrighted at the apprehensions of my children being brought to misery and distress, as those must be who have no friends, but are left to parish benevolence. i was now, however, entering on a new scene of life. i had a great house upon my hands, and some furniture left in it; but i was no more able to maintain myself and my maid amy in it than i was my five children; nor had i anything to subsist with but what i might get by working, and that was not a town where much work was to be had. my landlord had been very kind indeed after he came to know my circumstances; though, before he was acquainted with that part, he had gone so far as to seize my goods, and to carry some of them off too. but i had lived three-quarters of a year in his house after that, and had paid him no rent, and, which was worse, i was in no condition to pay him any. however, i observed he came oftener to see me, looked kinder upon me, and spoke more friendly to me, than he used to do, particularly the last two or three times he had been there. he observed, he said, how poorly i lived, how low i was reduced, and the like; told me it grieved him for my sake; and the last time of all he was kinder still, told me he came to dine with me, and that i should give him leave to treat me; so he called my maid amy, and sent her out to buy a joint of meat; he told her what she should buy; but naming two or three things, either of which she might take, the maid, a cunning wench, and faithful to me as the skin to my back, did not buy anything outright, but brought the butcher along with her, with both the things that she had chosen, for him to please himself. the one was a large, very good leg of veal; the other a piece of the fore-ribs of roasting beef. he looked at them, but made me chaffer with the butcher for him, and i did so, and came back to him and told him what the butcher had demanded for either of them, and what each of them came to. so he pulls out eleven shillings and threepence, which they came to together, and bade me take them both; the rest, he said, would serve another time. i was surprised, you may be sure, at the bounty of a man that had but a little while ago been my terror, and had torn the goods out of my house like a fury; but i considered that my distresses had mollified his temper, and that he had afterwards been so compassionate as to give me leave to live rent free in the house a whole year. but now he put on the face, not of a man of compassion only, but of a man of friendship and kindness, and this was so unexpected that it was surprising. we chatted together, and were, as i may call it, cheerful, which was more than i could say i had been for three years before. he sent for wine and beer too, for i had none; poor amy and i had drank nothing but water for many weeks, and indeed i have often wondered at the faithful temper of the poor girl, for which i but ill requited her at last. when amy was come with the wine, he made her fill a glass to him, and with the glass in his hand he came to me and kissed me, which i was, i confess, a little surprised at, but more at what followed; for he told me, that as the sad condition which i was reduced to had made him pity me, so my conduct in it, and the courage i bore it with, had given him a more than ordinary respect for me, and made him very thoughtful for my good; that he was resolved for the present to do something to relieve me, and to employ his thoughts in the meantime, to see if he could for the future put me into a way to support myself. while he found me change colour, and look surprised at his discourse, for so i did, to be sure, he turns to my maid amy, and looking at her, he says to me, "i say all this, madam, before your maid, because both she and you shall know that i have no ill design, and that i have, in mere kindness, resolved to do something for you if i can; and as i have been a witness of the uncommon honesty and fidelity of mrs. amy here to you in all your distresses, i know she may be trusted with so honest a design as mine is; for i assure you, i bear a proportioned regard to your maid too, for her affection to you." amy made him a curtsey, and the poor girl looked so confounded with joy that she could not speak, but her colour came and went, and every now and then she blushed as red as scarlet, and the next minute looked as pale as death. well, having said this, he sat down, made me sit down, and then drank to me, and made me drink two glasses of wine together; "for," says he, "you have need of it;" and so indeed i had. when he had done so, "come, amy," says he, "with your mistress's leave, you shall have a glass too." so he made her drink two glasses also; and then rising up, "and now, amy," says he, "go and get dinner; and you, madam," says he to me, "go up and dress you, and come down and smile and be merry;" adding, "i'll make you easy if i can;" and in the meantime, he said, he would walk in the garden. when he was gone, amy changed her countenance indeed, and looked as merry as ever she did in her life. "dear madam," says she, "what does this gentleman mean?" "nay, amy," said i, "he means to do us good, you see, don't he? i know no other meaning he can have, for he can get nothing by me." "i warrant you, madam," says she, "he'll ask you a favour by-and-by." "no, no, you are mistaken, amy, i dare say," said i; "you have heard what he said, didn't you?" "ay," says amy, "it's no matter for that, you shall see what he will do after dinner." "well, well, amy," says i, "you have hard thoughts of him. i cannot be of your opinion: i don't see anything in him yet that looks like it." "as to that, madam," says amy, "i don't see anything of it yet neither; but what should move a gentleman to take pity of us as he does?" "nay," says i, "that's a hard thing too, that we should judge a man to be wicked because he's charitable, and vicious because he's kind." "oh, madam," says amy, "there's abundance of charity begins in that vice; and he is not so unacquainted with things as not to know that poverty is the strongest incentive--a temptation against which no virtue is powerful enough to stand out. he knows your condition as well as you do." "well, and what then?" "why, then, he knows too that you are young and handsome, and he has the surest bait in the world to take you with." "well, amy," said i, "but he may find himself mistaken too in such a thing as that." "why, madam," says amy, "i hope you won't deny him if he should offer it." "what d'ye mean by that, hussy?" said i. "no, i'd starve first." "i hope not, madam, i hope you would be wiser; i'm sure if he will set you up, as he talks of, you ought to deny him nothing; and you will starve if you do not consent, that's certain." "what! consent to lie with him for bread? amy," said i, "how can you talk so!" "nay, madam," says amy, "i don't think you would for anything else; it would not be lawful for anything else, but for bread, madam; why, nobody can starve, there's no bearing that, i'm sure." "ay," says i, "but if he would give me an estate to live on, he should not lie with me, i assure you." "why, look you, madam; if he would but give you enough to live easy upon, he should lie with me for it with all my heart." "that's a token, amy, of inimitable kindness to me," said i, "and i know how to value it; but there's more friendship than honesty in it, amy." "oh, madam," says amy, "i'd do anything to get you out of this sad condition; as to honesty, i think honesty is out of the question when starving is the case. are not we almost starved to death?" "i am indeed," said i, "and thou art for my sake; but to be a whore, amy!" and there i stopped. "dear madam," says amy, "if i will starve for your sake, i will be a whore or anything for your sake; why, i would die for you if i were put to it." "why, that's an excess of affection, amy," said i, "i never met with before; i wish i may be ever in condition to make you some returns suitable. but, however, amy, you shall not be a whore to him, to oblige him to be kind to me; no, amy, nor i won't be a whore to him, if he would give me much more than he is able to give me or do for me." "why, madam," says amy, "i don't say i will go and ask him; but i say, if he should promise to do so and so for you, and the condition was such that he would not serve you unless i would let him lie with me, he should lie with me as often as he would, rather than you should not have his assistance. but this is but talk, madam; i don't see any need of such discourse, and you are of opinion that there will be no need of it." "indeed so i am, amy; but," said i, "if there was, i tell you again, i'd die before i would consent, or before you should consent for my sake." hitherto i had not only preserved the virtue itself, but the virtuous inclination and resolution; and had i kept myself there i had been happy, though i had perished of mere hunger; for, without question, a woman ought rather to die than to prostitute her virtue and honour, let the temptation be what it will. but to return to my story; he walked about the garden, which was, indeed, all in disorder, and overrun with weeds, because i had not been able to hire a gardener to do anything to it, no, not so much as to dig up ground enough to sow a few turnips and carrots for family use. after he had viewed it, he came in, and sent amy to fetch a poor man, a gardener, that used to help our man-servant, and carried him into the garden, and ordered him to do several things in it, to put it into a little order; and this took him up near an hour. by this time i had dressed me as well as i could; for though i had good linen left still, yet i had but a poor head-dress, and no knots, but old fragments; no necklace, no earrings; all those things were gone long ago for mere bread. however, i was tight and clean, and in better plight than he had seen me in a great while, and he looked extremely pleased to see me so; for, he said, i looked so disconsolate and so afflicted before, that it grieved him to see me; and he bade me pluck up a good heart, for he hoped to put me in a condition to live in the world, and be beholden to nobody. i told him that was impossible, for i must be beholden to him for it, for all the friends i had in the world would not or could not do so much for me as that he spoke of "well, widow," says he (so he called me, and so indeed i was in the worst sense that desolate word could be used in), "if you are beholden to me, you shall be beholden to nobody else." by this time dinner was ready, and amy came in to lay the cloth, and indeed it was happy there was none to dine but he and i, for i had but six plates left in the house, and but two dishes; however, he knew how things were, and bade me make no scruple about bringing out what i had. he hoped to see me in a better plight. he did not come, he said, to be entertained, but to entertain me, and comfort and encourage me. thus he went on, speaking so cheerfully to me, and such cheerful things, that it was a cordial to my very soul to hear him speak. well, we went to dinner. i'm sure i had not ate a good meal hardly in a twelvemonth, at least not of such a joint of meat as the loin of veal was. i ate, indeed, very heartily, and so did he, and he made me drink three or four glasses of wine; so that, in short, my spirits were lifted up to a degree i had not been used to, and i was not only cheerful, but merry; and so he pressed me to be. i told him i had a great deal of reason to be merry, seeing he had been so kind to me, and had given me hopes of recovering me from the worst circumstances that ever woman of any sort of fortune was sunk into; that he could not but believe that what he had said to me was like life from the dead; that it was like recovering one sick from the brink of the grave; how i should ever make him a return any way suitable was what i had not yet had time to think of; i could only say that i should never forget it while i had life, and should be always ready to acknowledge it. he said that was all he desired of me; that his reward would be the satisfaction of having rescued me from misery; that he found he was obliging one that knew what gratitude meant; that he would make it his business to make me completely easy, first or last, if it lay in his power; and in the meantime he bade me consider of anything that i thought he might do for me, for my advantage, and in order to make me perfectly easy. after we had talked thus, he bade me be cheerful. "come," says he, "lay aside these melancholy things, and let us be merry." amy waited at the table, and she smiled and laughed, and was so merry she could hardly contain it, for the girl loved me to an excess hardly to be described; and it was such an unexpected thing to hear any one talk to her mistress, that the wench was beside herself almost, and, as soon as dinner was over, amy went upstairs, and put on her best clothes too, and came down dressed like a gentlewoman. we sat together talking of a thousand things--of what had been, and what was to be--all the rest of the day, and in the evening he took his leave of me, with a thousand expressions of kindness and tenderness and true affection to me, but offered not the least of what my maid amy had suggested. at his going away he took me in his arms, protested an honest kindness to me; said a thousand kind things to me, which i cannot now recollect; and, after kissing me twenty times or thereabouts, put a guinea into my hand, which, he said, was for my present supply, and told me that he would see me again before it was out; also he gave amy half-a-crown. when he was gone, "well, amy," said i, "are you convinced now that he is an honest as well as a true friend, and that there has been nothing, not the least appearance of anything, of what you imagined in his behaviour?" "yes," says amy, "i am, but i admire at it. he is such a friend as the world, sure, has not abundance of to show." "i am sure," says i, "he is such a friend as i have long wanted, and as i have as much need of as any creature in the world has or ever had." and, in short, i was so overcome with the comfort of it that i sat down and cried for joy a good while, as i had formerly cried for sorrow. amy and i went to bed that night (for amy lay with me) pretty early, but lay chatting almost all night about it, and the girl was so transported that she got up two or three times in the night and danced about the room in her shift; in short, the girl was half distracted with the joy of it; a testimony still of her violent affection for her mistress, in which no servant ever went beyond her. we heard no more of him for two days, but the third day he came again; then he told me, with the same kindness, that he had ordered me a supply of household goods for the furnishing the house; that, in particular, he had sent me back all the goods that he had seized for rent, which consisted, indeed, of the best of my former furniture. "and now," says he, "i'll tell you what i have had in my head for you for your present supply, and that is," says he, "that the house being well furnished, you shall let it out to lodgings for the summer gentry," says he, "by which you will easily get a good comfortable subsistence, especially seeing you shall pay me no rent for two years, nor after neither, unless you can afford it." this was the first view i had of living comfortably indeed, and it was a very probable way, i must confess, seeing we had very good conveniences, six rooms on a floor, and three stories high. while he was laying down the scheme of my management, came a cart to the door with a load of goods, and an upholsterer's man to put them up. they were chiefly the furniture of two rooms which he had carried away for his two years' rent, with two fine cabinets, and some pier-glasses out of the parlour, and several other valuable things. these were all restored to their places, and he told me he gave them me freely, as a satisfaction for the cruelty he had used me with before; and the furniture of one room being finished and set up, he told me he would furnish one chamber for himself, and would come and be one of my lodgers, if i would give him leave. i told him he ought not to ask me leave, who had so much right to make himself welcome. so the house began to look in some tolerable figure, and clean; the garden also, in about a fortnight's work, began to look something less like a wilderness than it used to do; and he ordered me to put up a bill for letting rooms, reserving one for himself, to come to as he saw occasion. when all was done to his mind, as to placing the goods, he seemed very well pleased, and we dined together again of his own providing; and the upholsterer's man gone, after dinner he took me by the hand. "come now, madam," says he, "you must show me your house" (for he had a mind to see everything over again). "no, sir," said i; "but i'll go show you your house, if you please;" so we went up through all the rooms, and in the room which was appointed for himself amy was doing something. "well, amy," says he, "i intend to lie with you to-morrow night." "to-night if you please, sir," says amy very innocently; "your room is quite ready." "well, amy," says he, "i am glad you are so willing." "no," says amy, "i mean your chamber is ready to-night," and away she run out of the room, ashamed enough; for the girl meant no harm, whatever she had said to me in private. however, he said no more then; but when amy was gone he walked about the room, and looked at everything, and taking me by the hand he kissed me, and spoke a great many kind, affectionate things to me indeed; as of his measures for my advantage, and what he would do to raise me again in the world; told me that my afflictions and the conduct i had shown in bearing them to such an extremity, had so engaged him to me that he valued me infinitely above all the women in the world; that though he was under such engagements that he could not marry me (his wife and he had been parted for some reasons, which make too long a story to intermix with mine), yet that he would be everything else that a woman could ask in a husband; and with that he kissed me again, and took me in his arms, but offered not the least uncivil action to me, and told me he hoped i would not deny him all the favours he should ask, because he resolved to ask nothing of me but what it was fit for a woman of virtue and modesty, for such he knew me to be, to yield. i confess the terrible pressure of my former misery, the memory of which lay heavy upon my mind, and the surprising kindness with which he had delivered me, and, withal, the expectations of what he might still do for me, were powerful things, and made me have scarce the power to deny him anything he would ask. however, i told him thus, with an air of tenderness too, that he had done so much for me that i thought i ought to deny him nothing; only i hoped and depended upon him that he would not take the advantage of the infinite obligations i was under to him, to desire anything of me the yielding to which would lay me lower in his esteem than i desired to be; that as i took him to be a man of honour, so i knew he could not like me better for doing anything that was below a woman of honesty and good manners to do. he told me that he had done all this for me, without so much as telling me what kindness or real affection he had for me, that i might not be under any necessity of yielding to him in anything for want of bread; and he would no more oppress my gratitude now than he would my necessity before, nor ask anything, supposing he would stop his favours or withdraw his kindness, if he was denied; it was true, he said, he might tell me more freely his mind now than before, seeing i had let him see that i accepted his assistance, and saw that he was sincere in his design of serving me; that he had gone thus far to show me that he was kind to me, but that now he would tell me that he loved me, and yet would demonstrate that his love was both honourable, and that what he should desire was what he might honestly ask and i might honestly grant. i answered that, within those two limitations, i was sure i ought to deny him nothing, and i should think myself not ungrateful only, but very unjust, if i should; so he said no more, but i observed he kissed me more, and took me in his arms in a kind of familiar way, more than usual, and which once or twice put me in mind of my maid amy's words; and yet, i must acknowledge, i was so overcome with his goodness to me in those many kind things he had done that i not only was easy at what he did and made no resistance, but was inclined to do the like, whatever he had offered to do. but he went no farther than what i have said, nor did he offer so much as to sit down on the bedside with me, but took his leave, said he loved me tenderly, and would convince me of it by such demonstrations as should be to my satisfaction. i told him i had a great deal of reason to believe him, that he was full master of the whole house and of me, as far as was within the bounds we had spoken of, which i believe he would not break, and asked him if he would not lodge there that night. he said he could not well stay that night, business requiring him in london, but added, smiling, that he would come the next day and take a night's lodging with me. i pressed him to stay that night, and told him i should be glad a friend so valuable should be under the same roof with me; and indeed i began at that time not only to be much obliged to him, but to love him too, and that in a manner that i had not been acquainted with myself. oh! let no woman slight the temptation that being generously delivered from trouble is to any spirit furnished with gratitude and just principles. this gentleman had freely and voluntarily delivered me from misery, from poverty, and rags; he had made me what i was, and put me into a way to be even more than i ever was, namely, to live happy and pleased, and on his bounty i depended. what could i say to this gentleman when he pressed me to yield to him, and argued the lawfulness of it? but of that in its place. i pressed him again to stay that night, and told him it was the first completely happy night that i had ever had in the house in my life, and i should be very sorry to have it be without his company, who was the cause and foundation of it all; that we would be innocently merry, but that it could never be without him; and, in short, i courted him so, that he said he could not deny me, but he would take his horse and go to london, do the business he had to do, which, it seems, was to pay a foreign bill that was due that night, and would else be protested, and that he would come back in three hours at farthest, and sup with me; but bade me get nothing there, for since i was resolved to be merry, which was what he desired above all things, he would send me something from london. "and we will make it a wedding supper, my dear," says he; and with that word took me in his arms, and kissed me so vehemently that i made no question but he intended to do everything else that amy had talked of. i started a little at the word wedding. "what do ye mean, to call it by such a name?" says i; adding, "we will have a supper, but t'other is impossible, as well on your side as mine." he laughed. "well," says he, "you shall call it what you will, but it may be the same thing, for i shall satisfy you it is not so impossible as you make it." "i don't understand you," said i. "have not i a husband and you a wife?" "well, well," says he, "we will talk of that after supper;" so he rose up, gave me another kiss, and took his horse for london. this kind of discourse had fired my blood, i confess, and i knew not what to think of it. it was plain now that he intended to lie with me, but how he would reconcile it to a legal thing, like a marriage, that i could not imagine. we had both of us used amy with so much intimacy, and trusted her with everything, having such unexampled instances of her fidelity, that he made no scruple to kiss me and say all these things to me before her; nor had he cared one farthing, if i would have let him lie with me, to have had amy there too all night. when he was gone, "well, amy," says i, "what will all this come to now? i am all in a sweat at him." "come to, madam?" says amy. "i see what it will come to; i must put you to bed to-night together." "why, you would not be so impudent, you jade you," says i, "would you?" "yes, i would," says she, "with all my heart, and think you both as honest as ever you were in your lives." "what ails the slut to talk so?" said i. "honest! how can it be honest?" "why, i'll tell you, madam," says amy; "i sounded it as soon as i heard him speak, and it is very true too; he calls you widow, and such indeed you are; for, as my master has left you so many years, he is dead, to be sure; at least he is dead to you; he is no husband. you are, and ought to be, free to marry who you will; and his wife being gone from him, and refusing to lie with him, then he is a single man again as much as ever; and though you cannot bring the laws of the land to join you together, yet, one refusing to do the office of a wife, and the other of a husband, you may certainly take one another fairly." "nay, amy," says i, "if i could take him fairly, you may be sure i'd take him above all the men in the world; it turned the very heart within me when i heard him say he loved me. how could it be otherwise, when you know what a condition i was in before, despised and trampled on by all the world? i could have took him in my arms and kissed him as freely as he did me, if it had not been for shame." "ay, and all the rest too," says amy, "at the first word. i don't see how you can think of denying him anything. has he not brought you out of the devil's clutches, brought you out of the blackest misery that ever poor lady was reduced to? can a woman deny such a man anything?" "nay, i don't know what to do, amy," says i. "i hope he won't desire anything of that kind of me; i hope he won't attempt it. if he does, i know not what to say to him." "not ask you!" says amy. "depend upon it, he will ask you, and you will grant it too. i am sure my mistress is no fool. come, pray, madam, let me go air you a clean shift; don't let him find you in foul linen the wedding-night." "but that i know you to be a very honest girl, amy," says i, "you would make me abhor you. why, you argue for the devil, as if you were one of his privy councillors." "it's no matter for that, madam, i say nothing but what i think. you own you love this gentleman, and he has given you sufficient testimony of his affection to you; your conditions are alike unhappy, and he is of opinion that he may take another woman, his first wife having broke her honour, and living from him; and that though the laws of the land will not allow him to marry formally, yet that he may take another woman into his arms, provided he keeps true to the other woman as a wife; nay, he says it is usual to do so, and allowed by the custom of the place, in several countries abroad. and, i must own, i am of the same mind; else it is in the power of a whore, after she has jilted and abandoned her husband, to confine him from the pleasure as well as convenience of a woman all the days of his life, which would be very unreasonable, and, as times go, not tolerable to all people; and the like on your side, madam." had i now had my senses about me, and had my reason not been overcome by the powerful attraction of so kind, so beneficent a friend; had i consulted conscience and virtue, i should have repelled this amy, however faithful and honest to me in other things, as a viper and engine of the devil. i ought to have remembered that neither he or i, either by the laws of god or man, could come together upon any other terms than that of notorious adultery. the ignorant jade's argument, that he had brought me out of the hands of the devil, by which she meant the devil of poverty and distress, should have been a powerful motive to me not to plunge myself into the jaws of hell, and into the power of the real devil, in recompense for that deliverance. i should have looked upon all the good this man had done for me to have been the particular work of the goodness of heaven, and that goodness should have moved me to a return of duty and humble obedience. i should have received the mercy thankfully, and applied it soberly, to the praise and honour of my maker; whereas, by this wicked course, all the bounty and kindness of this gentleman became a snare to me, was a mere bait to the devil's hook; i received his kindness at the dear expense of body and soul, mortgaging faith, religion, conscience, and modesty for (as i may call it) a morsel of bread; or, if you will, ruined my soul from a principle of gratitude, and gave myself up to the devil, to show myself grateful to my benefactor. i must do the gentleman that justice as to say i verily believe that he did nothing but what he thought was lawful; and i must do that justice upon myself as to say i did what my own conscience convinced me, at the very time i did it, was horribly unlawful, scandalous, and abominable. but poverty was my snare; dreadful poverty! the misery i had been in was great, such as would make the heart tremble at the apprehensions of its return; and i might appeal to any that has had any experience of the world, whether one so entirely destitute as i was of all manner of all helps or friends, either to support me or to assist me to support myself, could withstand the proposal; not that i plead this as a justification of my conduct, but that it may move the pity even of those that abhor the crime. besides this, i was young, handsome, and, with all the mortifications i had met with, was vain, and that not a little; and, as it was a new thing, so it was a pleasant thing to be courted, caressed, embraced, and high professions of affection made to me, by a man so agreeable and so able to do me good. add to this, that if i had ventured to disoblige this gentleman, i had no friend in the world to have recourse to; i had no prospect--no, not of a bit of bread; i had nothing before me but to fall back into the same misery that i had been in before. amy had but too much rhetoric in this cause; she represented all those things in their proper colours; she argued them all with her utmost skill; and at last the merry jade, when she came to dress me, "look ye, madam," said she, "if you won't consent, tell him you will do as rachel did to jacob, when she could have no children--put her maid to bed to him; tell him you cannot comply with him, but there's amy, he may ask her the question; she has promised me she won't deny you." "and would you have me say so, amy?" said i. "no, madam; but i would really have you do so. besides, you are undone if you do not; and if my doing it would save you from being undone, as i said before, he shall, if he will; if he asks me, i won't deny him, not i; hang me if i do," says amy. "well, i know not what to do," says i to amy. "do!" says amy. "your choice is fair and plain. here you may have a handsome, charming gentleman, be rich, live pleasantly and in plenty, or refuse him, and want a dinner, go in rags, live in tears; in short, beg and starve. you know this is the case, madam," says amy. "i wonder how you can say you know not what to do." "well, amy," says i, "the case is as you say, and i think verily i must yield to him; but then," said i, moved by conscience, "don't talk any more of your cant of its being lawful that i ought to marry again, and that he ought to marry again, and such stuff as that; 'tis all nonsense," says i, "amy, there's nothing in it; let me hear no more of that, for if i yield, 'tis in vain to mince the matter, i am a whore, amy; neither better nor worse, i assure you." "i don't think so, madam, by no means," says amy. "i wonder how you can talk so;" and then she run on with her argument of the unreasonableness that a woman should be obliged to live single, or a man to live single, in such cases as before. "well, amy," said i, "come, let us dispute no more, for the longer i enter into that part, the greater my scruples will be; but if i let it alone, the necessity of my present circumstances is such that i believe i shall yield to him, if he should importune me much about it; but i should be glad he would not do it at all, but leave me as i am." "as to that, madam, you may depend," says amy, "he expects to have you for his bedfellow to-night. i saw it plainly in his management all day; and at last he told you so too, as plain, i think, as he could." "well, well, amy," said i, "i don't know what to say; if he will he must, i think; i don't know how to resist such a man, that has done so much for me." "i don't know how you should," says amy. thus amy and i canvassed the business between us; the jade prompted the crime which i had but too much inclination to commit, that is to say, not as a crime, for i had nothing of the vice in my constitution; my spirits were far from being high, my blood had no fire in it to kindle the flame of desire; but the kindness and good humour of the man and the dread of my own circumstances concurred to bring me to the point, and i even resolved, before he asked, to give up my virtue to him whenever he should put it to the question. in this i was a double offender, whatever he was, for i was resolved to commit the crime, knowing and owning it to be a crime; he, if it was true as he said, was fully persuaded it was lawful, and in that persuasion he took the measures and used all the circumlocutions which i am going to speak of. about two hours after he was gone, came a leadenhall basket-woman, with a whole load of good things for the mouth (the particulars are not to the purpose), and brought orders to get supper by eight o'clock. however, i did not intend to begin to dress anything till i saw him; and he gave me time enough, for he came before seven, so that amy, who had gotten one to help her, got everything ready in time. we sat down to supper about eight, and were indeed very merry. amy made us some sport, for she was a girl of spirit and wit, and with her talk she made us laugh very often, and yet the jade managed her wit with all the good manners imaginable. but to shorten the story. after supper he took me up into his chamber, where amy had made a good fire, and there he pulled out a great many papers, and spread them upon a little table, and then took me by the hand, and after kissing me very much, he entered into a discourse of his circumstances and of mine, how they agreed in several things exactly; for example, that i was abandoned of a husband in the prime of my youth and vigour, and he of a wife in his middle age; how the end of marriage was destroyed by the treatment we had either of us received, and it would be very hard that we should be tied by the formality of the contract where the essence of it was destroyed. i interrupted him, and told him there was a vast difference between our circumstances, and that in the most essential part, namely, that he was rich, and i was poor; that he was above the world, and i infinitely below it; that his circumstances were very easy, mine miserable, and this was an inequality the most essential that could be imagined. "as to that, my dear," says he, "i have taken such measures as shall make an equality still;" and with that he showed me a contract in writing, wherein he engaged himself to me to cohabit constantly with me, to provide for me in all respects as a wife, and repeating in the preamble a long account of the nature and reason of our living together, and an obligation in the penalty of £ never to abandon me; and at last showed me a bond for £ , to be paid to me, or to my assigns, within three months after his death. he read over all these things to me, and then, in a most moving, affectionate manner, and in words not to be answered, he said, "now, my dear, is this not sufficient? can you object anything against it? if not, as i believe you will not, then let us debate this matter no longer." with that he pulled out a silk purse, which had threescore guineas in it, and threw them into my lap, and concluded all the rest of his discourse with kisses and protestations of his love, of which indeed i had abundant proof. pity human frailty, you that read of a woman reduced in her youth and prime to the utmost misery and distress, and raised again, as above, by the unexpected and surprising bounty of a stranger; i say, pity her if she was not able, after all these things, to make any more resistance. however, i stood out a little longer still. i asked him how he could expect that i could come into a proposal of such consequence the very first time it was moved to me; and that i ought, if i consented to it, to capitulate with him that he should never upbraid me with easiness and consenting too soon. he said no; but, on the contrary, he would take it as a mark of the greatest kindness i could show him. then he went on to give reasons why there was no occasion to use the ordinary ceremony of delay, or to wait a reasonable time of courtship, which was only to avoid scandal; but, as this was private, it had nothing of that nature in it; that he had been courting me some time by the best of courtship, viz., doing acts of kindness to me; and that he had given testimonies of his sincere affection to me by deeds, not by flattering trifles and the usual courtship of words, which were often found to have very little meaning; that he took me, not as a mistress, but as his wife, and protested it was clear to him he might lawfully do it, and that i was perfectly at liberty, and assured me, by all that it was possible for an honest man to say, that he would treat me as his wife as long as he lived. in a word, he conquered all the little resistance i intended to make; he protested he loved me above all the world, and begged i would for once believe him; that he had never deceived me, and never would, but would make it his study to make my life comfortable and happy, and to make me forget the misery i had gone through. i stood still a while, and said nothing; but seeing him eager for my answer, i smiled, and looking up at him, "and must i, then," says i, "say yes at first asking? must i depend upon your promise? why, then," said i, "upon the faith of that promise, and in the sense of that inexpressible kindness you have shown me, you shall be obliged, and i will be wholly yours to the end of my life;" and with that i took his hand, which held me by the hand, and gave it a kiss. and thus, in gratitude for the favours i received from a man, was all sense of religion and duty to god, all regard to virtue and honour, given up at once, and we were to call one another man and wife, who, in the sense of the laws both of god and our country, were no more than two adulterers; in short, a whore and a rogue. nor, as i have said above, was my conscience silent in it, though it seems his was; for i sinned with open eyes, and thereby had a double guilt upon me. as i always said, his notions were of another kind, and he either was before of the opinion, or argued himself into it now, that we were both free and might lawfully marry. but i was quite of another side--nay, and my judgment was right, but my circumstances were my temptation; the terrors behind me looked blacker than the terrors before me; and the dreadful argument of wanting bread, and being run into the horrible distresses i was in before, mastered all my resolution, and i gave myself up as above. the rest of the evening we spent very agreeably to me; he was perfectly good-humoured, and was at that time very merry. then he made amy dance with him, and i told him i would put amy to bed to him. amy said, with all her heart; she never had been a bride in her life. in short, he made the girl so merry that, had he not been to lie with me the same night, i believe he would have played the fool with amy for half-an-hour, and the girl would no more have refused him than i intended to do. yet before, i had always found her a very modest wench as any i ever saw in all my life; but, in short, the mirth of that night, and a few more such afterwards, ruined the girl's modesty for ever, as shall appear by-and-by, in its place. so far does fooling and toying sometimes go that i know nothing a young woman has to be more cautious of; so far had this innocent girl gone in jesting between her and i, and in talking that she would let him lie with her, if he would but be kinder to me, that at last she let him lie with her in earnest; and so empty was i now of all principle, that i encouraged the doing it almost before my face. i say but too justly that i was empty of principle, because, as above, i had yielded to him, not as deluded to believe it lawful, but as overcome by his kindness, and terrified at the fear of my own misery if he should leave me. so with my eyes open, and with my conscience, as i may say, awake, i sinned, knowing it to be a sin, but having no power to resist. when this had thus made a hole in my heart, and i was come to such a height as to transgress against the light of my own conscience, i was then fit for any wickedness, and conscience left off speaking where it found it could not be heard. but to return to our story. having consented, as above, to his proposal, we had not much more to do. he gave me my writings, and the bond for my maintenance during his life, and for five hundred pounds after his death. and so far was he from abating his affection to me afterwards, that two years after we were thus, as he called it, married, he made his will, and gave me a thousand pounds more, and all my household stuff, plate, &c., which was considerable too. amy put us to bed, and my new friend--i cannot call him husband--was so well pleased with amy for her fidelity and kindness to me that he paid her all the arrear of her wages that i owed her, and gave her five guineas over; and had it gone no farther, amy had richly deserved what she had, for never was a maid so true to her mistress in such dreadful circumstances as i was in. nor was what followed more her own fault than mine, who led her almost into it at first, and quite into it at last; and this may be a farther testimony what a hardness of crime i was now arrived to, which was owing to the conviction, that was from the beginning upon me, that i was a whore, not a wife; nor could i ever frame my mouth to call him husband or to say "my husband" when i was speaking of him. we lived, surely, the most agreeable life, the grand exception only excepted, that ever two lived together. he was the most obliging, gentlemanly man, and the most tender of me, that ever woman gave herself up to. nor was there ever the least interruption to our mutual kindness, no, not to the last day of his life. but i must bring amy's disaster in at once, that i may have done with her. amy was dressing me one morning, for now i had two maids, and amy was my chambermaid. "dear madam," says amy, "what! a'nt you with child yet?" "no, amy," says i; "nor any sign of it." "law, madam!" says amy, "what have you been doing? why, you have been married a year and a half. i warrant you master would have got me with child twice in that time." "it may be so, amy," says i. "let him try, can't you?" "no," says amy; "you'll forbid it now. before, i told you he should, with all my heart; but i won't now, now he's all your own." "oh," says i, "amy, i'll freely give you my consent. it will be nothing at all to me. nay, i'll put you to bed to him myself one night or other, if you are willing." "no, madam, no," says amy, "not now he's yours." "why, you fool you," says i, "don't i tell you i'll put you to bed to him myself?" "nay, nay," says amy, "if you put me to bed to him, that's another case; i believe i shall not rise again very soon." "i'll venture that, amy," says i. after supper that night, and before we were risen from table, i said to him, amy being by, "hark ye, mr. ----, do you know that you are to lie with amy to-night?" "no, not i," says he; but turns to amy, "is it so, amy?" says he. "no, sir," says she. "nay, don't say no, you fool; did not i promise to put you to bed to him?" but the girl said "no," still, and it passed off. at night, when we came to go to bed, amy came into the chamber to undress me, and her master slipped into bed first; then i began, and told him all that amy had said about my not being with child, and of her being with child twice in that time. "ay, mrs. amy," says he, "i believe so too. come hither, and, we'll try." but amy did not go. "go, you fool," says i, "can't you? i freely give you both leave." but amy would not go. "nay, you whore," says i, "you said, if i would put you to bed, you would with all your heart." and with that i sat her down, pulled off her stockings and shoes, and all her clothes piece by piece, and led her to the bed to him. "here," says i, "try what you can do with your maid amy." she pulled back a little, would not let me pull off her clothes at first, but it was hot weather, and she had not many clothes on, and particularly no stays on; and at last, when she saw i was in earnest, she let me do what i would. so i fairly stripped her, and then i threw open the bed and thrust her in. i need say no more. this is enough to convince anybody that i did not think him my husband, and that i had cast off all principle and all modesty, and had effectually stifled conscience. amy, i dare say, began now to repent, and would fain have got out of bed again; but he said to her, "nay, amy, you see your mistress has put you to bed; 'tis all her doing; you must blame her." so he held her fast, and the wench being naked in the bed with him, it was too late to look back, so she lay still and let him do what he would with her. had i looked upon myself as a wife, you cannot suppose i would have been willing to have let my husband lie with my maid, much less before my face, for i stood by all the while; but as i thought myself a whore, i cannot say but that it was something designed in my thoughts that my maid should be a whore too, and should not reproach me with it. amy, however, less vicious than i, was grievously out of sorts the next morning, and cried and took on most vehemently, that she was ruined and undone, and there was no pacifying her; she was a whore, a slut, and she was undone! undone! and cried almost all day. i did all i could to pacify her. "a whore!" says i. "well, and am not i a whore as well as you?" "no, no," says amy; "no, you are not, for you are married." "not i, amy," says i; "i do not pretend to it. he may marry you to-morrow, if he will, for anything i could do to hinder it. i am not married. i do not look upon it as anything." well, all did not pacify amy, but she cried two or three days about it; but it wore off by degrees. but the case differed between amy and her master exceedingly; for amy retained the same kind temper she always had; but, on the contrary, he was quite altered, for he hated her heartily, and could, i believe, have killed her after it, and he told me so, for he thought this a vile action; whereas what he and i had done he was perfectly easy in, thought it just, and esteemed me as much his wife as if we had been married from our youth, and had neither of us known any other; nay, he loved me, i believe, as entirely as if i had been the wife of his youth. nay, he told me it was true, in one sense, that he had two wives, but that i was the wife of his affection, the other the wife of his aversion. i was extremely concerned at the aversion he had taken to my maid amy, and used my utmost skill to get it altered; for though he had, indeed, debauched the wench, i knew that i was the principal occasion of it; and as he was the best-humoured man in the world, i never gave him over till i prevailed with him to be easy with her, and as i was now become the devil's agent, to make others as wicked as myself, i brought him to lie with her again several times after that, till at last, as the poor girl said, so it happened, and she was really with child. she was terribly concerned at it, and so was he too. "come, my dear," says i, "when rachel put her handmaid to bed to jacob, she took the children as her own. don't be uneasy; i'll take the child as my own. had not i a hand in the frolic of putting her to bed to you? it was my fault as much as yours." so i called amy, and encouraged her too, and told her that i would take care of the child and her too, and added the same argument to her. "for," says i, "amy, it was all my fault. did not i drag your clothes off your back, and put you to bed to him?" thus i, that had, indeed, been the cause of all the wickedness between them, encouraged them both, when they had any remorse about it, and rather prompted them to go on with it than to repent it. when amy grew big she went to a place i had provided for her, and the neighbours knew nothing but that amy and i was parted. she had a fine child indeed, a daughter, and we had it nursed; and amy came again in about half a year to live with her old mistress; but neither my gentleman, or amy either, cared for playing that game over again; for, as he said, the jade might bring him a houseful of children to keep. we lived as merrily and as happily after this as could be expected, considering our circumstances; i mean as to the pretended marriage, &c.; and as to that, my gentleman had not the least concern about him for it. but as much as i was hardened, and that was as much as i believe ever any wicked creature was, yet i could not help it, there was and would be hours of intervals and of dark reflections which came involuntarily in, and thrust in sighs into the middle of all my songs; and there would be sometimes a heaviness of heart which intermingled itself with all my joy, and which would often fetch a tear from my eye. and let others pretend what they will, i believe it impossible to be otherwise with anybody. there can be no substantial satisfaction in a life of known wickedness; conscience will, and does often, break in upon them at particular times, let them do what they can to prevent it. but i am not to preach, but to relate; and whatever loose reflections were, and how often soever those dark intervals came on, i did my utmost to conceal them from him; ay, and to suppress and smother them too in myself; and, to outward appearance, we lived as cheerfully and agreeably as it was possible for any couple in the world to live. after i had thus lived with him something above two years, truly i found myself with child too. my gentleman was mightily pleased at it, and nothing could be kinder than he was in the preparations he made for me, and for my lying-in, which was, however, very private, because i cared for as little company as possible; nor had i kept up my neighbourly acquaintance, so that i had nobody to invite upon such an occasion. i was brought to bed very well (of a daughter too, as well as amy), but the child died at about six weeks old, so all that work was to do over again--that is to say, the charge, the expense, the travail, &c. the next year i made him amends, and brought him a son, to his great satisfaction. it was a charming child, and did very well. after this my husband, as he called himself, came to me one evening, and told me he had a very difficult thing happened to him, which he knew not what to do in, or how to resolve about, unless i would make him easy; this was, that his occasions required him to go over to france for about two months. "well, my dear," says i, "and how shall i make you easy?" "why, by consenting to let me go," says he; "upon which condition, i'll tell you the occasion of my going, that you may judge of the necessity there is for it on my side." then, to make me easy in his going, he told me he would make his will before he went, which should be to my full satisfaction. i told him the last part was so kind that i could not decline the first part, unless he would give me leave to add that, if it was not for putting him to an extraordinary expense, i would go over along with him. he was so pleased with this offer that he told me he would give me full satisfaction for it, and accept of it too; so he took me to london with him the next day, and there he made his will, and showed it to me, and sealed it before proper witnesses, and then gave it to me to keep. in this will he gave a thousand pounds to a person that we both knew very well, in trust, to pay it, with the interest from the time of his decease, to me or my assigns; then he willed the payment of my jointure, as he called it, viz., his bond of five hundred pounds after his death; also, he gave me all my household stuff, plate, &c. this was a most engaging thing for a man to do to one under my circumstances; and it would have been hard, as i told him, to deny him anything, or to refuse to go with him anywhere. so we settled everything as well as we could, left amy in charge with the house, and for his other business, which was in jewels, he had two men he intrusted, who he had good security for, and who managed for him, and corresponded with him. things being thus concerted, we went away to france, arrived safe at calais, and by easy journeys came in eight days more to paris, where we lodged in the house of an english merchant of his acquaintance, and was very courteously entertained. my gentleman's business was with some persons of the first rank, and to whom he had sold some jewels of very good value, and received a great sum of money in specie; and, as he told me privately, he gained three thousand pistoles by his bargain, but would not suffer the most intimate friend he had there to know what he had received; for it is not so safe a thing in paris to have a great sum of money in keeping as it might be in london. we made this journey much longer than we intended, and my gentleman sent for one of his managers in london to come over to us in paris with some diamonds, and sent him back to london again to fetch more. then other business fell into his hands so unexpectedly that i began to think we should take up our constant residence there, which i was not very averse to, it being my native country, and i spoke the language perfectly well. so we took a good house in paris, and lived very well there; and i sent for amy to come over to me, for i lived gallantly, and my gentleman was two or three times going to keep me a coach, but i declined it, especially at paris, but as they have those conveniences by the day there, at a certain rate, i had an equipage provided for me whenever i pleased, and i lived here in a very good figure, and might have lived higher if i pleased. but in the middle of all this felicity a dreadful disaster befell me, which entirely unhinged all my affairs, and threw me back into the same state of life that i was in before; with this one happy exception, however, that whereas before i was poor, even to misery, now i was not only provided for, but very rich. my gentleman had the name in paris for a rich man, and indeed he was so, though not so immensely rich as people imagined; but that which was fatal to him was, that he generally carried a shagreen case in his pocket, especially when he went to court, or to the houses of any of the princes of the blood, in which he had jewels of very great value. it happened one day that, being to go to versailles to wait upon the prince of ----, he came up into my chamber in the morning, and laid out his jewel-case, because he was not going to show any jewels, but to get a foreign bill accepted, which he had received from amsterdam; so, when he gave me the case, he said, "my dear, i think i need not carry this with me, because it may be i may not come back till night, and it is too much to venture." i returned, "then, my dear, you shan't go." "why?" says he. "because, as they are too much for you, so you are too much for me to venture, and you shall not go, unless you will promise me not to stay so as to come back in the night." "i hope there's no danger," said he, "seeing that i have nothing about me of any value; and therefore, lest i should, take that too," says he, and gives me his gold watch and a rich diamond which he had in a ring, and always wore on his finger. "well, but, my dear," says i, "you make me more uneasy now than before; for if you apprehend no danger, why do you use this caution? and if you apprehend there is danger, why do you go at all?" "there is no danger," says he, "if i do not stay late, and i do not design to do so." "well, but promise me, then, that you won't," says i, "or else i cannot let you go." "i won't indeed, my dear," says he, "unless i am obliged to it. i assure you i do not intend it; but if i should, i am not worth robbing now, for i have nothing about me but about six pistoles in my little purse and that little ring," showing me a small diamond ring, worth about ten or twelve pistoles, which he put upon his finger, in the room of the rich one he usually wore. [illustration: the jeweller is about to leave for versailles _and gives me his gold watch and a rich diamond which he had in a ring, and always wore on his finger_] i still pressed him not to stay late, and he said he would not. "but if i am kept late," says he, "beyond my expectation, i'll stay all night, and come next morning." this seemed a very good caution; but still my mind was very uneasy about him, and i told him so, and entreated him not to go. i told him i did not know what might be the reason, but that i had a strange terror upon my mind about his going, and that if he did go, i was persuaded some harm would attend him. he smiled, and returned, "well, my dear, if it should be so, you are now richly provided for; all that i have here i give to you." and with that he takes up the casket or case, "here," says he, "hold your hand; there is a good estate for you in this case; if anything happens to me 'tis all your own. i give it you for yourself;" and with that he put the casket, the fine ring, and his gold watch all into my hands, and the key of his scrutoire besides, adding, "and in my scrutoire there is some money; it is all your own." i stared at him as if i was frighted, for i thought all his face looked like a death's-head; and then immediately i thought i perceived his head all bloody, and then his clothes looked bloody too, and immediately it all went off, and he looked as he really did. immediately i fell a-crying, and hung about him. "my dear," said i, "i am frighted to death; you shall not go. depend upon it some mischief will befall you." i did not tell him how my vapourish fancy had represented him to me; that, i thought, was not proper. besides, he would only have laughed at me, and would have gone away with a jest about it; but i pressed him seriously not to go that day, or, if he did, to promise me to come home to paris again by daylight. he looked a little graver then than he did before, told me he was not apprehensive of the least danger, but if there was, he would either take care to come in the day, or, as he had said before, would stay all night. but all these promises came to nothing, for he was set upon in the open day and robbed by three men on horseback, masked, as he went; and one of them, who, it seems, rifled him while the rest stood to stop the coach, stabbed him into the body with a sword, so that he died immediately. he had a footman behind the coach, who they knocked down with the stock or butt-end of a carbine. they were supposed to kill him because of the disappointment they met with in not getting his case or casket of diamonds, which they knew he carried about him; and this was supposed because, after they had killed him, they made the coachman drive out of the road a long way over the heath, till they came to a convenient place, where they pulled him out of the coach and searched his clothes more narrowly than they could do while he was alive. but they found nothing but his little ring, six pistoles, and the value of about seven livres in small moneys. this was a dreadful blow to me, though i cannot say i was so surprised as i should otherwise have been, for all the while he was gone my mind was oppressed with the weight of my own thoughts, and i was as sure that i should never see him any more that i think nothing could be like it. the impression was so strong that i think nothing could make so deep a wound that was imaginary; and i was so dejected and disconsolate that, when i received the news of his disaster, there was no room for any extraordinary alteration in me. i had cried all that day, ate nothing, and only waited, as i might say, to receive the dismal news, which i had brought to me about five o'clock in the afternoon. i was in a strange country, and, though i had a pretty many acquaintances, had but very few friends that i could consult on this occasion. all possible inquiry was made after the rogues that had been thus barbarous, but nothing could be heard of them; nor was it possible that the footman could make any discovery of them by his description, for they knocked him down immediately, so that he knew nothing of what was done afterwards. the coachman was the only man that could say anything, and all his account amounted to no more than this, that one of them had soldier's clothes, but he could not remember the particulars of his mounting, so as to know what regiment he belonged to; and as to their faces, that he could know nothing of, because they had all of them masks on. i had him buried as decently as the place would permit a protestant stranger to be buried, and made some of the scruples and difficulties on that account easy by the help of money to a certain person, who went impudently to the curate of the parish of st. sulpitius, in paris, and told him that the gentleman that was killed was a catholic; that the thieves had taken from him a cross of gold, set with diamonds, worth six thousand livres; that his widow was a catholic, and had sent by him sixty crowns to the church of ----, for masses to be said for the repose of his soul. upon all which, though not one word was true, he was buried with all the ceremonies of the roman church. i think i almost cried myself to death for him, for i abandoned myself to all the excesses of grief; and indeed i loved him to a degree inexpressible; and considering what kindness he had shown me at first, and how tenderly he had used me to the last, what could i do less? then the manner of his death was terrible and frightful to me, and, above all, the strange notices i had of it. i had never pretended to the second-sight, or anything of that kind, but certainly, if any one ever had such a thing, i had it at this time, for i saw him as plainly in all those terrible shapes as above; first, as a skeleton, not dead only, but rotten and wasted; secondly, as killed, and his face bloody; and, thirdly, his clothes bloody, and all within the space of one minute, or indeed of a very few moments. these things amazed me, and i was a good while as one stupid. however, after some time i began to recover, and look into my affairs. i had the satisfaction not to be left in distress, or in danger of poverty. on the contrary, besides what he had put into my hands fairly in his lifetime, which amounted to a very considerable value, i found above seven hundred pistoles in gold in his scrutoire, of which he had given me the key; and i found foreign bills accepted for about twelve thousand livres; so that, in a word, i found myself possessed of almost ten thousand pounds sterling in a very few days after the disaster. the first thing i did upon this occasion was to send a letter to my maid, as i still called her, amy, wherein i gave her an account of my disaster, how my husband, as she called him (for i never called him so), was murdered; and as i did not know how his relations, or his wife's friends might act upon that occasion, i ordered her to convey away all the plate, linen, and other things of value, and to secure them in a person's hands that i directed her to, and then to sell or dispose of the furniture of the house, if she could, and so, without acquainting anybody with the reason of her going, withdraw; sending notice to his head manager at london that the house was quitted by the tenant, and they might come and take possession of it for the executors. amy was so dexterous, and did her work so nimbly, that she gutted the house, and sent the key to the said manager, almost as soon as he had notice of the misfortune that befell their master. upon their receiving the surprising news of his death, the head manager came over to paris, and came to the house. i made no scruple of calling myself madame ----, the widow of monsieur ----, the english jeweller. and as i spoke french naturally, i did not let him know but that i was his wife, married in france, and that i had not heard that he had any wife in england, but pretended to be surprised, and exclaim against him for so base an action; and that i had good friends in poictou, where i was born, who would take care to have justice done me in england out of his estate. i should have observed that, as soon as the news was public of a man being murdered, and that he was a jeweller, fame did me the favour as to publish presently that he was robbed of his casket of jewels, which he always carried about him. i confirmed this, among my daily lamentations for his disaster, and added that he had with him a fine diamond ring, which he was known to wear frequently about him, valued at one hundred pistoles, a gold watch, and a great quantity of diamonds of inestimable value in his casket, which jewels he was carrying to the prince of ----, to show some of them to him; and the prince owned that he had spoken to him to bring some such jewels, to let him see them. but i sorely repented this part afterward, as you shall hear. this rumour put an end to all inquiry after his jewels, his ring, or his watch; and as for the seven hundred pistoles, that i secured. for the bills which were in hand, i owned i had them, but that, as i said i brought my husband thirty thousand livres portion, i claimed the said bills, which came to not above twelve thousand livres, for my _amende_; and this, with the plate and the household stuff, was the principal of all his estate which they could come at. as to the foreign bill which he was going to versailles to get accepted, it was really lost with him; but his manager, who had remitted the bill to him, by way of amsterdam, bringing over the second bill, the money was saved, as they call it, which would otherwise have been also gone; the thieves who robbed and murdered him were, to be sure, afraid to send anybody to get the bill accepted, for that would undoubtedly have discovered them. by this time my maid amy was arrived, and she gave me an account of her management, and how she had secured everything, and that she had quitted the house, and sent the key to the head manager of his business, and let me know how much she had made of everything very punctually and honestly. i should have observed, in the account of his dwelling with me so long at ----, that he never passed for anything there but a lodger in the house; and though he was landlord, that did not alter the case. so that at his death, amy coming to quit the house and give them the key, there was no affinity between that and the case of their master who was newly killed. i got good advice at paris from an eminent lawyer, a counsellor of the parliament there, and laying my case before him, he directed me to make a process in dower upon the estate, for making good my new fortune upon matrimony, which accordingly i did; and, upon the whole, the manager went back to england well satisfied that he had gotten the unaccepted bill of exchange, which was for two thousand five hundred pounds, with some other things, which together amounted to seventeen thousand livres; and thus i got rid of him. i was visited with great civility on this sad occasion of the loss of my husband, as they thought him, by a great many ladies of quality. and the prince of ----, to whom it was reported he was carrying the jewels, sent his gentleman with a very handsome compliment of condolence to me; and his gentleman, whether with or without order, hinted as if his highness did intend to have visited me himself, but that some accident, which he made a long story of, had prevented him. by the concourse of ladies and others that thus came to visit me, i began to be much known; and as i did not forget to set myself out with all possible advantage, considering the dress of a widow, which in those days was a most frightful thing; i say, as i did thus from my own vanity, for i was not ignorant that i was very handsome; i say, on this account i was soon made very public, and was known by the name of _la belle veufeu de poictou_, or the pretty widow of poictou. as i was very well pleased to see myself thus handsomely used in my affliction, it soon dried up all my tears; and though i appeared as a widow, yet, as we say in england, it was of a widow comforted. i took care to let the ladies see that i knew how to receive them; that i was not at a loss how to behave to any of them; and, in short, i began to be very popular there. but i had an occasion afterwards which made me decline that kind of management, as you shall hear presently. about four days after i had received the compliments of condolence from the prince ----, the same gentleman he had sent before came to tell me that his highness was coming to give me a visit. i was indeed surprised at that, and perfectly at a loss how to behave. however, as there was no remedy, i prepared to receive him as well as i could. it was not many minutes after but he was at the door, and came in, introduced by his own gentleman, as above, and after by my woman amy. he treated me with abundance of civility, and condoled handsomely on the loss of my husband, and likewise the manner of it. he told me he understood he was coming to versailles to himself, to show him some jewels; that it was true that he had discoursed with him about jewels, but could not imagine how any villains should hear of his coming at that time with them; that he had not ordered him to attend with them at versailles, but told him that he would come to paris by such a day, so that he was no way accessory to the disaster. i told him gravely i knew very well that all his highness had said of that part was true; that these villains knew his profession, and knew, no doubt, that he always carried a casket of jewels about him, and that he always wore a diamond ring on his finger worth a hundred pistoles, which report had magnified to five hundred; and that, if he had been going to any other place, it would have been the same thing. after this his highness rose up to go, and told me he had resolved, however, to make me some reparation; and with these words put a silk purse into my hand with a hundred pistoles, and told me he would make me a farther compliment of a small pension, which his gentleman would inform me of. you may be sure i behaved with a due sense of so much goodness, and offered to kneel to kiss his hand; but he took me up and saluted me, and sat down again (though before he made as if he was going away), making me sit down by him. he then began to talk with me more familiarly; told me he hoped i was not left in bad circumstances; that mr. ---- was reputed to be very rich, and that he had gained lately great sums by some jewels, and he hoped, he said, that i had still a fortune agreeable to the condition i had lived in before. i replied, with some tears, which, i confess, were a little forced, that i believed, if mr. ---- had lived, we should have been out of danger of want, but that it was impossible to estimate the loss which i had sustained, besides that of the life of my husband; that, by the opinion of those that knew something of his affairs, and of what value the jewels were which he intended to have shown to his highness, he could not have less about him than the value of a hundred thousand livres; that it was a fatal blow to me, and to his whole family, especially that they should be lost in such a manner. his highness returned, with an air of concern, that he was very sorry for it; but he hoped, if i settled in paris, i might find ways to restore my fortune; at the same time he complimented me upon my being very handsome, as he was pleased to call it, and that i could not fail of admirers. i stood up and humbly thanked his highness, but told him i had no expectations of that kind; that i thought i should be obliged to go over to england, to look after my husband's effects there, which, i was told, were considerable, but that i did not know what justice a poor stranger would get among them; and as for paris, my fortune being so impaired, i saw nothing before me but to go back to poictou to my friends, where some of my relations, i hoped, might do something for me, and added that one of my brothers was an abbot at ----, near poictiers. he stood up, and taking me by the hand, led me to a large looking-glass, which made up the pier in the front of the parlour. "look there, madam," said he; "is it fit that that face" (pointing to my figure in the glass) "should go back to poictou? no, madam," says he; "stay and make some gentleman of quality happy, that may, in return, make you forget all your sorrows;" and with that he took me in his arms, and kissing me twice, told me he would see me again, but with less ceremony. some little time after this, but the same day, his gentleman came to me again, and with great ceremony and respect, delivered me a black box tied with a scarlet riband and sealed with a noble coat-of-arms, which, i suppose, was the prince's. there was in it a grant from his highness, or an assignment--i know not which to call it--with a warrant to his banker to pay me two thousand livres a year during my stay in paris, as the widow of monsieur ----, the jeweller, mentioning the horrid murder of my late husband as the occasion of it, as above. i received it with great submission, and expressions of being infinitely obliged to his master, and of my showing myself on all occasions his highness's most obedient servant; and after giving my most humble duty to his highness, with the utmost acknowledgments of the obligation, &c., i went to a little cabinet, and taking out some money, which made a little sound in taking it out, offered to give him five pistoles. he drew back, but with the greatest respect, and told me he humbly thanked me, but that he durst not take a farthing; that his highness would take it so ill of him, he was sure he would never see his face more; but that he would not fail to acquaint his highness what respect i had offered; and added, "i assure you, madam, you are more in the good graces of my master, the prince of ----, than you are aware of; and i believe you will hear more of him." now i began to understand him, and resolved, if his highness did come again, he should see me under no disadvantages, if i could help it. i told him, if his highness did me the honour to see me again, i hoped he would not let me be so surprised as i was before; that i would be glad to have some little notice of it, and would be obliged to him if he would procure it me. he told me he was very sure that when his highness intended to visit me he should be sent before to give me notice of it, and that he would give me as much warning of it as possible. he came several times after this on the same errand, that is, about the settlement, the grant requiring several things yet to be done for making it payable without going every time to the prince again for a fresh warrant. the particulars of this part i did not understand; but as soon as it was finished, which was above two months, the gentleman came one afternoon, and said his highness designed to visit me in the evening, but desired to be admitted without ceremony. i prepared not my rooms only, but myself; and when he came in there was nobody appeared in the house but his gentleman and my maid amy; and of her i bid the gentleman acquaint his highness that she was an englishwoman, that she did not understand a word of french, and that she was one also that might be trusted. when he came into my room, i fell down at his feet before he could come to salute me, and with words that i had prepared, full of duty and respect, thanked him for his bounty and goodness to a poor, desolate woman, oppressed under the weight of so terrible a disaster; and refused to rise till he would allow me the honour to kiss his hand. "_levez vous donc_," says the prince, taking me in his arms; "i design more favours for you than this trifle;" and going on, he added, "you shall for the future find a friend where you did not look for it, and i resolve to let you see how kind i can be to one who is to me the most agreeable creature on earth." i was dressed in a kind of half mourning, had turned off my weeds, and my head, though i had yet no ribands or lace, was so dressed as failed not to set me out with advantage enough, for i began to understand his meaning; and the prince professed i was the most beautiful creature on earth. "and where have i lived," says he, "and how ill have i been served, that i should never till now be showed the finest woman in france!" this was the way in all the world the most likely to break in upon my virtue, if i had been mistress of any; for i was now become the vainest creature upon earth, and particularly of my beauty, which as other people admired, so i became every day more foolishly in love with myself than before. he said some very kind things to me after this, and sat down with me for an hour or more, when, getting up and calling his gentleman by his name, he threw open the door: "_au boire_," says he; upon which his gentleman immediately brought up a little table covered with a fine damask cloth, the table no bigger than he could bring in his two hands, but upon it was set two decanters, one of champagne and the other of water, six silver plates, and a service of fine sweetmeats in fine china dishes, on a set of rings standing up about twenty inches high, one above another. below was three roasted partridges and a quail. as soon as his gentleman had set it all down, he ordered him to withdraw. "now," says the prince, "i intend to sup with you." when he sent away his gentleman, i stood up and offered to wait on his highness while he ate; but he positively refused, and told me, "no; to-morrow you shall be the widow of monsieur ----, the jeweller, but to-night you shall be my mistress; therefore sit here," says he, "and eat with me, or i will get up and serve." i would then have called up my woman amy, but i thought that would not be proper neither; so i made my excuse, that since his highness would not let his own servant wait, i would not presume to let my woman come up; but if he would please to let me wait, it would be my honour to fill his highness's wine. but, as before, he would by no means allow me; so we sat and ate together. [illustration: the visit of the prince _and refused to rise till he would allow me the honour to kiss his hand_] "now, madam," says the prince, "give me leave to lay aside my character; let us talk together with the freedom of equals. my quality sets me at a distance from you, and makes you ceremonious. your beauty exalts you to more than an equality. i must, then, treat you as lovers do their mistresses, but i cannot speak the language; it is enough to tell you how agreeable you are to me, how i am surprised at your beauty, and resolve to make you happy, and to be happy with you." i knew not what to say to him a good while, but blushed, and looking up towards him, said i was already made happy in the favour of a person of such rank, and had nothing to ask of his highness but that he would believe me infinitely obliged. after he had eaten, he poured the sweetmeats into my lap; and the wine being out, he called his gentleman again to take away the table, who, at first, only took the cloth and the remains of what was to eat away; and, laying another cloth, set the table on one side of the room with a noble service of plate upon it, worth at least two hundred pistoles. then, having set the two decanters again upon the table, filled as before, he withdrew; for i found the fellow understood his business very well, and his lord's business too. about half-an-hour after, the prince told me that i offered to wait a little before, that if i would now take the trouble he would give me leave to give him some wine; so i went to the table, filled a glass of wine, and brought it to him on a fine salver, which the glasses stood on, and brought the bottle or decanter for water in my other hand, to mix as he thought fit. he smiled, and bid me look on that salver, which i did, and admired it much, for it was a very fine one indeed. "you may see," says he, "i resolve to have more of your company, for my servant shall leave you that plate for my use." i told him i believed his highness would not take it ill that i was not furnished fit to entertain a person of his rank, and that i would take great care of it, and value myself infinitely upon the honour of his highness's visit. it now began to grow late, and he began to take notice of it. "but," says he, "i cannot leave you; have you not a spare lodging for one night?" i told him i had but a homely lodging to entertain such a guest. he said something exceeding kind on that head, but not fit to repeat, adding that my company would make him amends. about midnight he sent his gentleman of an errand, after telling him aloud that he intended to stay here all night. in a little time his gentleman brought him a nightgown, slippers, two caps, a neckcloth, and shirt, which he gave me to carry into his chamber, and sent his man home; and then, turning to me, said i should do him the honour to be his chamberlain of the household, and his dresser also. i smiled, and told him i would do myself the honour to wait on him upon all occasions. about one in the morning, while his gentleman was yet with him, i begged leave to withdraw, supposing he would go to bed; but he took the hint, and said, "i'm not going to bed yet; pray let me see you again." i took this time to undress me, and to come in a new dress, which was, in a manner, _une dishabille_, but so fine, and all about me so clean and so agreeable, that he seemed surprised. "i thought," says he, "you could not have dressed to more advantage than you had done before; but now," says he, "you charm me a thousand times more, if that be possible." "it is only a loose habit, my lord," said i, "that i may the better wait on your highness." he pulls me to him. "you are perfectly obliging," says he; and, sitting on the bedside, says he, "now you shall be a princess, and know what it is to oblige the gratefullest man alive;" and with that he took me in his arms.... i can go no farther in the particulars of what passed at that time, but it ended in this, that, in short, i lay with him all night. i have given you the whole detail of this story to lay it down as a black scheme of the way how unhappy women are ruined by great men; for, though poverty and want is an irresistible temptation to the poor, vanity and great things are as irresistible to others. to be courted by a prince, and by a prince who was first a benefactor, then an admirer; to be called handsome, the finest woman in france, and to be treated as a woman fit for the bed of a prince--these are things a woman must have no vanity in her, nay, no corruption in her, that is not overcome by it; and my case was such that, as before, i had enough of both. i had now no poverty attending me; on the contrary, i was mistress of ten thousand pounds before the prince did anything for me. had i been mistress of my resolution, had i been less obliging, and rejected the first attack, all had been safe; but my virtue was lost before, and the devil, who had found the way to break in upon me by one temptation, easily mastered me now by another; and i gave myself up to a person who, though a man of high dignity, was yet the most tempting and obliging that ever i met with in my life. i had the same particular to insist upon here with the prince that i had with my gentleman before. i hesitated much at consenting at first asking, but the prince told me princes did not court like other men; that they brought more powerful arguments; and he very prettily added that they were sooner repulsed than other men, and ought to be sooner complied with; intimating, though very genteely, that after a woman had positively refused him once, he could not, like other men, wait with importunities and stratagems, and laying long sieges; but as such men as he stormed warmly, so, if repulsed, they made no second attacks; and, indeed, it was but reasonable; for as it was below their rank to be long battering a woman's constancy, so they ran greater hazards in being exposed in their amours than other men did. i took this for a satisfactory answer, and told his highness that i had the same thoughts in respect to the manner of his attacks; for that his person and his arguments were irresistible; that a person of his rank and a munificence so unbounded could not be withstood; that no virtue was proof against him, except such as was able, too, to suffer martyrdom; that i thought it impossible i could be overcome, but that now i found it was impossible i should not be overcome; that so much goodness, joined with so much greatness, would have conquered a saint; and that i confessed he had the victory over me, by a merit infinitely superior to the conquest he had made. he made me a most obliging answer; told me abundance of fine things, which still flattered my vanity, till at last i began to have pride enough to believe him, and fancied myself a fit mistress for a prince. as i had thus given the prince the last favour, and he had all the freedom with me that it was possible for me to grant, so he gave me leave to use as much freedom with him another way, and that was to have everything of him i thought fit to command; and yet i did not ask of him with an air of avarice, as if i was greedily making a penny of him, but i managed him with such art that he generally anticipated my demands. he only requested of me that i would not think of taking another house, as i had intimated to his highness that i intended, not thinking it good enough to receive his visits in; but he said my house was the most convenient that could possibly be found in all paris for an amour, especially for him, having a way out into three streets, and not overlooked by any neighbours, so that he could pass and repass without observation; for one of the back-ways opened into a narrow dark alley, which alley was a thoroughfare or passage out of one street into another; and any person that went in or out by the door had no more to do but to see that there was nobody following him in the alley before he went in at the door. this request, i knew, was reasonable, and therefore i assured him i would not change my dwelling, seeing his highness did not think it too mean for me to receive him in. he also desired me that i would not take any more servants or set up any equipage, at least for the present; for that it would then be immediately concluded i had been left very rich, and then i should be thronged with the impertinence of admirers, who would be attracted by the money, as well as by the beauty of a young widow, and he should be frequently interrupted in his visits; or that the world would conclude i was maintained by somebody, and would be indefatigable to find out the person; so that he should have spies peeping at him every time he went out or in, which it would be impossible to disappoint; and that he should presently have it talked over all the toilets in paris that the prince de ---- had got the jeweller's widow for a mistress. this was too just to oppose, and i made no scruple to tell his highness that, since he had stooped so low as to make me his own, he ought to have all the satisfaction in the world that i was all his own; that i would take all the measures he should please to direct me to avoid the impertinent attacks of others; and that, if he thought fit, i would be wholly within doors, and have it given out that i was obliged to go to england to solicit my affairs there, after my husband's misfortune, and that i was not expected there again for at least a year or two. this he liked very well; only he said that he would by no means have me confined; that it would injure my health, and that i should then take a country-house in some village, a good way off of the city, where it should not be known who i was, and that he should be there sometimes to divert me. i made no scruple of the confinement, and told his highness no place could be a confinement where i had such a visitor, and so i put off the country-house, which would have been to remove myself farther from him and have less of his company; so i made the house be, as it were, shut up. amy, indeed, appeared, and when any of the neighbours and servants inquired, she answered, in broken french, that i was gone to england to look after my affairs, which presently went current through the streets about us. for you are to note that the people of paris, especially the women, are the most busy and impertinent inquirers into the conduct of their neighbours, especially that of a single woman, that are in the world, though there are no greater intriguers in the universe than themselves; and perhaps that may be the reason of it, for it is an old but a sure rule, that "when deep intrigues are close and shy, the guilty are the first that spy." thus his highness had the most easy, and yet the most undiscoverable, access to me imaginable, and he seldom failed to come two or three nights in a week, and sometimes stayed two or three nights together. once he told me he was resolved i should be weary of his company, and that he would learn to know what it was to be a prisoner; so he gave out among his servants that he was gone to ----, where he often went a-hunting, and that he should not return under a fortnight; and that fortnight he stayed wholly with me, and never went out of my doors. never woman in such a station lived a fortnight in so complete a fulness of human delight; for to have the entire possession of one of the most accomplished princes in the world, and of the politest, best-bred man; to converse with him all day, and, as he professed, charm him all night, what could be more inexpressibly pleasing, and especially to a woman of a vast deal of pride, as i was? to finish the felicity of this part, i must not forget that the devil had played a new game with me, and prevailed with me to satisfy myself with this amour, as a lawful thing; that a prince of such grandeur and majesty, so infinitely superior to me, and one who had made such an introduction by an unparalleled bounty, i could not resist; and, therefore, that it was very lawful for me to do it, being at that time perfectly single, and unengaged to any other man, as i was, most certainly, by the unaccountable absence of my first husband, and the murder of my gentleman who went for my second. it cannot be doubted but that i was the easier to persuade myself of the truth of such a doctrine as this when it was so much for my ease and for the repose of my mind to have it be so:-- "in things we wish, 'tis easy to deceive; what we would have, we willingly believe." besides, i had no casuists to resolve this doubt; the same devil that put this into my head bade me go to any of the romish clergy, and, under the pretence of confession, state the case exactly, and i should see they would either resolve it to be no sin at all or absolve me upon the easiest penance. this i had a strong inclination to try, but i know not what scruple put me off of it, for i could never bring myself to like having to do with those priests. and though it was strange that i, who had thus prostituted my chastity and given up all sense of virtue in two such particular cases, living a life of open adultery, should scruple anything, yet so it was. i argued with myself that i could not be a cheat in anything that was esteemed sacred; that i could not be of one opinion, and then pretend myself to be of another; nor could i go to confession, who knew nothing of the manner of it, and should betray myself to the priest to be a huguenot, and then might come into trouble; but, in short, though i was a whore, yet i was a protestant whore, and could not act as if i was popish, upon any account whatsoever. but, i say, i satisfied myself with the surprising occasion, that as it was all irresistible, so it was all lawful; for that heaven would not suffer us to be punished for that which it was not possible for us to avoid; and with these absurdities i kept conscience from giving me any considerable disturbance in all this matter; and i was as perfectly easy as to the lawfulness of it as if i had been married to the prince and had had no other husband; so possible is it for us to roll ourselves up in wickedness, till we grow invulnerable by conscience; and that sentinel, once dozed, sleeps fast, not to be awakened while the tide of pleasure continues to flow, or till something dark and dreadful brings us to ourselves again. i have, i confess, wondered at the stupidity that my intellectual part was under all that while; what lethargic fumes dozed the soul; and how was it possible that i, who in the case before, where the temptation was many ways more forcible and the arguments stronger and more irresistible, was yet under a continued inquietude on account of the wicked life i led, could now live in the most profound tranquillity and with an uninterrupted peace, nay, even rising up to satisfaction and joy, and yet in a more palpable state of adultery than before; for before, my gentleman, who called me wife, had the pretence of his wife being parted from him, refusing to do the duty of her office as a wife to him. as for me, my circumstances were the same; but as for the prince, as he had a fine and extraordinary lady, or princess, of his own, so he had had two or three mistresses more besides me, and made no scruple of it at all. however, i say, as to my own part, i enjoyed myself in perfect tranquillity; and as the prince was the only deity i worshipped, so i was really his idol; and however it was with his princess, i assure you his other mistresses found a sensible difference, and though they could never find me out, yet i had good intelligence that they guessed very well that their lord had got some new favourite that robbed them of his company, and, perhaps, of some of his usual bounty too. and now i must mention the sacrifices he made to his idol, and they were not a few, i assure you. as he loved like a prince, so he rewarded like a prince; for though he declined my making a figure, as above, he let me see that he was above doing it for the saving the expense of it, and so he told me, and that he would make it up in other things. first of all, he sent me a toilet, with all the appurtenances of silver, even so much as the frame of the table; and then for the house, he gave me the table, or sideboard of plate, i mentioned above, with all things belonging to it of massy silver; so that, in short, i could not for my life study to ask him for anything of plate which i had not. he could, then, accommodate me in nothing more but jewels and clothes, or money for clothes. he sent his gentleman to the mercer's, and bought me a suit, or whole piece, of the finest brocaded silk, figured with gold, and another with silver, and another of crimson; so that i had three suits of clothes, such as the queen of france would not have disdained to have worn at that time. yet i went out nowhere; but as those were for me to put on when i went out of mourning, i dressed myself in them, one after another, always when his highness came to see me. i had no less than five several morning dresses besides these, so that i need never be seen twice in the same dress; to these he added several parcels of fine linen and of lace, so much that i had no room to ask for more, or, indeed, for so much. i took the liberty once, in our freedoms, to tell him he was too bountiful, and that i was too chargeable to him for a mistress, and that i would be his faithful servant at less expense to him; and that he not only left me no room to ask him for anything, but that he supplied me with such a profusion of good things that i could scarce wear them, or use them, unless i kept a great equipage, which, he knew, was no way convenient for him or for me. he smiled, and took me in his arms, and told me he was resolved, while i was his, i should never be able to ask him for anything, but that he would be daily asking new favours of me. after we were up (for this conference was in bed), he desired i would dress me in the best suit of clothes i had. it was a day or two after the three suits were made and brought home. i told him, if he pleased, i would rather dress me in that suit which i knew he liked best. he asked me how i could know which he would like best before he had seen them. i told him i would presume for once to guess at his fancy by my own; so i went away and dressed me in the second suit, brocaded with silver, and returned in full dress, with a suit of lace upon my head, which would have been worth in england two hundred pounds sterling; and i was every way set out as well as amy could dress me, who was a very genteel dresser too. in this figure i came to him, out of my dressing-room, which opened with folding-doors into his bedchamber. he sat as one astonished a good while, looking at me, without speaking a word, till i came quite up to him, kneeled on one knee to him, and almost, whether he would or no, kissed his hand. he took me up, and stood up himself, but was surprised when, taking me in his arms, he perceived tears to run down my cheeks. "my dear," says he aloud, "what mean these tears?" "my lord," said i, after some little check, for i could not speak presently, "i beseech you to believe me, they are not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy. it is impossible for me to see myself snatched from the misery i was fallen into, and at once to be in the arms of a prince of such goodness, such immense bounty, and be treated in such a manner; it is not possible, my lord," said i, "to contain the satisfaction of it; and it will break out in an excess in some measure proportioned to your immense bounty, and to the affection which your highness treats me with, who am so infinitely below you." it would look a little too much like a romance here to repeat all the kind things he said to me on that occasion, but i can't omit one passage. as he saw the tears drop down my cheek, he pulls out a fine cambric handkerchief, and was going to wipe the tears off, but checked his hand, as if he was afraid to deface something; i say, he checked his hand, and tossed the handkerchief to me to do it myself. i took the hint immediately, and with a kind of pleasant disdain, "how, my lord," said i, "have you kissed me so often, and don't you know whether i am painted or not? pray let your highness satisfy yourself that you have no cheats put upon you; for once let me be vain enough to say i have not deceived you with false colours." with this i put a handkerchief into his hand, and taking his hand into mine, i made him wipe my face so hard that he was unwilling to do it, for fear of hurting me. he appeared surprised more than ever, and swore, which was the first time that i had heard him swear from my first knowing him, that he could not have believed there was any such skin without paint in the world. "well, my lord," said i, "your highness shall have a further demonstration than this, as to that which you are pleased to accept for beauty, that it is the mere work of nature;" and with that i stepped to the door and rung a little bell for my woman amy, and bade her bring me a cup full of hot water, which she did; and when it was come, i desired his highness to feel if it was warm, which he did, and i immediately washed my face all over with it before him. this was, indeed, more than satisfaction, that is to say, than believing, for it was an undeniable demonstration, and he kissed my cheeks and breasts a thousand times, with expressions of the greatest surprise imaginable. nor was i a very indifferent figure as to shape; though i had had two children by my gentleman, and six by my true husband, i say i was no despisable shape; and my prince (i must be allowed the vanity to call him so) was taking his view of me as i walked from one end of the room to the other. at last he leads me to the darkest part of the room, and standing behind me, bade me hold up my head, when, putting both his hands round my neck, as if he was spanning my neck to see how small it was, for it was long and small, he held my neck so long and so hard in his hand that i complained he hurt me a little. what he did it for i knew not, nor had i the least suspicion but that he was spanning my neck; but when i said he hurt me, he seemed to let go, and in half a minute more led me to a pier-glass, and behold i saw my neck clasped with a fine necklace of diamonds; whereas i felt no more what he was doing than if he had really done nothing at all, nor did i suspect it in the least. if i had an ounce of blood in me that did not fly up into my face, neck, and breasts, it must be from some interruption in the vessels. i was all on fire with the sight, and began to wonder what it was that was coming to me. however, to let him see that i was not unqualified to receive benefits, i turned about: "my lord," says i, "your highness is resolved to conquer, by your bounty, the very gratitude of your servants; you will leave no room for anything but thanks, and make those thanks useless too, by their bearing no proportion to the occasion." "i love, child," says he, "to see everything suitable. a fine gown and petticoat, a fine laced head, a fine face and neck, and no necklace, would not have made the object perfect. but why that blush, my dear?" says the prince. "my lord," said i, "all your gifts call for blushes, but, above all, i blush to receive what i am so ill able to merit, and may become so ill also." thus far i am a standing mark of the weakness of great men in their vice, that value not squandering away immense wealth upon the most worthless creatures; or, to sum it up in a word, they raise the value of the object which they pretend to pitch upon by their fancy; i say, raise the value of it at their own expense; give vast presents for a ruinous favour, which is so far from being equal to the price that nothing will at last prove more absurd than the cost men are at to purchase their own destruction. i could not, in the height of all this fine doings--i say, i could not be without some just reflection, though conscience was, as i said, dumb, as to any disturbance it gave me in my wickedness. my vanity was fed up to such a height that i had no room to give way to such reflections. but i could not but sometimes look back with astonishment at the folly of men of quality, who, immense in their bounty as in their wealth, give to a profusion and without bounds to the most scandalous of our sex, for granting them the liberty of abusing themselves and ruining both. i, that knew what this carcase of mine had been but a few years before; how overwhelmed with grief, drowned in tears, frightened with the prospect of beggary, and surrounded with rags and fatherless children; that was pawning and selling the rags that covered me for a dinner, and sat on the ground despairing of help and expecting to be starved, till my children were snatched from me to be kept by the parish; i, that was after this a whore for bread, and, abandoning conscience and virtue, lived with another woman's husband; i, that was despised by all my relations, and my husband's too; i, that was left so entirely desolate, friendless, and helpless that i knew not how to get the least help to keep me from starving,--that i should be caressed by a prince, for the honour of having the scandalous use of my prostituted body, common before to his inferiors, and perhaps would not have denied one of his footmen but a little while before, if i could have got my bread by it. i say, i could not but reflect upon the brutality and blindness of mankind; that because nature had given me a good skin and some agreeable features, should suffer that beauty to be such a bait to appetite as to do such sordid, unaccountable things to obtain the possession of it. it is for this reason that i have so largely set down the particulars of the caresses i was treated with by the jeweller, and also by this prince; not to make the story an incentive to the vice, which i am now such a sorrowful penitent for being guilty of (god forbid any should make so vile a use of so good a design), but to draw the just picture of a man enslaved to the rage of his vicious appetite; how he defaces the image of god in his soul, dethrones his reason, causes conscience to abdicate the possession, and exalts sense into the vacant throne; how he deposes the man and exalts the brute. oh! could we hear the reproaches this great man afterwards loaded himself with when he grew weary of this admired creature, and became sick of his vice, how profitable would the report of them be to the reader of this story! but had he himself also known the dirty history of my actings upon the stage of life that little time i had been in the world, how much more severe would those reproaches have been upon himself! but i shall come to this again. i lived in this gay sort of retirement almost three years, in which time no amour of such a kind, sure, was ever carried up so high. the prince knew no bounds to his munificence; he could give me nothing, either for my wearing, or using, or eating, or drinking, more than he had done from the beginning. his presents were after that in gold, and very frequent and large, often a hundred pistoles, never less than fifty at a time; and i must do myself the justice that i seemed rather backward to receive than craving and encroaching. not that i had not an avaricious temper, nor was it that i did not foresee that this was my harvest, in which i was to gather up, and that it would not last long; but it was that really his bounty always anticipated my expectations, and even my wishes; and he gave me money so fast that he rather poured it in upon me than left me room to ask it; so that, before i could spend fifty pistoles, i had always a hundred to make it up. after i had been near a year and a half in his arms as above, or thereabouts, i proved with child. i did not take any notice of it to him till i was satisfied that i was not deceived; when one morning early, when we were in bed together, i said to him, "my lord, i doubt your highness never gives yourself leave to think what the case should be if i should have the honour to be with child by you." "why, my dear," says he, "we are able to keep it if such a thing should happen; i hope you are not concerned about that." "no, my lord," said i; "i should think myself very happy if i could bring your highness a son; i should hope to see him a lieutenant-general of the king's armies by the interest of his father, and by his own merit." "assure yourself, child," says he, "if it should be so, i will not refuse owning him for my son, though it be, as they call it, a natural son; and shall never slight or neglect him, for the sake of his mother." then he began to importune me to know if it was so, but i positively denied it so long, till at last i was able to give him the satisfaction of knowing it himself by the motion of the child within me. he professed himself overjoyed at the discovery, but told me that now it was absolutely necessary for me to quit the confinement which, he said, i had suffered for his sake, and to take a house somewhere in the country, in order for health as well as for privacy, against my lying-in. this was quite out of my way; but the prince, who was a man of pleasure, had, it seems, several retreats of this kind, which he had made use of, i suppose, upon like occasions. and so, leaving it, as it were, to his gentleman, he provided a very convenient house, about four miles south of paris, at the village of ----, where i had very agreeable lodgings, good gardens, and all things very easy to my content. but one thing did not please me at all, viz., that an old woman was provided, and put into the house to furnish everything necessary to my lying-in, and to assist at my travail. i did not like this old woman at all; she looked so like a spy upon me, or (as sometimes i was frighted to imagine) like one set privately to despatch me out of the world, as might best suit with the circumstance of my lying-in. and when his highness came the next time to see me, which was not many days, i expostulated a little on the subject of the old woman; and by the management of my tongue, as well as by the strength of reasoning, i convinced him that it would not be at all convenient; that it would be the greater risk on his side; and at first or last it would certainly expose him and me also. i assured him that my servant, being an englishwoman, never knew to that hour who his highness was; that i always called him the count de clerac, and that she knew nothing else of him, nor ever should; that if he would give me leave to choose proper persons for my use, it should be so ordered that not one of them should know who he was, or perhaps ever see his face; and that, for the reality of the child that should be born, his highness, who had alone been at the first of it, should, if he pleased, be present in the room all the time, so that he would need no witnesses on that account. this discourse fully satisfied him, so that he ordered his gentleman to dismiss the old woman the same day; and without any difficulty i sent my maid amy to calais, and thence to dover, where she got an english midwife and an english nurse to come over on purpose to attend an english lady of quality, as they styled me, for four months certain. the midwife, amy had agreed to pay a hundred guineas to, and bear her charges to paris, and back again to dover. the poor woman that was to be my nurse had twenty pounds, and the same terms for charges as the other. i was very easy when amy returned, and the more because she brought with the midwife a good motherly sort of woman, who was to be her assistant, and would be very helpful on occasion; and bespoke a man midwife at paris too, if there should be any necessity for his help. having thus made provision for everything, the count, for so we all called him in public, came as often to see me as i could expect, and continued exceeding kind, as he had always been. one day, conversing together upon the subject of my being with child, i told him how all things were in order, but that i had a strange apprehension that i should die with that child. he smiled. "so all the ladies say, my dear," says he, "when they are with child." "well, however, my lord," said i, "it is but just that care should be taken that what you have bestowed in your excess of bounty upon me should not be lost;" and upon this i pulled a paper out of my bosom, folded up, but not sealed, and i read it to him, wherein i had left order that all the plate and jewels and fine furniture which his highness had given me should be restored to him by my women, and the keys be immediately delivered to his gentleman in case of disaster. then i recommended my woman, amy, to his favour for a hundred pistoles, on condition she gave the keys up as above to his gentleman, and his gentleman's receipt for them. when he saw this, "my dear child," said he, and took me in his arms, "what! have you been making your will and disposing of your effects? pray, who do you make your universal heir?" "so far as to do justice to your highness, in case of mortality, i have, my lord," said i, "and who should i dispose the valuable things to, which i have had from your hand as pledges of your favour and testimonies of your bounty, but to the giver of them? if the child should live, your highness will, i don't question, act like yourself in that part, and i shall have the utmost satisfaction that it will be well used by your direction." i could see he took this very well. "i have forsaken all the ladies in paris," says he, "for you, and i have lived every day since i knew you to see that you know how to merit all that a man of honour can do for you. be easy, child; i hope you shall not die, and all you have is your own, to do what with it you please." i was then within about two months of my time, and that soon wore off. when i found my time was come, it fell out very happily that he was in the house, and i entreated he would continue a few hours in the house, which he agreed to. they called his highness to come into the room, if he pleased, as i had offered and as i desired him; and i sent word i would make as few cries as possible to prevent disturbing him. he came into the room once, and called to me to be of good courage, it would soon be over, and then he withdrew again; and in about half-an-hour more amy carried him the news that i was delivered, and had brought him a charming boy. he gave her ten pistoles for her news, stayed till they had adjusted things about me, and then came into the room again, cheered me and spoke kindly to me, and looked on the child, then withdrew, and came again the next day to visit me. since this, and when i have looked back upon these things with eyes unpossessed with crime, when the wicked part has appeared in its clearer light and i have seen it in its own natural colours, when no more blinded with the glittering appearances which at that time deluded me, and as in like cases, if i may guess at others by myself, too much possessed the mind; i say, since this i have often wondered with what pleasure or satisfaction the prince could look upon the poor innocent infant, which, though his own, and that he might that way have some attachment in his affections to it, yet must always afterwards be a remembrancer to him of his most early crime, and, which was worse, must bear upon itself, unmerited, an eternal mark of infamy, which should be spoken of, upon all occasions, to its reproach, from the folly of its father and wickedness of its mother. great men are indeed delivered from the burthen of their natural children, or bastards, as to their maintenance. this is the main affliction in other cases, where there is not substance sufficient without breaking into the fortunes of the family. in those cases either a man's legitimate children suffer, which is very unnatural, or the unfortunate mother of that illegitimate birth has a dreadful affliction, either of being turned off with her child, and be left to starve, &c., or of seeing the poor infant packed off with a piece of money to those she-butchers who take children off their hands, as 'tis called, that is to say, starve them, and, in a word, murder them. great men, i say, are delivered from this burthen, because they are always furnished to supply the expense of their out-of-the-way offspring, by making little assignments upon the bank of lyons or the townhouse of paris, and settling those sums, to be received for the maintenance of such expense as they see cause. thus, in the case of this child of mine, while he and i conversed, there was no need to make any appointment as an appanage or maintenance for the child or its nurse, for he supplied me more than sufficiently for all those things; but afterwards, when time, and a particular circumstance, put an end to our conversing together (as such things always meet with a period, and generally break off abruptly), i say, after that, i found he appointed the children a settled allowance, by an assignment of annual rent upon the bank of lyons, which was sufficient for bringing them handsomely, though privately, up in the world, and that not in a manner unworthy of their father's blood, though i came to be sunk and forgotten in the case; nor did the children ever know anything of their mother to this day, other than as you may have an account hereafter. but to look back to the particular observation i was making, which i hope may be of use to those who read my story, i say it was something wonderful to me to see this person so exceedingly delighted at the birth of this child, and so pleased with it; for he would sit and look at it, and with an air of seriousness sometimes a great while together, and particularly, i observed, he loved to look at it when it was asleep. it was indeed a lovely, charming child, and had a certain vivacity in its countenance that is far from being common to all children so young; and he would often say to me that he believed there was something extraordinary in the child, and he did not doubt but he would come to be a great man. i could never hear him say so, but though secretly it pleased me, yet it so closely touched me another way that i could not refrain sighing, and sometimes tears; and one time in particular it so affected me that i could not conceal it from him; but when he saw tears run down my face, there was no concealing the occasion from him; he was too importunate to be denied in a thing of that moment; so i frankly answered, "it sensibly affects me, my lord," said i, "that, whatever the merit of this little creature may be, he must always have a bend on his arms. the disaster of his birth will be always, not a blot only to his honour, but a bar to his fortunes in the world. our affection will be ever his affliction, and his mother's crime be the son's reproach. the blot can never be wiped out by the most glorious action; nay, if it lives to raise a family," said i, "the infamy must descend even to its innocent posterity." he took the thought, and sometimes told me afterwards that it made a deeper impression on him than he discovered to me at that time; but for the present he put it off with telling me these things could not be helped; that they served for a spur to the spirits of brave men, inspired them with the principles of gallantry, and prompted them to brave actions; that though it might be true that the mention of illegitimacy might attend the name, yet that personal virtue placed a man of honour above the reproach of his birth; that, as he had no share in the offence, he would have no concern at the blot; when, having by his own merit placed himself out of the reach of scandal, his fame should drown the memory of his beginning; that as it was usual for men of quality to make such little escapes, so the number of their natural children were so great, and they generally took such good care of their education, that some of the greatest men in the world had a bend in their coats-of-arms, and that it was of no consequence to them, especially when their fame began to rise upon the basis of their acquired merit; and upon this he began to reckon up to me some of the greatest families in france and in england also. this carried off our discourse for a time; but i went farther with him once, removing the discourse from the part attending our children to the reproach which those children would be apt to throw upon us, their originals; and when speaking a little too feelingly on the subject, he began to receive the impression a little deeper than i wished he had done. at last he told me i had almost acted the confessor to him; that i might, perhaps, preach a more dangerous doctrine to him than we should either of us like, or than i was aware of. "for, my dear," says he, "if once we come to talk of repentance we must talk of parting." if tears were in my eyes before, they flowed too fast now to be restrained, and i gave him but too much satisfaction by my looks that i had yet no reflections upon my mind strong enough to go that length, and that i could no more think of parting than he could. he said a great many kind things, which were great, like himself, and, extenuating our crime, intimated to me that he could no more part with me than i could with him; so we both, as i may say, even against our light and against our conviction, concluded to sin on; indeed, his affection to the child was one great tie to him, for he was extremely fond of it. the child lived to be a considerable man. he was first an officer of the _garde du corps_ of france, and afterwards colonel of a regiment of dragoons in italy, and on many extraordinary occasions showed that he was not unworthy such a father, but many ways deserving a legitimate birth and a better mother; of which hereafter. i think i may say now that i lived indeed like a queen; or, if you will have me confess that my condition had still the reproach of a whore, i may say i was, sure, the queen of whores; for no woman was ever more valued or more caressed by a person of such quality only in the station of a mistress. i had, indeed, one deficiency which women in such circumstances seldom are chargeable with, namely, i craved nothing of him, i never asked him for anything in my life, nor suffered myself to be made use of, as is too much the custom of mistresses, to ask favours for others. his bounty always prevented me in the first, and my strict concealing myself in the last, which was no less to my convenience than his. the only favour i ever asked of him was for his gentleman, who he had all along entrusted with the secret of our affair, and who had once so much offended him by some omissions in his duty that he found it very hard to make his peace. he came and laid his case before my woman amy, and begged her to speak to me to intercede for him, which i did, and on my account he was received again and pardoned, for which the grateful dog requited me by getting to bed to his benefactress, amy, at which i was very angry. but amy generously acknowledged that it was her fault as much as his; that she loved the fellow so much that she believed if he had not asked her she should have asked him. i say, this pacified me, and i only obtained of her that she should not let him know that i knew it. i might have interspersed this part of my story with a great many pleasant parts and discourses which happened between my maid amy and i, but i omit them on account of my own story, which has been so extraordinary. however, i must mention something as to amy and her gentleman. i inquired of amy upon what terms they came to be so intimate, but amy seemed backward to explain herself. i did not care to press her upon a question of that nature, knowing that she might have answered my question with a question, and have said, "why, how did i and the prince come to be so intimate?" so i left off farther inquiring into it, till, after some time, she told it me all freely of her own accord, which, to cut it short, amounted to no more than this, that, like mistress like maid, as they had many leisure hours together below, while they waited respectively when his lord and i were together above; i say, they could hardly avoid the usual question one to another, namely, why might not they do the same thing below that we did above? on that account, indeed, as i said above, i could not find in my heart to be angry with amy. i was, indeed, afraid the girl would have been with child too, but that did not happen, and so there was no hurt done; for amy had been hanselled before, as well as her mistress, and by the same party too, as you have heard. after i was up again, and my child provided with a good nurse, and, withal, winter coming on, it was proper to think of coming to paris again, which i did; but as i had now a coach and horses, and some servants to attend me, by my lord's allowance, i took the liberty to have them come to paris sometimes, and so to take a tour into the garden of the tuileries and the other pleasant places of the city. it happened one day that my prince (if i may call him so) had a mind to give me some diversion, and to take the air with me; but, that he might do it and not be publicly known, he comes to me in a coach of the count de ----, a great officer of the court, attended by his liveries also; so that, in a word, it was impossible to guess by the equipage who i was or who i belonged to; also, that i might be the more effectually concealed, he ordered me to be taken up at a mantua-maker's house, where he sometimes came, whether upon other amours or not was no business of mine to inquire. i knew nothing whither he intended to carry me; but when he was in the coach with me, he told me he had ordered his servants to go to court with me, and he would show me some of the _beau monde_. i told him i cared not where i went while i had the honour to have him with me. so he carried me to the fine palace of meudon, where the dauphin then was, and where he had some particular intimacy with one of the dauphin's domestics, who procured a retreat for me in his lodgings while we stayed there, which was three or four days. while i was there the king happened to come thither from versailles, and making but a short stay, visited madame the dauphiness, who was then living. the prince was here incognito, only because of his being with me, and therefore, when he heard that the king was in the gardens, he kept close within the lodgings; but the gentleman in whose lodgings we were, with his lady and several others, went out to see the king, and i had the honour to be asked to go with them. after we had seen the king, who did not stay long in the gardens, we walked up the broad terrace, and crossing the hall towards the great staircase, i had a sight which confounded me at once, as i doubt not it would have done to any woman in the world. the horse guards, or what they call there the _gens d'armes_, had, upon some occasion, been either upon duty or been reviewed, or something (i did not understand that part) was the matter that occasioned their being there, i know not what; but, walking in the guard-chamber, and with his jack-boots on, and the whole habit of the troop, as it is worn when our horse guards are upon duty, as they call it, at st. james's park; i say, there, to my inexpressible confusion, i saw mr. ----, my first husband, the brewer. i could not be deceived; i passed so near him that i almost brushed him with my clothes, and looked him full in the face, but having my fan before my face, so that he could not know me. however, i knew him perfectly well, and i heard him speak, which was a second way of knowing him. besides being, you may be sure, astonished and surprised at such a sight, i turned about after i had passed him some steps, and pretending to ask the lady that was with me some questions, i stood as if i had viewed the great hall, the outer guard-chamber, and some things; but i did it to take a full view of his dress, that i might farther inform myself. while i stood thus amusing the lady that was with me with questions, he walked, talking with another man of the same cloth, back again, just by me; and to my particular satisfaction, or dissatisfaction--take it which way you will--i heard him speak english, the other being, it seems, an englishman. i then asked the lady some other questions. "pray, madam," says i, "what are these troopers here? are they the king's guards?" "no," says she; "they are the _gens d'armes_; a small detachment of them, i suppose, attended the king to-day, but they are not his majesty's ordinary guard." another lady that was with her said, "no, madam, it seems that is not the case, for i heard them saying the _gens d'armes_ were here to-day by special order, some of them being to march towards the rhine, and these attend for orders; but they go back to-morrow to orleans, where they are expected." this satisfied me in part, but i found means after this to inquire whose particular troop it was that the gentlemen that were here belonged to; and with that i heard they would all be at paris the week after. two days after this we returned for paris, when i took occasion to speak to my lord, that i heard the _gens d'armes_ were to be in the city the next week, and that i should be charmed with seeing them march if they came in a body. he was so obliging in such things that i need but just name a thing of that kind and it was done; so he ordered his gentleman (i should now call him amy's gentleman) to get me a place in a certain house, where i might see them march. as he did not appear with me on this occasion, so i had the liberty of taking my woman amy with me, and stood where we were very well accommodated for the observation which i was to make. i told amy what i had seen, and she was as forward to make the discovery as i was to have her, and almost as much surprised at the thing itself. in a word, the _gens d'armes_ entered the city, as was expected, and made a most glorious show indeed, being new clothed and armed, and being to have their standards blessed by the archbishop of paris. on this occasion they indeed looked very gay; and as they marched very leisurely, i had time to take as critical a view and make as nice a search among them as i pleased. here, in a particular rank, eminent for one monstrous-sized man on the right; here, i say, i saw my gentleman again, and a very handsome, jolly fellow he was, as any in the troop, though not so monstrous large as that great one i speak of, who, it seems, was, however, a gentleman of a good family in gascony, and was called the giant of gascony. it was a kind of a good fortune to us, among the other circumstances of it, that something caused the troops to halt in their march a little before that particular rank came right against that window which i stood in, so that then we had occasion to take our full view of him at a small distance, and so as not to doubt of his being the same person. amy, who thought she might, on many accounts, venture with more safety to be particular than i could, asked her gentleman how a particular man, who she saw there among the _gens d'armes_, might be inquired after and found out; she having seen an englishman riding there which was supposed to be dead in england for several years before she came out of london and that his wife had married again. it was a question the gentleman did not well understand how to answer; but another person that stood by told her, if she would tell him the gentleman's name, he would endeavour to find him out for her, and asked jestingly if he was her lover. amy put that off with a laugh, but still continued her inquiry, and in such a manner as the gentleman easily perceived she was in earnest; so he left bantering, and asked her in what part of the troop he rode. she foolishly told him his name, which she should not have done; and pointing to the cornet that troop carried, which was not then quite out of sight, she let him easily know whereabouts he rode, only she could not name the captain. however, he gave her such directions afterwards that, in short, amy, who was an indefatigable girl, found him out. it seems he had not changed his name, not supposing any inquiry would be made after him here; but, i say, amy found him out, and went boldly to his quarters, asked for him, and he came out to her immediately. i believe i was not more confounded at my first seeing him at meudon than he was at seeing amy. he started and turned pale as death. amy believed if he had seen her at first, in any convenient place for so villainous a purpose, he would have murdered her. but he started, as i say above, and asked in english, with an admiration, "what are you?" "sir," says she, "don't you know me?" "yes," says he, "i knew you when you were alive; but what are you now?--whether ghost or substance i know not." "be not afraid, sir, of that," says amy; "i am the same amy that i was in your service, and do not speak to you now for any hurt, but that i saw you accidentally yesterday ride among the soldiers; i thought you might be glad to hear from your friends at london." "well, amy," says he then (having a little recovered himself), "how does everybody do? what! is your mistress here?" thus they begun:-- _amy._ my mistress, sir, alas! not the mistress you mean; poor gentlewoman, you left her in a sad condition. _gent._ why, that's true, amy; but it could not be helped; i was in a sad condition myself. _amy._ i believe so, indeed, sir, or else you had not gone away as you did; for it was a very terrible condition you left them all in, that i must say. _gent._ what did they do after i was gone? _amy._ do, sir! very miserably, you may be sure. how could it be otherwise? _gent._ well, that's true indeed; but you may tell me, amy, what became of them, if you please; for though i went so away, it was not because i did not love them all very well, but because i could not bear to see the poverty that was coming upon them, and which it was not in my power to help. what could i do? _amy._ nay, i believe so indeed; and i have heard my mistress say many times she did not doubt but your affliction was as great as hers, almost, wherever you were. _gent._ why, did she believe i was alive, then? _amy._ yes, sir; she always said she believed you were alive, because she thought she should have heard something of you if you had been dead. _gent._ ay, ay; my perplexity was very great indeed, or else i had never gone away. _amy._ it was very cruel, though, to the poor lady, sir, my mistress; she almost broke her heart for you at first, for fear of what might befall you, and at last because she could not hear from you. _gent._ alas, amy! what could i do? things were driven to the last extremity before i went. i could have done nothing but help starve them all if i had stayed; and, besides, i could not bear to see it. _amy._ you know, sir, i can say little to what passed before, but i am a melancholy witness to the sad distresses of my poor mistress as long as i stayed with her, and which would grieve your heart to hear them. [here she tells my whole story to the time that the parish took off one of my children, and which she perceived very much affected him; and he shook his head, and said some things very bitter when he heard of the cruelty of his own relations to me.] _gent._ well, amy, i have heard enough so far. what did she do afterwards? _amy._ i can't give you any farther account, sir; my mistress would not let me stay with her any longer. she said she could neither pay me or subsist me. i told her i would serve her without any wages, but i could not live without victuals, you know; so i was forced to leave her, poor lady, sore against my will; and i heard afterwards that the landlord seized her goods, so she was, i suppose, turned out of doors; for as i went by the door, about a month after, i saw the house shut up; and, about a fortnight after that, i found there were workmen at work, fitting it up, as i suppose, for a new tenant. but none of the neighbours could tell me what was become of my poor mistress, only that they said she was so poor that it was next to begging; that some of the neighbouring gentlefolks had relieved her, or that else she must have starved. then she went on, and told him that after that they never heard any more of (me) her mistress, but that she had been seen once or twice in the city very shabby and poor in clothes, and it was thought she worked with her needle for her bread. all this the jade said with so much cunning, and managed and humoured it so well, and wiped her eyes and cried so artificially, that he took it all as it was intended he should, and once or twice she saw tears in his eyes too. he told her it was a moving, melancholy story, and it had almost broke his heart at first, but that he was driven to the last extremity, and could do nothing but stay and see them all starve, which he could not bear the thoughts of, but should have pistolled himself if any such thing had happened while he was there; that he left (me) his wife all the money he had in the world but £ , which was as little as he could take with him to seek his fortune in the world. he could not doubt but that his relations, seeing they were all rich, would have taken the poor children off, and not let them come to the parish; and that his wife was young and handsome, and, he thought, might marry again, perhaps, to her advantage, and for that very reason he never wrote to her or let her know he was alive, that she might in a reasonable term of years marry, and perhaps mend her fortunes; that he resolved never to claim her, because he should rejoice to hear that she had settled to her mind; and that he wished there had been a law made to empower a woman to marry if her husband was not heard of in so long a time, which time, he thought, should not be above four years, which was long enough to send word in to a wife or family from any part of the world. amy said she could say nothing to that but this, that she was satisfied her mistress would marry nobody unless she had certain intelligence that he had been dead from somebody that saw him buried. "but, alas!" says amy, "my mistress was reduced to such dismal circumstances that nobody would be so foolish to think of her, unless it had been somebody to go a-begging with her." amy then, seeing him so perfectly deluded, made a long and lamentable outcry how she had been deluded away to marry a poor footman. "for he is no worse or better," says she, "though he calls himself a lord's gentleman. and here," says amy, "he has dragged me over into a strange country to make a beggar of me;" and then she falls a-howling again, and snivelling, which, by the way, was all hypocrisy, but acted so to the life as perfectly deceived him, and he gave entire credit to every word of it. "why, amy," says he, "you are very well dressed; you don't look as if you were in danger of being a beggar." "ay, hang 'em!" says amy, "they love to have fine clothes here, if they have never a smock under them. but i love to have money in cash, rather than a chestful of fine clothes. besides, sir," says she, "most of the clothes i have were given me in the last place i had, when i went away from my mistress." upon the whole of the discourse, amy got out of him what condition he was in and how he lived, upon her promise to him that if ever she came to england, and should see her old mistress, she should not let her know that he was alive. "alas, sir!" says amy, "i may never come to see england again as long as i live; and if i should, it would be ten thousand to one whether i shall see my old mistress, for how should i know which way to look for her, or what part of england she may be in?--not i," says she. "i don't so much as know how to inquire for her; and if i should," says amy, "ever be so happy as to see her, i would not do her so much mischief as to tell her where you were, sir, unless she was in a condition to help herself and you too." this farther deluded him, and made him entirely open in his conversing with her. as to his own circumstances, he told her she saw him in the highest preferment he had arrived to, or was ever like to arrive to; for, having no friends or acquaintance in france, and, which was worse, no money, he never expected to rise; that he could have been made a lieutenant to a troop of light horse but the week before, by the favour of an officer in the _gens d'armes_ who was his friend, but that he must have found eight thousand livres to have paid for it to the gentleman who possessed it, and had leave given him to sell. "but where could i get eight thousand livres," says he, "that have never been master of five hundred livres ready money at a time since i came into france?" "oh dear, sir!" says amy, "i am very sorry to hear you say so. i fancy if you once got up to some preferment, you would think of my old mistress again, and do something for her. poor lady," says amy, "she wants it, to be sure;" and then she falls a-crying again. "it is a sad thing indeed," says she, "that you should be so hard put to it for money, when you had got a friend to recommend you, and should lose it for want of money." "ay, so it was, amy, indeed," says he; "but what can a stranger do that has neither money or friends?" here amy puts in again on my account. "well," says she, "my poor mistress has had the loss, though she knows nothing of it. oh dear! how happy it would have been! to be sure, sir, you would have helped her all you could." "ay," says he, "amy, so i would with all my heart; and even as i am, i would send her some relief, if i thought she wanted it, only that then letting her know i was alive might do her some prejudice, in case of her settling, or marrying anybody." "alas," says amy, "marry! who will marry her in the poor condition she is in?" and so their discourse ended for that time. all this was mere talk on both sides, and words of course; for on farther inquiry, amy found that he had no such offer of a lieutenant's commission, or anything like it; and that he rambled in his discourse from one thing to another; but of that in its place. you may be sure that this discourse, as amy at first related it, was moving to the last degree upon me, and i was once going to have sent him the eight thousand livres to purchase the commission he had spoken of; but as i knew his character better than anybody, i was willing to search a little farther into it, and so i set amy to inquire of some other of the troop, to see what character he had, and whether there was anything in the story of a lieutenant's commission or no. but amy soon came to a better understanding of him, for she presently learnt that he had a most scoundrel character; that there was nothing of weight in anything he said; but that he was, in short, a mere sharper, one that would stick at nothing to get money, and that there was no depending on anything he said; and that more especially about the lieutenant's commission, she understood that there was nothing at all in it, but they told her how he had often made use of that sham to borrow money, and move gentlemen to pity him and lend him money, in hopes to get him preferment; that he had reported that he had a wife and five children in england, who he maintained out of his pay, and by these shifts had run into debt in several places; and upon several complaints for such things, he had been threatened to be turned out of the _gens d'armes_; and that, in short, he was not to be believed in anything he said, or trusted on any account. upon this information, amy began to cool in her farther meddling with him, and told me it was not safe for me to attempt doing him any good, unless i resolved to put him upon suspicions and inquiries which might be to my ruin, in the condition i was now in. i was soon confirmed in this part of his character, for the next time that amy came to talk with him, he discovered himself more effectually; for, while she had put him in hopes of procuring one to advance the money for the lieutenant's commission for him upon easy conditions, he by degrees dropped the discourse, then pretended it was too late, and that he could not get it, and then descended to ask poor amy to lend him five hundred pistoles. amy pretended poverty, that her circumstances were but mean, and that she could not raise such a sum; and this she did to try him to the utmost. he descended to three hundred, then to one hundred, then to fifty, and then to a pistole, which she lent him, and he, never intending to pay it, played out of her sight as much as he could. and thus being satisfied that he was the same worthless thing he had ever been, i threw off all thoughts of him; whereas, had he been a man of any sense and of any principle of honour, i had it in my thoughts to retire to england again, send for him over, and have lived honestly with him. but as a fool is the worst of husbands to do a woman good, so a fool is the worst husband a woman can do good to. i would willingly have done him good, but he was not qualified to receive it or make the best use of it. had i sent him ten thousand crowns instead of eight thousand livres, and sent it with express condition that he should immediately have bought himself the commission he talked of with part of the money, and have sent some of it to relieve the necessities of his poor miserable wife at london, and to prevent his children to be kept by the parish, it was evident he would have been still but a private trooper, and his wife and children should still have starved at london, or been kept of mere charity, as, for aught he knew, they then were. seeing, therefore, no remedy, i was obliged to withdraw my hand from him, that had been my first destroyer, and reserve the assistance that i intended to have given him for another more desirable opportunity. all that i had now to do was to keep myself out of his sight, which was not very difficult for me to do, considering in what station he lived. amy and i had several consultations then upon the main question, namely, how to be sure never to chop upon him again by chance, and to be surprised into a discovery, which would have been a fatal discovery indeed. amy proposed that we should always take care to know where the _gens d'armes_ were quartered, and thereby effectually avoid them; and this was one way. but this was not so as to be fully to my satisfaction; no ordinary way of inquiring where the _gens d'armes_ were quartered was sufficient to me; but i found out a fellow who was completely qualified for the work of a spy (for france has plenty of such people). this man i employed to be a constant and particular attendant upon his person and motions; and he was especially employed and ordered to haunt him as a ghost, that he should scarce let him be ever out of his sight. he performed this to a nicety, and failed not to give me a perfect journal of all his motions from day to day, and, whether for his pleasure or his business, was always at his heels. this was somewhat expensive, and such a fellow merited to be well paid, but he did his business so exquisitely punctual that this poor man scarce went out of the house without my knowing the way he went, the company he kept, when he went abroad, and when he stayed at home. by this extraordinary conduct i made myself safe, and so went out in public or stayed at home as i found he was or was not in a possibility of being at paris, at versailles, or any place i had occasion to be at. this, though it was very chargeable, yet as i found it absolutely necessary, so i took no thought about the expense of it, for i knew i could not purchase my safety too dear. by this management i found an opportunity to see what a most insignificant, unthinking life the poor, indolent wretch, who, by his unactive temper, had at first been my ruin, now lived; how he only rose in the morning to go to bed at night; that, saving the necessary motion of the troops, which he was obliged to attend, he was a mere motionless animal, of no consequence in the world; that he seemed to be one who, though he was indeed alive, had no manner of business in life but to stay to be called out of it. he neither kept any company, minded any sport, played at any game, or indeed did anything of moment; but, in short, sauntered about like one that it was not two livres value whether he was dead or alive; that when he was gone, would leave no remembrance behind him that ever he was here; that if ever he did anything in the world to be talked of, it was only to get five beggars and starve his wife. the journal of his life, which i had constantly sent me every week, was the least significant of anything of its kind that was ever seen, as it had really nothing of earnest in it, so it would make no jest to relate it. it was not important enough so much as to make the reader merry withal, and for that reason i omit it. yet this nothing-doing wretch was i obliged to watch and guard against, as against the only thing that was capable of doing me hurt in the world. i was to shun him as we would shun a spectre, or even the devil, if he was actually in our way; and it cost me after the rate of a hundred and fifty livres a month, and very cheap too, to have this creature constantly kept in view. that is to say, my spy undertook never to let him be out of his sight an hour, but so as that he could give an account of him, which was much the easier for to be done considering his way of living; for he was sure that, for whole weeks together, he would be ten hours of the day half asleep on a bench at the tavern-door where he quartered, or drunk within the house. though this wicked life he led sometimes moved me to pity him, and to wonder how so well-bred, gentlemanly a man as he once was could degenerate into such a useless thing as he now appeared, yet at the same time it gave me most contemptible thoughts of him, and made me often say i was a warning for all the ladies of europe against marrying of fools. a man of sense falls in the world and gets up again, and a woman has some chance for herself; but with a fool, once fall, and ever undone; once in the ditch, and die in the ditch; once poor, and sure to starve. but it is time to have done with him. once i had nothing to hope for but to see him again; now my only felicity was, if possible, never to see him, and, above all, to keep him from seeing me, which, as above, i took effectual care of. i was now returned to paris. my little son of honour, as i called him, was left at ----, where my last country-seat then was, and i came to paris at the prince's request. thither he came to me as soon as i arrived, and told me he came to give me joy of my return, and to make his acknowledgments for that i had given him a son. i thought, indeed, he had been going to give me a present, and so he did the next day, but in what he said then he only jested with me. he gave me his company all the evening, supped with me about midnight, and did me the honour, as i then called it, to lodge me in his arms all the night, telling me, in jest, that the best thanks for a son born was giving the pledge for another. but as i hinted, so it was; the next morning he laid me down on my toilet a purse with three hundred pistoles. i saw him lay it down, and understood what he meant, but i took no notice of it till i came to it, as it were, casually; then i gave a great cry out, and fell a-scolding in my way, for he gave me all possible freedom of speech on such occasions. i told him he was unkind, that he would never give me an opportunity to ask for anything, and that he forced me to blush by being too much obliged, and the like; all which i knew was very agreeable to him, for as he was bountiful beyond measure, so he was infinitely obliged by my being so backward to ask any favours; and i was even with him, for i never asked him for a farthing in my life. upon this rallying him, he told me i had either perfectly studied the art of humour, or else what was the greatest difficulty to others was natural to me, adding that nothing could be more obliging to a man of honour than not to be soliciting and craving. i told him nothing could be craving upon him, that he left no room for it; that i hoped he did not give merely to avoid the trouble of being importuned. i told him he might depend upon it that i should be reduced very low indeed before i offered to disturb him that way. he said a man of honour ought always to know what he ought to do; and as he did nothing but what he knew was reasonable, he gave me leave to be free with him if i wanted anything; that he had too much value for me to deny me anything if i asked, but that it was infinitely agreeable to him to hear me say that what he did was to my satisfaction. we strained compliments thus a great while, and as he had me in his arms most part of the time, so upon all my expressions of his bounty to me he put a stop to me with his kisses, and would admit me to go on no farther. i should in this place mention that this prince was not a subject of france, though at that time he resided at paris and was much at court, where, i suppose, he had or expected some considerable employment. but i mention it on this account, that a few days after this he came to me and told me he was come to bring me not the most welcome news that ever i heard from him in his life. i looked at him a little surprised; but he returned, "do not be uneasy; it is as unpleasant to me as to you, but i come to consult with you about it and see if it cannot be made a little easy to us both." i seemed still more concerned and surprised. at last he said it was that he believed he should be obliged to go into italy, which, though otherwise it was very agreeable to him, yet his parting with me made it a very dull thing but to think of. i sat mute, as one thunderstruck, for a good while; and it presently occurred to me that i was going to lose him, which, indeed, i could but ill bear the thoughts of; and as he told me i turned pale. "what's the matter?" said he hastily. "i have surprised you indeed," and stepping to the sideboard fills a dram of cordial water, which was of his own bringing, and comes to me. "be not surprised," said he; "i'll go nowhere without you;" adding several other things so kind as nothing could exceed it. i might indeed turn pale, for i was very much surprised at first, believing that this was, as it often happens in such cases, only a project to drop me, and break off an amour which he had now carried on so long; and a thousand thoughts whirled about my head in the few moments while i was kept in suspense, for they were but a few. i say, i was indeed surprised, and might, perhaps, look pale, but i was not in any danger of fainting that i knew of. however, it not a little pleased me to see him so concerned and anxious about me, but i stopped a little when he put the cordial to my mouth, and taking the glass in my hand, i said, "my lord, your words are infinitely more of a cordial to me than this citron; for as nothing can be a greater affliction than to lose you, so nothing can be a greater satisfaction than the assurance that i shall not have that misfortune." he made me sit down, and sat down by me, and after saying a thousand kind things to me, he turns upon me with a smile: "why, will you venture yourself to italy with me?" says he. i stopped a while, and then answered that i wondered he would ask me that question, for i would go anywhere in the world, or all over the world, wherever he should desire me, and give me the felicity of his company. then he entered into a long account of the occasion of his journey, and how the king had engaged him to go, and some other circumstances which are not proper to enter into here; it being by no means proper to say anything that might lead the reader into the least guess at the person. but to cut short this part of the story, and the history of our journey and stay abroad, which would almost fill up a volume of itself, i say we spent all that evening in cheerful consultations about the manner of our travelling, the equipage and figure he should go in, and in what manner i should go. several ways were proposed, but none seemed feasible, till at last i told him i thought it would be so troublesome, so expensive, and so public that it would be many ways inconvenient to him; and though it was a kind of death to me to lose him, yet that, rather than so very much perplex his affairs, i would submit to anything. at the next visit i filled his head with the same difficulties, and then at last came over him with a proposal that i would stay in paris, or where else he should direct; and when i heard of his safe arrival, would come away by myself, and place myself as near him as i could. this gave him no satisfaction at all, nor would he hear any more of it; but if i durst venture myself, as he called it, such a journey, he would not lose the satisfaction of my company; and as for the expense, that was not to be named; neither, indeed, was there room to name it, for i found that he travelled at the king's expense, as well for himself as for all his equipage, being upon a piece of secret service of the last importance. but after several debates between ourselves, he came to this resolution, viz., that he would travel incognito, and so he should avoid all public notice either of himself or of who went with him; and that then he should not only carry me with him, but have a perfect leisure of enjoying my agreeable company (as he was pleased to call it) all the way. this was so obliging that nothing could be more so. upon this foot he immediately set to work to prepare things for his journey, and, by his directions, so did i too. but now i had a terrible difficulty upon me, and which way to get over it i knew not; and that was, in what manner to take care of what i had to leave behind me. i was rich, as i have said, very rich, and what to do with it i knew not; nor who to leave in trust i knew not. i had nobody but amy in the world, and to travel without amy was very uncomfortable, or to leave all i had in the world with her, and, if she miscarried, be ruined at once, was still a frightful thought; for amy might die, and whose hands things might fall into i knew not. this gave me great uneasiness, and i knew not what to do; for i could not mention it to the prince, lest he should see that i was richer than he thought i was. but the prince made all this easy to me; for in concerting measures for our journey he started the thing himself, and asked me merrily one evening who i would trust with all my wealth in my absence. "my wealth, my lord," said i, "except what i owe to your goodness is but small, but yet that little i have, i confess, causes some thoughtfulness, because i have no acquaintance in paris that i dare trust with it, nor anybody but my woman to leave in the house; and how to do without her upon the road i do not well know." "as to the road, be not concerned," says the prince; "i'll provide you servants to your mind; and as for your woman, if you can trust her, leave her here, and i'll put you in a way how to secure things as well as if you were at home." i bowed, and told him i could not be put into better hands than his own, and that, therefore, i would govern all my measures by his directions; so we talked no more of it that night. the next day he sent me in a great iron chest, so large that it was as much as six lusty fellows could get up the steps into the house; and in this i put, indeed, all my wealth; and for my safety he ordered a good, honest, ancient man and his wife to be in the house with her, to keep her company, and a maid-servant and boy; so that there was a good family, and amy was madam, the mistress of the house. things being thus secured, we set out incog., as he called it; but we had two coaches and six horses, two chaises, and about eight men-servants on horseback, all very well armed. never was woman better used in this world that went upon no other account than i did. i had three women-servants to wait on me, one whereof was an old madame ----, who thoroughly understood her business, and managed everything as if she had been major-domo; so i had no trouble. they had one coach to themselves, and the prince and i in the other; only that sometimes, where he knew it necessary, i went into their coach, and one particular gentleman of the retinue rode with him. i shall say no more of the journey than that when we came to those frightful mountains, the alps, there was no travelling in our coaches, so he ordered a horse-litter, but carried by mules, to be provided for me, and himself went on horseback. the coaches went some other way back to lyons. then we had coaches hired at turin, which met us at suza; so that we were accommodated again, and went by easy journeys afterwards to rome, where his business, whatever it was, called him to stay some time, and from thence to venice. he was as good as his word, indeed; for i had the pleasure of his company, and, in a word, engrossed his conversation almost all the way. he took delight in showing me everything that was to be seen, and particularly in telling me something of the history of everything he showed me. what valuable pains were here thrown away upon one who he was sure, at last, to abandon with regret! how below himself did a man of quality and of a thousand accomplishments behave in all this! it is one of my reasons for entering into this part, which otherwise would not be worth relating. had i been a daughter or a wife, of whom it might be said that he had a just concern in their instruction or improvement, it had been an admirable step; but all this to a whore; to one who he carried with him upon no account that could be rationally agreeable, and none but to gratify the meanest of human frailties--this was the wonder of it. but such is the power of a vicious inclination. whoring was, in a word, his darling crime, the worst excursion he made, for he was otherwise one of the most excellent persons in the world. no passions, no furious excursions, no ostentatious pride; the most humble, courteous, affable person in the world. not an oath, not an indecent word, or the least blemish in behaviour was to be seen in all his conversation, except as before excepted; and it has given me occasion for many dark reflections since, to look back and think that i should be the snare of such a person's life; that i should influence him to so much wickedness, and that i should be the instrument in the hand of the devil to do him so much prejudice. we were near two years upon this grand tour, as it may be called, during most of which i resided at rome or at venice, having only been twice at florence and once at naples. i made some very diverting and useful observations in all these places, and particularly of the conduct of the ladies; for i had opportunity to converse very much among them, by the help of the old witch that travelled with us. she had been at naples and at venice, and had lived in the former several years, where, as i found, she had lived but a loose life, as indeed the women of naples generally do; and, in short, i found she was fully acquainted with all the intriguing arts of that part of the world. here my lord bought me a little female turkish slave, who, being taken at sea by a maltese man-of-war, was brought in there, and of her i learnt the turkish language, their way of dressing and dancing, and some turkish, or rather moorish, songs, of which i made use to my advantage on an extraordinary occasion some years after, as you shall hear in its place. i need not say i learnt italian too, for i got pretty well mistress of that before i had been there a year; and as i had leisure enough and loved the language, i read all the italian books i could come at. i began to be so in love with italy, especially with naples and venice, that i could have been very well satisfied to have sent for amy and have taken up my residence there for life. as to rome, i did not like it at all. the swarms of ecclesiastics of all kinds on one side, and the scoundrel rabbles of the common people on the other, make rome the unpleasantest place in the world to live in. the innumerable number of valets, lackeys, and other servants is such that they used to say that there are very few of the common people in rome but what have been footmen, or porters, or grooms to cardinals or foreign ambassadors. in a word, they have an air of sharping and cozening, quarrelling and scolding, upon their general behaviour; and when i was there the footmen made such a broil between two great families in rome, about which of their coaches (the ladies being in the coaches on either side) should give way to the other, that there was about thirty people wounded on both sides, five or six killed outside, and both the ladies frighted almost to death. but i have no mind to write the history of my travels on this side of the world, at least not now; it would be too full of variety. i must not, however, omit that the prince continued in all this journey the most kind, obliging person to me in the world, and so constant that, though we were in a country where it is well known all manner of liberties are taken, i am yet well assured he neither took the liberty he knew he might have, or so much as desired it. i have often thought of this noble person on that account. had he been but half so true, so faithful and constant, to the best lady in the world--i mean his princess--how glorious a virtue had it been in him! and how free had he been from those just reflections which touched him in her behalf when it was too late! we had some very agreeable conversations upon this subject, and once he told me, with a kind of more than ordinary concern upon his thoughts, that he was greatly beholden to me for taking this hazardous and difficult journey, for that i had kept him honest. i looked up in his face, and coloured as red as fire. "well, well," says he, "do not let that surprise you, i do say you have kept me honest." "my lord," said i, "'tis not for me to explain your words, but i wish i could turn them my own way. i hope," says i, "and believe we are both as honest as we can be in our circumstances." "ay, ay," says he; "and honester than i doubt i should have been if you had not been with me. i cannot say but if you had not been here i should have wandered among the gay world here, in naples, and in venice too, for 'tis not such a crime here as 'tis in other places. but i protest," says he, "i have not touched a woman in italy but yourself; and more than that, i have not so much as had any desire to it. so that, i say, you have kept me honest." i was silent, and was glad that he interrupted me, or kept me from speaking, with kissing me, for really i knew not what to say. i was once going to say that if his lady, the princess, had been with him, she would doubtless have had the same influence upon his virtue, with infinitely more advantage to him; but i considered this might give him offence; and, besides, such things might have been dangerous to the circumstance i stood in, so it passed off. but i must confess i saw that he was quite another man as to women than i understood he had always been before, and it was a particular satisfaction to me that i was thereby convinced that what he said was true, and that he was, as i may say, all my own. i was with child again in this journey, and lay in at venice, but was not so happy as before. i brought him another son, and a very fine boy it was, but it lived not above two months; nor, after the first touches of affection (which are usual, i believe, to all mothers) were over, was i sorry the child did not live, the necessary difficulties attending it in our travelling being considered. after these several perambulations, my lord told me his business began to close, and we would think of returning to france, which i was very glad of, but principally on account of my treasure i had there, which, as you have heard, was very considerable. it is true i had letters very frequently from my maid amy, with accounts that everything was very safe, and that was very much to my satisfaction. however, as the prince's negotiations were at an end, and he was obliged to return, i was very glad to go; so we returned from venice to turin, and in the way i saw the famous city of milan. from turin we went over the mountains again, as before, and our coaches met us at pont à voisin, between chambery and lyons; and so, by easy journeys, we arrived safely at paris, having been absent two years, wanting about eleven days, as above. i found the little family we left just as we left them, and amy cried for joy when she saw me, and i almost did the same. the prince took his leave of me the night before, for, as he told me, he knew he should be met upon the road by several persons of quality, and perhaps by the princess herself; so we lay at two different inns that night, lest some should come quite to the place, as indeed it happened. after this i saw him not for above twenty days, being taken up in his family, and also with business; but he sent me his gentleman to tell me the reason of it, and bid me not be uneasy, and that satisfied me effectually. in all this affluence of my good fortune i did not forget that i had been rich and poor once already alternately, and that i ought to know that the circumstances i was now in were not to be expected to last always; that i had one child, and expected another; and if i had bred often, it would something impair me in the great article that supported my interest--i mean, what he called beauty; that as that declined, i might expect the fire would abate, and the warmth with which i was now so caressed would cool, and in time, like the other mistresses of great men, i might be dropped again; and that therefore it was my business to take care that i should fall as softly as i could. i say, i did not forget, therefore, to make as good provision for myself as if i had had nothing to have subsisted on but what i now gained; whereas i had not less than ten thousand pounds, as i said above, which i had amassed, or secured rather, out of the ruins of my faithful friend the jeweller, and which he, little thinking of what was so near him when he went out, told me, though in a kind of a jest, was all my own, if he was knocked on the head, and which, upon that title, i took care to preserve. my greatest difficulty now was how to secure my wealth and to keep what i had got; for i had greatly added to this wealth by the generous bounty of the prince ----, and the more by the private, retired mode of living, which he rather desired for privacy than parsimony; for he supplied me for a more magnificent way of life than i desired, if it had been proper. i shall cut short the history of this prosperous wickedness with telling you i brought him a third son, within little more than eleven months after our return from italy; that now i lived a little more openly, and went by a particular name which he gave me abroad, but which i must omit, viz., the countess de ----; and had coaches and servants, suitable to the quality he had given me the appearance of; and, which is more than usually happens in such cases, this held eight years from the beginning, during which time, as i had been very faithful to him, so i must say, as above, that i believe he was so separated to me, that whereas he usually had two or three women, which he kept privately, he had not in all that time meddled with any of them, but that i had so perfectly engrossed him that he dropped them all. not, perhaps, that he saved much by it, for i was a very chargeable mistress to him, that i must acknowledge, but it was all owing to his particular affection to me, not to my extravagance, for, as i said, he never gave me leave to ask him for anything, but poured in his favours and presents faster than i expected, and so fast as i could not have the assurance to make the least mention of desiring more. nor do i speak this of my own guess, i mean about his constancy to me and his quitting all other women; but the old harridan, as i may call her, whom he made the guide of our travelling, and who was a strange old creature, told me a thousand stories of his gallantry, as she called it, and how, as he had no less than three mistresses at one time, and, as i found, all of her procuring, he had of a sudden dropped them all, and that he was entirely lost to both her and them; that they did believe he had fallen into some new hands, but she could never hear who, or where, till he sent for her to go this journey; and then the old hag complimented me upon his choice; that she did not wonder i had so engrossed him; so much beauty, &c.; and there she stopped. upon the whole, i found by her what was, you may be sure, to my particular satisfaction, viz., that, as above, i had him all my own. but the highest tide has its ebb; and in all things of this kind there is a reflux which sometimes, also, is more impetuously violent than the first aggression. my prince was a man of a vast fortune, though no sovereign, and therefore there was no probability that the expense of keeping a mistress could be injurious to him, as to his estate. he had also several employments, both out of france as well as in it; for, as above, i say he was not a subject of france, though he lived in that court. he had a princess, a wife with whom he had lived several years, and a woman (so the voice of fame reported) the most valuable of her sex, of birth equal to him, if not superior, and of fortune proportionable; but in beauty, wit, and a thousand good qualities superior, not to most women, but even to all her sex; and as to her virtue, the character which was justly her due was that of, not only the best of princesses, but even the best of women. they lived in the utmost harmony, as with such a princess it was impossible to be otherwise. but yet the princess was not insensible that her lord had his foibles, that he did make some excursions, and particularly that he had one favourite mistress, which sometimes engrossed him more than she (the princess) could wish, or be easily satisfied with. however, she was so good, so generous, so truly kind a wife, that she never gave him any uneasiness on this account; except so much as must arise from his sense of her bearing the affront of it with such patience, and such a profound respect for him as was in itself enough to have reformed him, and did sometimes shock his generous mind, so as to keep him at home, as i may call it, a great while together. and it was not long before i not only perceived it by his absence, but really got a knowledge of the reason of it, and once or twice he even acknowledged it to me. it was a point that lay not in me to manage. i made a kind of motion once or twice to him to leave me, and keep himself to her, as he ought by the laws and rites of matrimony to do, and argued the generosity of the princess to him, to persuade him; but i was a hypocrite, for had i prevailed with him really to be honest, i had lost him, which i could not bear the thoughts of; and he might easily see i was not in earnest. one time in particular, when i took upon me to talk at this rate, i found, when i argued so much for the virtue and honour, the birth, and, above all, the generous usage he found in the person of the princess with respect to his private amours, and how it should prevail upon him, &c., i found it began to affect him, and he returned, "and do you indeed," says he, "persuade me to leave you? would you have me think you sincere?" i looked up in his face, smiling. "not for any other favourite, my lord," says i; "that would break my heart; but for madam the princess!" said i; and then i could say no more. tears followed, and i sat silent a while. "well," said he, "if ever i do leave you, it shall be on the virtuous account; it shall be for the princess; i assure you it shall be for no other woman." "that's enough, my lord," said i; "there i ought to submit; and while i am assured it shall be for no other mistress, i promise your highness i will not repine; or that, if i do, it shall be a silent grief; it shall not interrupt your felicity." all this while i said i knew not what, and said what i was no more able to do than he was able to leave me; which, at that time, he owned he could not do--no, not for the princess herself. but another turn of affairs determined this matter, for the princess was taken very ill, and, in the opinion of all her physicians, very dangerously so. in her sickness she desired to speak with her lord, and to take her leave of him. at this grievous parting she said so many passionate, kind things to him, lamented that she had left him no children (she had had three, but they were dead); hinted to him that it was one of the chief things which gave her satisfaction in death, as to this world, that she should leave him room to have heirs to his family, by some princess that should supply her place; with all humility, but with a christian earnestness, recommended to him to do justice to such princess, whoever it should be, from whom, to be sure, he would expect justice; that is to say, to keep to her singly, according to the solemnest part of the marriage covenant; humbly asked his highness's pardon if she had any way offended him; and appealing to heaven, before whose tribunal she was to appear, that she had never violated her honour or her duty to him, and praying to jesus and the blessed virgin for his highness; and thus, with the most moving and most passionate expressions of her affection to him, took her last leave of him, and died the next day. this discourse, from a princess so valuable in herself and so dear to him, and the loss of her following so immediately after, made such deep impressions on him that he looked back with detestation upon the former part of his life, grew melancholy and reserved, changed his society and much of the general conduct of his life, resolved on a life regulated most strictly by the rules of virtue and piety, and, in a word, was quite another man. the first part of his reformation was a storm upon me; for, about ten days after the princess's funeral, he sent a message to me by his gentleman, intimating, though in very civil terms, and with a short preamble or introduction, that he desired i would not take it ill that he was obliged to let me know that he could see me no more. his gentleman told me a long story of the new regulation of life his lord had taken up; and that he had been so afflicted for the loss of his princess that he thought it would either shorten his life or he would retire into some religious house, to end his days in solitude. i need not direct anybody to suppose how i received this news. i was indeed exceedingly surprised at it, and had much ado to support myself when the first part of it was delivered, though the gentleman delivered his errand with great respect, and with all the regard to me that he was able, and with a great deal of ceremony, also telling me how much he was concerned to bring me such a message. but when i heard the particulars of the story at large, and especially that of the lady's discourse to the prince a little before her death, i was fully satisfied. i knew very well he had done nothing but what any man must do that had a true sense upon him of the justice of the princess's discourse to him, and of the necessity there was of his altering his course of life, if he intended to be either a christian or an honest man. i say, when i heard this i was perfectly easy. i confess it was a circumstance that it might be reasonably expected should have wrought something also upon me; i that had so much to reflect upon more than the prince; that had now no more temptation of poverty, or of the powerful motive which amy used with me--namely, comply and live, deny and starve; i say, i that had no poverty to introduce vice, but was grown not only well supplied, but rich; and not only rich, but was very rich; in a word, richer than i knew how to think of, for the truth of it was, that thinking of it sometimes almost distracted me, for want of knowing how to dispose of it, and for fear of losing it all again by some cheat or trick, not knowing anybody that i could commit the trust of it to. besides, i should add, at the close of this affair, that the prince did not, as i may say, turn me off rudely and with disgust, but with all the decency and goodness peculiar to himself, and that could consist with a man reformed and struck with the sense of his having abused so good a lady as his late princess had been. nor did he send me away empty, but did everything like himself; and, in particular, ordered his gentleman to pay the rent of the house and all the expense of his two sons, and to tell me how they were taken care of, and where, and also that i might at all times inspect the usage they had, and if i disliked anything it should be rectified; and having thus finished everything, he retired into lorraine, or somewhere that way, where he had an estate, and i never heard of him more--i mean, not as a mistress. now i was at liberty to go to any part of the world, and take care of my money myself. the first thing that i resolved to do was to go directly to england, for there, i thought, being among my country-folks--for i esteemed myself an englishwoman, though i was born in france--there, i say, i thought i could better manage things than in france; at least, that i would be in less danger of being circumvented and deceived; but how to get away with such a treasure as i had with me was a difficult point, and what i was greatly at a loss about. there was a dutch merchant in paris, that was a person of great reputation for a man of substance and of honesty, but i had no manner of acquaintance with him, nor did i know how to get acquainted with him, so as to discover my circumstances to him; but at last i employed my maid amy (such i must be allowed to call her, notwithstanding what has been said of her, because she was in the place of a maid-servant); i say, i employed my maid amy to go to him, and she got a recommendation to him from somebody else, i knew not who, so that she got access to him well enough. but now was my case as bad as before, for when i came to him what could i do? i had money and jewels to a vast value, and i might leave all those with him; that i might indeed do; and so i might with several other merchants in paris, who would give me bills for it, payable at london; but then i ran a hazard of my money, and i had nobody at london to send the bills to, and so to stay till i had an account that they were accepted; for i had not one friend in london that i could have recourse to, so that indeed i knew not what to do. in this case i had no remedy but that i must trust somebody, so i sent amy to this dutch merchant, as i said above. he was a little surprised when amy came to him and talked to him of remitting a sum of about twelve thousand pistoles to england, and began to think she came to put some cheat upon him; but when he found that amy was but a servant, and that i came to him myself, the case was altered presently. when i came to him myself, i presently saw such a plainness in his dealing and such honesty in his countenance that i made no scruple to tell him my whole story, viz., that i was a widow, that i had some jewels to dispose of, and also some money which i had a mind to send to england, and to follow there myself; but being but a woman, and having no correspondence in london, or anywhere else, i knew not what to do, or how to secure my effects. he dealt very candidly with me, but advised me, when he knew my case so particularly, to take bills upon amsterdam, and to go that way to england; for that i might lodge my treasure in the bank there, in the most secure manner in the world, and that there he could recommend me to a man who perfectly understood jewels, and would deal faithfully with me in the disposing them. i thanked him, but scrupled very much the travelling so far in a strange country, and especially with such a treasure about me; that, whether known or concealed, i did not know how to venture with it. then he told me he would try to dispose of them there, that is, at paris, and convert them into money, and so get me bills for the whole; and in a few days he brought a jew to me, who pretended to buy the jewels. as soon as the jew saw the jewels i saw my folly, and it was ten thousand to one but i had been ruined, and perhaps put to death in as cruel a manner as possible; and i was put in such a fright by it that i was once upon the point of flying for my life, and leaving the jewels and money too in the hands of the dutchman, without any bills or anything else. the case was thus:-- as soon as the jew saw the jewels he falls a-jabbering, in dutch or portuguese, to the merchant; and i could presently perceive that they were in some great surprise, both of them. the jew held up his hands, looked at me with some horror, then talked dutch again, and put himself into a thousand shapes, twisting his body and wringing up his face this way and that way in his discourse, stamping with his feet, and throwing abroad his hands, as if he was not in a rage only, but in a mere fury. then he would turn and give a look at me like the devil. i thought i never saw anything so frightful in my life. at length i put in a word. "sir," says i to the dutch merchant, "what is all this discourse to my business? what is this gentleman in all these passions about? i wish, if he is to treat with me, he would speak that i may understand him; or if you have business of your own between you that is to be done first, let me withdraw, and i'll come again when you are at leisure." "no, no, madam," says the dutchman very kindly, "you must not go; all our discourse is about you and your jewels, and you shall hear it presently; it concerns you very much, i assure you." "concern me!" says i. "what can it concern me so much as to put this gentleman into such agonies, and what makes him give me such devil's looks as he does? why, he looks as if he would devour me." the jew understood me presently, continuing in a kind of rage, and spoke in french: "yes, madam, it does concern you much, very much, very much," repeating the words, shaking his head; and then turning to the dutchman, "sir," says he, "pray tell her what is the case." "no," says the merchant, "not yet; let us talk a little farther of it by ourselves;" upon which they withdrew into another room, where still they talked very high, but in a language i did not understand. i began to be a little surprised at what the jew had said, you may be sure, and eager to know what he meant, and was very impatient till the dutch merchant came back, and that so impatient that i called one of his servants to let him know i desired to speak with him. when he came in i asked his pardon for being so impatient, but told him i could not be easy till he had told me what the meaning of all this was. "why, madam," says the dutch merchant, "in short, the meaning is what i am surprised at too. this man is a jew, and understands jewels perfectly well, and that was the reason i sent for him, to dispose of them to him for you; but as soon as he saw them, he knew the jewels very distinctly, and flying out in a passion, as you see he did, told me, in short, that they were the very parcel of jewels which the english jeweller had about him who was robbed going to versailles, about eight years ago, to show them the prince de ----, and that it was for these very jewels that the poor gentleman was murdered; and he is in all this agony to make me ask you how you came by them; and he says you ought to be charged with the robbery and murder, and put to the question to discover who were the persons that did it, that they might be brought to justice." while he said this the jew came impudently back into the room without calling, which a little surprised me again. the dutch merchant spoke pretty good english, and he knew that the jew did not understand english at all, so he told me the latter part, when he came into the room, in english, at which i smiled, which put the jew into his mad fit again, and shaking his head and making his devil's faces again, he seemed to threaten me for laughing, saying, in french, this was an affair i should have little reason to laugh at, and the like. at this i laughed again, and flouted him, letting him see that i scorned him, and turning to the dutch merchant, "sir," says i, "that those jewels were belonging to mr. ----, the english jeweller" (naming his name readily), "in that," says i, "this person is right; but that i should be questioned how i came to have them is a token of his ignorance, which, however, he might have managed with a little more good manners, till i told him who i am, and both he and you too will be more easy in that part when i should tell you that i am the unhappy widow of that mr. ---- who was so barbarously murdered going to versailles, and that he was not robbed of those jewels, but of others, mr. ---- having left those behind him with me, lest he should be robbed. had i, sir, come otherwise by them, i should not have been weak enough to have exposed them to sale here, where the thing was done, but have carried them farther off." this was an agreeable surprise to the dutch merchant, who, being an honest man himself, believed everything i said, which, indeed, being all really and literally true, except the deficiency of my marriage, i spoke with such an unconcerned easiness that it might plainly be seen that i had no guilt upon me, as the jew suggested. the jew was confounded when he heard that i was the jeweller's wife. but as i had raised his passion with saying he looked at me with the devil's face, he studied mischief in his heart, and answered, that should not serve my turn; so called the dutchman out again, when he told him that he resolved to prosecute this matter farther. there was one kind chance in this affair, which, indeed, was my deliverance, and that was, that the fool could not restrain his passion, but must let it fly to the dutch merchant, to whom, when they withdrew a second time, as above, he told that he would bring a process against me for the murder, and that it should cost me dear for using him at that rate; and away he went, desiring the dutch merchant to tell him when i would be there again. had he suspected that the dutchman would have communicated the particulars to me, he would never have been so foolish as to have mentioned that part to him. but the malice of his thoughts anticipated him, and the dutch merchant was so good as to give me an account of his design, which, indeed, was wicked enough in its nature; but to me it would have been worse than otherwise it would to another, for, upon examination, i could not have proved myself to be the wife of the jeweller, so the suspicion might have been carried on with the better face; and then i should also have brought all his relations in england upon me, who, finding by the proceedings that i was not his wife, but a mistress, or, in english, a whore, would immediately have laid claim to the jewels, as i had owned them to be his. this thought immediately rushed into my head as soon as the dutch merchant had told me what wicked things were in the head of that cursed jew; and the villain (for so i must call him) convinced the dutch merchant that he was in earnest by an expression which showed the rest of his design, and that was, a plot to get the rest of the jewels into his hand. when first he hinted to the dutchman that the jewels were such a man's (meaning my husband's), he made wonderful exclamations on account of their having been concealed so long. where must they have lain? and what was the woman that brought them? and that she (meaning me) ought to be immediately apprehended and put into the hands of justice. and this was the time that, as i said, he made such horrid gestures and looked at me so like a devil. the merchant, hearing him talk at that rate, and seeing him in earnest, said to him, "hold your tongue a little; this is a thing of consequence. if it be so, let you and i go into the next room and consider of it there;" and so they withdrew, and left me. here, as before, i was uneasy, and called him out, and, having heard how it was, gave him that answer, that i was his wife, or widow, which the malicious jew said should not serve my turn. and then it was that the dutchman called him out again; and in this time of his withdrawing, the merchant, finding, as above, that he was really in earnest, counterfeited a little to be of his mind, and entered into proposals with him for the thing itself. in this they agreed to go to an advocate, or counsel, for directions how to proceed, and to meet again the next day, against which time the merchant was to appoint me to come again with the jewels, in order to sell them. "no," says the merchant, "i will go farther with her than so; i will desire her to leave the jewels with me, to show to another person, in order to get the better price for them." "that's right," says the jew; "and i'll engage she shall never be mistress of them again; they shall either be seized by us," says he, "in the king's name, or she shall be glad to give them up to us to prevent her being put to the torture." the merchant said "yes" to everything he offered, and they agreed to meet the next morning about it, and i was to be persuaded to leave the jewels with him, and come to them the next day at four o'clock in order to make a good bargain for them; and on these conditions they parted. but the honest dutchman, filled with indignation at the barbarous design, came directly to me and told me the whole story. "and now, madam," says he, "you are to consider immediately what you have to do." i told him, if i was sure to have justice, i would not fear all that such a rogue could do to me; but how such things were carried on in france i knew not. i told him the greatest difficulty would be to prove our marriage, for that it was done in england, and in a remote part of england too; and, which was worse, it would be hard to produce authentic vouchers of it, because we were married in private. "but as to the death of your husband, madam, what can be said to that?" said he. "nay," said i, "what can they say to it? in england," added i, "if they would offer such an injury to any one, they must prove the fact or give just reason for their suspicions. that my husband was murdered, that every one knows; but that he was robbed, or of what, or how much, that none knows--no, not myself; and why was i not questioned for it then? i have lived in paris ever since, lived publicly, and no man had yet the impudence to suggest such a thing of me." "i am fully satisfied of that," says the merchant; "but as this is a rogue who will stick at nothing, what can we say? and who knows what he may swear? suppose he should swear that he knows your husband had those particular jewels with him the morning when he went out, and that he showed them to him to consider their value, and what price he should ask the prince de ---- for them?" "nay, by the same rule," said i, "he may swear that i murdered my husband, if he finds it for his turn." "that's true," said he; "and if he should, i do not see what could save you;" but added, "i have found out his more immediate design. his design is to have you carried to the châtelet, that the suspicion may appear just, and then to get the jewels out of your hands if possible; then, at last, to drop the prosecution on your consenting to quit the jewels to him; and how you will do to avoid this is the question which i would have you consider of." "my misfortune, sir," said i, "is that i have no time to consider, and i have no person to consider with or advise about it. i find that innocence may be oppressed by such an impudent fellow as this; he that does not value perjury has any man's life at his mercy. but, sir," said i, "is the justice such here that, while i may be in the hands of the public and under prosecution, he may get hold of my effects and get my jewels into his hands?" "i don't know," says he, "what may be done in that case; but if not he, if the court of justice should get hold of them i do not know but you may find it as difficult to get them out of their hands again, and, at least, it may cost you half as much as they are worth; so i think it would be a much better way to prevent their coming at them at all." "but what course can i take to do that," says i, "now they have got notice that i have them? if they get me into their hands they will oblige me to produce them, or perhaps sentence me to prison till i do." "nay," says he, "as this brute says, too, put you to the question--that is, to the torture, on pretence of making you confess who were the murderers of your husband." "confess!" said i. "how can i confess what i know nothing of?" "if they come to have you to the rack," said he, "they will make you confess you did it yourself, whether you did it or no, and then you are cast." the very word rack frighted me to death almost, and i had no spirit left in me. "did it myself!" said i. "that's impossible!" "no, madam," says he, "'tis far from impossible. the most innocent people in the world have been forced to confess themselves guilty of what they never heard of, much less had any hand in." "what, then, must i do?" said i. "what would you advise me to?" "why," says he, "i would advise you to be gone. you intended to go away in four or five days, and you may as well go in two days; and if you can do so, i shall manage it so that he shall not suspect your being gone for several days after." then he told me how the rogue would have me ordered to bring the jewels the next day for sale, and that then he would have me apprehended; how he had made the jew believe he would join with him in his design, and that he (the merchant) would get the jewels into his hands. "now," says the merchant, "i shall give you bills for the money you desired, immediately, and such as shall not fail of being paid. take your jewels with you, and go this very evening to st. germain-en-laye; i'll send a man thither with you, and from thence he shall guide you to-morrow to rouen, where there lies a ship of mine, just ready to sail for rotterdam; you shall have your passage in that ship on my account, and i will send orders for him to sail as soon as you are on board, and a letter to my friend at rotterdam to entertain and take care of you." this was too kind an offer for me, as things stood, not to be accepted, and be thankful for; and as to going away, i had prepared everything for parting, so that i had little to do but to go back, take two or three boxes and bundles, and such things, and my maid amy, and be gone. then the merchant told me the measures he had resolved to take to delude the jew while i made my escape, which was very well contrived indeed. "first," said he, "when he comes to-morrow i shall tell him that i proposed to you to leave the jewels with me, as we agreed, but that you said you would come and bring them in the afternoon, so that we must stay for you till four o'clock; but then, at that time, i will show a letter from you, as if just come in, wherein you shall excuse your not coming, for that some company came to visit you, and prevented you; but that you desire me to take care that the gentleman be ready to buy your jewels, and that you will come to-morrow at the same hour, without fail. "when to-morrow is come, we shall wait at the time, but you not appearing, i shall seem most dissatisfied, and wonder what can be the reason; and so we shall agree to go the next day to get out a process against you. but the next day, in the morning, i'll send to give him notice that you have been at my house, but he not being there, have made another appointment, and that i desire to speak with him. when he comes, i'll tell him you appear perfectly blind as to your danger, and that you appeared much disappointed that he did not come, though you could not meet the night before; and obliged me to have him here to-morrow at three o'clock. when to-morrow comes," says he, "you shall send word that you are taken so ill that you cannot come out for that day, but that you will not fail the next day; and the next day you shall neither come or send, nor let us ever hear any more of you; for by that time you shall be in holland, if you please." i could not but approve all his measures, seeing they were so well contrived, and in so friendly a manner, for my benefit; and as he seemed to be so very sincere, i resolved to put my life in his hands. immediately i went to my lodgings, and sent away amy with such bundles as i had prepared for my travelling. i also sent several parcels of my fine furniture to the merchant's house to be laid up for me, and bringing the key of the lodgings with me, i came back to his house. here we finished our matters of money, and i delivered into his hands seven thousand eight hundred pistoles in bills and money, a copy of an assignment on the townhouse of paris for four thousand pistoles, at three per cent. interest, attested, and a procuration for receiving the interest half-yearly; but the original i kept myself. i could have trusted all i had with him, for he was perfectly honest, and had not the least view of doing me any wrong. indeed, after it was so apparent that he had, as it were, saved my life, or at least saved me from being exposed and ruined--i say, after this, how could i doubt him in anything? when i came to him, he had everything ready as i wanted, and as he had proposed. as to my money, he gave me first of all an accepted bill, payable at rotterdam, for four thousand pistoles, and drawn from genoa upon a merchant at rotterdam, payable to a merchant at paris, and endorsed by him to my merchant; this, he assured me, would be punctually paid; and so it was, to a day. the rest i had in other bills of exchange, drawn by himself upon other merchants in holland. having secured my jewels too, as well as i could, he sent me away the same evening in a friend's coach, which he had procured for me, to st. germain, and the next morning to rouen. he also sent a servant of his own on horseback with me, who provided everything for me, and who carried his orders to the captain of the ship, which lay about three miles below rouen, in the river, and by his directions i went immediately on board. the third day after i was on board the ship went away, and we were out at sea the next day after that; and thus i took my leave of france, and got clear of an ugly business, which, had it gone on, might have ruined me, and sent me back as naked to england as i was a little before i left it. and now amy and i were at leisure to look upon the mischiefs that we had escaped; and had i had any religion or any sense of a supreme power, managing, directing, and governing in both causes and events in this world, such a case as this would have given anybody room to have been very thankful to the power who had not only put such a treasure into my hand, but given me such an escape from the ruin that threatened me; but i had none of those things about me. i had, indeed, a grateful sense upon my mind of the generous friendship of my deliverer, the dutch merchant, by whom i was so faithfully served, and by whom, as far as relates to second causes, i was preserved from destruction. i say, i had a grateful sense upon my mind of his kindness and faithfulness to me, and i resolved to show him some testimony of it as soon as i came to the end of my rambles, for i was yet but in a state of uncertainty, and sometimes that gave me a little uneasiness too. i had paper indeed for my money, and he had showed himself very good to me in conveying me away, as above; but i had not seen the end of things yet, for unless the bills were paid, i might still be a great loser by my dutchman, and he might, perhaps, have contrived all that affair of the jew to put me into a fright and get me to run away, and that as if it were to save my life; that if the bills should be refused, i was cheated with a witness, and the like. but these were but surmises, and, indeed, were perfectly without cause, for the honest man acted as honest men always do, with an upright and disinterested principle, and with a sincerity not often to be found in the world. what gain he made by the exchange was just, and was nothing but what was his due, and was in the way of his business; but otherwise he made no advantage of me at all. when i passed in the ship between dover and calais and saw beloved england once more under my view--england, which i counted my native country, being the place i was bred up in, though not born there--a strange kind of joy possessed my mind, and i had such a longing desire to be there that i would have given the master of the ship twenty pistoles to have stood over and set me on shore in the downs; and when he told me he could not do it--that is, that he durst not do it if i would have given him a hundred pistoles--i secretly wished that a storm would rise that might drive the ship over to the coast of england, whether they would or not, that i might be set on shore anywhere upon english ground. this wicked wish had not been out of my thoughts above two or three hours, but the master steering away to the north, as was his course to do, we lost sight of land on that side, and only had the flemish shore in view on our right hand, or, as the seamen call it, the starboard side; and then, with the loss of the sight, the wish for landing in england abated, and i considered how foolish it was to wish myself out of the way of my business; that if i had been on shore in england, i must go back to holland on account of my bills, which were so considerable, and i having no correspondence there, that i could not have managed it without going myself. but we had not been out of sight of england many hours before the weather began to change; the winds whistled and made a noise, and the seamen said to one another that it would blow hard at night. it was then about two hours before sunset, and we were passed by dunkirk, and i think they said we were in sight of ostend; but then the wind grew high and the sea swelled, and all things looked terrible, especially to us that understood nothing but just what we saw before us; in short, night came on, and very dark it was; the wind freshened and blew harder and harder, and about two hours within night it blew a terrible storm. i was not quite a stranger to the sea, having come from rochelle to england when i was a child, and gone from london, by the river thames, to france afterward, as i have said. but i began to be alarmed a little with the terrible clamour of the men over my head, for i had never been in a storm, and so had never seen the like, or heard it; and once offering to look out at the door of the steerage, as they called it, it struck me with such horror (the darkness, the fierceness of the wind, the dreadful height of the waves, and the hurry the dutch sailors were in, whose language i did not understand one word of, neither when they cursed or when they prayed); i say, all these things together filled me with terror, and, in short, i began to be very much frighted. when i was come back into the great cabin, there sat amy, who was very sea-sick, and i had a little before given her a sup of cordial waters to help her stomach. when amy saw me come back and sit down without speaking, for so i did, she looked two or three times up at me; at last she came running to me. "dear madam," says she, "what is the matter? what makes you look so pale? why, you an't well; what is the matter?" i said nothing still, but held up my hands two or three times. amy doubled her importunities; upon that i said no more but, "step to the steerage-door, and look out, as i did;" so she went away immediately, and looked too, as i had bidden her; but the poor girl came back again in the greatest amazement and horror that ever i saw any poor creature in, wringing her hands and crying out she was undone! she was undone! she should be drowned! they were all lost! thus she ran about the cabin like a mad thing, and as perfectly out of her senses as any one in such a case could be supposed to be. i was frighted myself, but when i saw the girl in such a terrible agony, it brought me a little to myself, and i began to talk to her and put her in a little hope. i told her there was many a ship in a storm that was not cast away, and i hoped we should not be drowned; that it was true the storm was very dreadful, but i did not see that the seamen were so much concerned as we were. and so i talked to her as well as i could, though my heart was full enough of it, as well as amy's; and death began to stare in my face; ay, and something else too--that is to say, conscience, and my mind was very much disturbed; but i had nobody to comfort me. but amy being in so much worse a condition--that is to say, so much more terrified at the storm than i was--i had something to do to comfort her. she was, as i have said, like one distracted, and went raving about the cabin, crying out she was undone! undone! she should be drowned! and the like. and at last, the ship giving a jerk, by the force, i suppose, of some violent wave, it threw poor amy quite down, for she was weak enough before with being sea-sick, and as it threw her forward, the poor girl struck her head against the bulk-head, as the seamen call it, of the cabin, and laid her as dead as a stone upon the floor or deck; that is to say, she was so to all appearance. i cried out for help, but it had been all one to have cried out on the top of a mountain where nobody had been within five miles of me, for the seamen were so engaged and made so much noise that nobody heard me or came near me. i opened the great cabin door, and looked into the steerage to cry for help, but there, to increase my fright, was two seamen on their knees at prayers, and only one man who steered, and he made a groaning noise too, which i took to be saying his prayers, but it seems it was answering to those above, when they called to him to tell him which way to steer. here was no help for me, or for poor amy, and there she lay still so, and in such a condition, that i did not know whether she was dead or alive. in this fright i went to her, and lifted her a little way up, setting her on the deck, with her back to the boards of the bulk-head; and i got a little bottle out of my pocket, and i held it to her nose, and rubbed her temples and what else i could do, but still amy showed no signs of life, till i felt for her pulse, but could hardly distinguish her to be alive. however, after a great while, she began to revive, and in about half-an-hour she came to herself, but remembered nothing at first of what had happened to her for a good while more. when she recovered more fully, she asked me where she was. i told her she was in the ship yet, but god knows how long it might be. "why, madam," says she, "is not the storm over?" "no, no," says i, "amy." "why, madam," says she, "it was calm just now" (meaning when she was in the swooning fit occasioned by her fall). "calm, amy!" says i. "'tis far from calm. it may be it will be calm by-and-by, when we are all drowned and gone to heaven." "heaven, madam!" says she. "what makes you talk so? heaven! i go to heaven! no, no; if i am drowned i am damned! don't you know what a wicked creature i have been? i have been a whore to two men, and have lived a wretched, abominable life of vice and wickedness for fourteen years. oh, madam! you know it, and god knows it, and now i am to die--to be drowned! oh! what will become of me? i am undone for ever!--ay, madam, for ever! to all eternity! oh! i am lost! i am lost! if i am drowned, i am lost for ever!" all these, you will easily suppose, must be so many stabs into the very soul of one in my own case. it immediately occurred to me, "poor amy! what art thou that i am not? what hast thou been that i have not been? nay, i am guilty of my own sin and thine too." then it came to my remembrance that i had not only been the same with amy, but that i had been the devil's instrument to make her wicked; that i had stripped her, and prostituted her to the very man that i had been naught with myself; that she had but followed me, i had been her wicked example; and i had led her into all; and that, as we had sinned together, now we were likely to sink together. all this repeated itself to my thoughts at that very moment, and every one of amy's cries sounded thus in my ears: "i am the wicked cause of it all! i have been thy ruin, amy! i have brought thee to this, and now thou art to suffer for the sin i have enticed thee to! and if thou art lost for ever, what must i be? what must be my portion?" it is true this difference was between us, that i said all these things within myself, and sighed and mourned inwardly; but amy, as her temper was more violent, spoke aloud, and cried, and called out aloud, like one in agony. i had but small encouragement to give her, and indeed could say but very little, but i got her to compose herself a little, and not let any of the people of the ship understand what she meant or what she said; but even in her greatest composure she continued to express herself with the utmost dread and terror on account of the wicked life she had lived, crying out she should be damned, and the like, which was very terrible to me, who knew what condition i was in myself. upon these serious considerations, i was very penitent too for my former sins, and cried out, though softly, two or three times, "lord, have mercy upon me!" to this i added abundance of resolutions of what a life i would live if it should please god but to spare my life but this one time; how i would live a single and a virtuous life, and spend a great deal of what i had thus wickedly got in acts of charity and doing good. under these dreadful apprehensions i looked back on the life i had led with the utmost contempt and abhorrence. i blushed, and wondered at myself how i could act thus, how i could divest myself of modesty and honour, and prostitute myself for gain; and i thought, if ever it should please god to spare me this one time from death, it would not be possible that i should be the same creature again. amy went farther; she prayed, she resolved, she vowed to lead a new life, if god would spare her but this time. it now began to be daylight, for the storm held all night long, and it was some comfort to see the light of another day, which none of us expected; but the sea went mountains high, and the noise of the water was as frightful to us as the sight of the waves; nor was any land to be seen, nor did the seamen know whereabout they were. at last, to our great joy, they made land, which was in england, and on the coast of suffolk; and the ship being in the utmost distress, they ran for the shore at all hazards, and with great difficulty got into harwich, where they were safe, as to the danger of death; but the ship was so full of water and so much damaged that if they had not laid her on shore the same day she would have sunk before night, according to the opinion of the seamen, and of the workmen on shore too who were hired to assist them in stopping their leaks. amy was revived as soon as she heard they had espied land, and went out upon the deck; but she soon came in again to me. "oh, madam!" says she, "there's the land indeed to be seen. it looks like a ridge of clouds, and may be all a cloud for aught i know; but if it be land, 'tis a great way off, and the sea is in such a combustion, we shall all perish before we can reach it. 'tis the dreadfullest sight to look at the waves that ever was seen. why, they are as high as mountains; we shall certainly be all swallowed up, for all the land is so near." i had conceived some hope that, if they saw land, we should be delivered; and i told her she did not understand things of that nature; that she might be sure if they saw land they would go directly towards it, and would make into some harbour; but it was, as amy said, a frightful distance to it. the land looked like clouds, and the sea went as high as mountains, so that no hope appeared in the seeing the land, but we were in fear of foundering before we could reach it. this made amy so desponding still; but as the wind, which blew from the east, or that way, drove us furiously towards the land, so when, about half-an-hour after, i stepped to the steerage-door and looked out, i saw the land much nearer than amy represented it; so i went in and encouraged amy again, and indeed was encouraged myself. in about an hour, or something more, we saw, to our infinite satisfaction, the open harbour of harwich, and the vessel standing directly towards it, and in a few minutes more the ship was in smooth water, to our inexpressible comfort; and thus i had, though against my will and contrary to my true interest, what i wished for, to be driven away to england, though it was by a storm. nor did this incident do either amy or me much service, for, the danger being over, the fears of death vanished with it; ay, and our fear of what was beyond death also. our sense of the life we had lived went off, and with our return to life our wicked taste of life returned, and we were both the same as before, if not worse. so certain is it that the repentance which is brought about by the mere apprehensions of death wears off as those apprehensions wear off, and deathbed repentance, or storm repentance, which is much the same, is seldom true. however, i do not tell you that this was all at once neither; the fright we had at sea lasted a little while afterwards; at least the impression was not quite blown off as soon as the storm; especially poor amy. as soon as she set her foot on shore she fell flat upon the ground and kissed it, and gave god thanks for her deliverance from the sea; and turning to me when she got up, "i hope, madam," says she, "you will never go upon the sea again." i know not what ailed me, not i; but amy was much more penitent at sea, and much more sensible of her deliverance when she landed and was safe, than i was. i was in a kind of stupidity, i know not well what to call it; i had a mind full of horror in the time of the storm, and saw death before me as plainly as amy, but my thoughts got no vent, as amy's did. i had a silent, sullen kind of grief, which could not break out either in words or tears, and which was therefore much the worse to bear. i had a terror upon me for my wicked life past, and firmly believed i was going to the bottom, launching into death, where i was to give an account of all my past actions; and in this state, and on that account, i looked back upon my wickedness with abhorrence, as i have said above, but i had no sense of repentance from the true motive of repentance; i saw nothing of the corruption of nature, the sin of my life, as an offence against god, as a thing odious to the holiness of his being, as abusing his mercy and despising his goodness. in short, i had no thorough effectual repentance, no sight of my sins in their proper shape, no view of a redeemer, or hope in him. i had only such a repentance as a criminal has at the place of execution, who is sorry, not that he has committed the crime, as it is a crime, but sorry that he is to be hanged for it. it is true amy's repentance wore off too, as well as mine, but not so soon. however, we were both very grave for a time. as soon as we could get a boat from the town we went on shore, and immediately went to a public-house in the town of harwich, where we were to consider seriously what was to be done, and whether we should go up to london or stay till the ship was refitted, which, they said, would be a fortnight, and then go for holland, as we intended, and as business required. reason directed that i should go to holland, for there i had all my money to receive, and there i had persons of good reputation and character to apply to, having letters to them from the honest dutch merchant at paris, and they might perhaps give me a recommendation again to merchants in london, and so i should get acquaintance with some people of figure, which was what i loved; whereas now i knew not one creature in the whole city of london, or anywhere else, that i could go and make myself known to. upon these considerations, i resolved to go to holland, whatever came of it. but amy cried and trembled, and was ready to fall into fits, when i did but mention going upon the sea again, and begged of me not to go, or if i would go, that i would leave her behind, though i was to send her a-begging. the people in the inn laughed at her, and jested with her, asked her if she had any sins to confess that she was ashamed should be heard of, and that she was troubled with an evil conscience; told her, if she came to sea, and to be in a storm, if she had lain with her master, she would certainly tell her mistress of it, and that it was a common thing for poor maids to confess all the young men they had lain with; that there was one poor girl that went over with her mistress, whose husband was a ......r, in ......, in the city of london, who confessed, in the terror of a storm, that she had lain with her master, and all the apprentices, so often, and in such-and-such places, and made the poor mistress, when she returned to london, fly at her husband, and make such a stir as was indeed the ruin of the whole family. amy could bear all that well enough, for though she had indeed lain with her master, it was with her mistress's knowledge and consent, and, which was worse, was her mistress's own doing. i record it to the reproach of my own vice, and to expose the excesses of such wickedness as they deserve to be exposed. i thought amy's fear would have been over by that time the ship would be gotten ready, but i found the girl was rather worse and worse; and when i came to the point that we must go on board or lose the passage, amy was so terrified that she fell into fits; so the ship went away without us. but my going being absolutely necessary, as above, i was obliged to go in the packet-boat some time after, and leave amy behind at harwich, but with directions to go to london and stay there to receive letters and orders from me what to do. now i was become, from a lady of pleasure, a woman of business, and of great business too, i assure you. i got me a servant at harwich to go over with me, who had been at rotterdam, knew the place, and spoke the language, which was a great help to me, and away i went. i had a very quick passage and pleasant weather, and, coming to rotterdam, soon found out the merchant to whom i was recommended, who received me with extraordinary respect. and first he acknowledged the accepted bill for four thousand pistoles, which he afterwards paid punctually; other bills that i had also payable at amsterdam he procured to be received for me; and whereas one of the bills for one thousand two hundred crowns was protested at amsterdam, he paid it me himself, for the honour of the indorser, as he called it, which was my friend the merchant at paris. there i entered into a negotiation by his means for my jewels, and he brought me several jewellers to look on them, and particularly one to value them, and to tell me what every particular was worth. this was a man who had great skill in jewels, but did not trade at that time, and he was desired by the gentleman that i was with to see that i might not be imposed upon. all this work took me up near half a year, and by managing my business thus myself, and having large sums to do with, i became as expert in it as any she-merchant of them all. i had credit in the bank for a large sum of money, and bills and notes for much more. after i had been here about three months, my maid amy writes me word that she had received a letter from her friend, as she called him. that, by the way, was the prince's gentleman, that had been amy's extraordinary friend indeed, for amy owned to me he had lain with her a hundred times, that is to say, as often as he pleased, and perhaps in the eight years which that affair lasted it might be a great deal oftener. this was what she called her friend, who she corresponded with upon this particular subject, and, among other things, sent her this particular news, that my extraordinary friend, my real husband, who rode in the _gens d'armes_, was dead, that he was killed in a rencounter, as they call it, or accidental scuffle among the troopers; and so the jade congratulated me upon my being now a real free woman. "and now, madam," says she at the end of her letter, "you have nothing to do but to come hither and set up a coach and a good equipage, and if beauty and a good fortune won't make you a duchess, nothing will." but i had not fixed my measures yet. i had no inclination to be a wife again. i had had such bad luck with my first husband, i hated the thoughts of it. i found that a wife is treated with indifference, a mistress with a strong passion; a wife is looked upon as but an upper servant, a mistress is a sovereign; a wife must give up all she has, have every reserve she makes for herself be thought hard of, and be upbraided with her very pin-money, whereas a mistress makes the saying true, that what the man has is hers, and what she has is her own; the wife bears a thousand insults, and is forced to sit still and bear it, or part, and be undone; a mistress insulted helps herself immediately, and takes another. these were my wicked arguments for whoring, for i never set against them the difference another way--i may say, every other way; how that, first, a wife appears boldly and honourably with her husband, lives at home, and possesses his house, his servants, his equipages, and has a right to them all, and to call them her own; entertains his friends, owns his children, and has the return of duty and affection from them, as they are here her own, and claims upon his estate, by the custom of england, if he dies and leaves her a widow. the whore skulks about in lodgings, is visited in the dark, disowned upon all occasions before god and man; is maintained, indeed, for a time, but is certainly condemned to be abandoned at last, and left to the miseries of fate and her own just disaster. if she has any children, her endeavour is to get rid of them, and not maintain them; and if she lives, she is certain to see them all hate her, and be ashamed of her. while the vice rages, and the man is in the devil's hand, she has him; and while she has him, she makes a prey of him; but if he happens to fall sick, if any disaster befalls him, the cause of all lies upon her. he is sure to lay all his misfortunes at her door; and if once he comes to repentance, or makes but one step towards a reformation, he begins with her--leaves her, uses her as she deserves, hates her, abhors her, and sees her no more; and that with this never-failing addition, namely, that the more sincere and unfeigned his repentance is, the more earnestly he looks up, and the more effectually he looks in, the more his aversion to her increases, and he curses her from the bottom of his soul; nay, it must be a kind of excess of charity if he so much as wishes god may forgive her. the opposite circumstances of a wife and whore are such and so many, and i have since seen the difference with such eyes, as i could dwell upon the subject a great while; but my business is history. i had a long scene of folly yet to run over. perhaps the moral of all my story may bring me back again to this part, and if it does i shall speak of it fully. while i continued in holland i received several letters from my friend (so i had good reason to call him) the merchant in paris, in which he gave me a farther account of the conduct of that rogue the jew, and how he acted after i was gone; how impatient he was while the said merchant kept him in suspense, expecting me to come again; and how he raged when he found i came no more. it seems, after he found i did not come, he found out by his unwearied inquiry where i had lived, and that i had been kept as a mistress by some great person; but he could never learn by who, except that he learnt the colour of his livery. in pursuit of this inquiry he guessed at the right person, but could not make it out, or offer any positive proof of it; but he found out the prince's gentleman, and talked so saucily to him of it that the gentleman treated him, as the french call it, _à coup de baton_--that is to say, caned him very severely, as he deserved; and that not satisfying him, or curing his insolence, he was met one night late upon the pont neuf, in paris, by two men, who, muffling him up in a great cloak, carried him into a more private place and cut off both his ears, telling him it was for talking impudently of his superiors; adding that he should take care to govern his tongue better and behave with more manners, or the next time they would cut his tongue out of his head. this put a check to his sauciness that way; but he comes back to the merchant and threatened to begin a process against him for corresponding with me, and being accessory to the murder of the jeweller, &c. the merchant found by his discourse that he supposed i was protected by the said prince de ----; nay, the rogue said he was sure i was in his lodgings at versailles, for he never had so much as the least intimation of the way i was really gone; but that i was there he was certain, and certain that the merchant was privy to it. the merchant bade him defiance. however, he gave him a great deal of trouble and put him to a great charge, and had like to have brought him in for a party to my escape; in which case he would have been obliged to have produced me, and that in the penalty of some capital sum of money. but the merchant was too many for him another way, for he brought an information against him for a cheat; wherein laying down the whole fact, how he intended falsely to accuse the widow of the jeweller for the supposed murder of her husband; that he did it purely to get the jewels from her; and that he offered to bring him (the merchant) in, to be confederate with him, and to share the jewels between them; proving also his design to get the jewels into his hands, and then to have dropped the prosecution upon condition of my quitting the jewels to him. upon this charge he got him laid by the heels; so he was sent to the conciergerie--that is to say, to bridewell--and the merchant cleared. he got out of jail in a little while, though not without the help of money, and continued teasing the merchant a long while, and at last threatening to assassinate and murder him. so the merchant, who, having buried his wife about two months before, was now a single man, and not knowing what such a villain might do, thought fit to quit paris, and came away to holland also. it is most certain that, speaking of originals, i was the source and spring of all that trouble and vexation to this honest gentleman; and as it was afterwards in my power to have made him full satisfaction, and did not, i cannot say but i added ingratitude to all the rest of my follies; but of that i shall give a fuller account presently. i was surprised one morning, when, being at the merchant's house who he had recommended me to in rotterdam, and being busy in his counting-house, managing my bills, and preparing to write a letter to him to paris, i heard a noise of horses at the door, which is not very common in a city where everybody passes by water; but he had, it seems, ferried over the maas from willemstadt, and so came to the very door, and i, looking towards the door upon hearing the horses, saw a gentleman alight and come in at the gate. i knew nothing, and expected nothing, to be sure, of the person; but, as i say, was surprised, and indeed more than ordinarily surprised, when, coming nearer to me, i saw it was my merchant of paris, my benefactor, and indeed my deliverer. i confess it was an agreeable surprise to me, and i was exceeding glad to see him, who was so honourable and so kind to me, and who indeed had saved my life. as soon as he saw me he ran to me, took me in his arms, and kissed me with a freedom that he never offered to take with me before. "dear madam ----," says he, "i am glad to see you safe in this country; if you had stayed two days longer in paris you had been undone." i was so glad to see him that i could not speak a good while, and i burst out into tears without speaking a word for a minute; but i recovered that disorder, and said, "the more, sir, is my obligation to you that saved my life;" and added, "i am glad to see you here, that i may consider how to balance an account in which i am so much your debtor." "you and i will adjust that matter easily," says he, "now we are so near together. pray where do you lodge?" says he. "in a very honest, good house," said i, "where that gentleman, your friend, recommended me," pointing to the merchant in whose house we then were. "and where you may lodge too, sir," says the gentleman, "if it suits with your business and your other conveniency." "with all my heart," says he. "then, madam," adds he, turning to me, "i shall be near you, and have time to tell you a story which will be very long, and yet many ways very pleasant to you; how troublesome that devilish fellow, the jew, has been to me on your account, and what a hellish snare he had laid for you, if he could have found you." "i shall have leisure too, sir," said i, "to tell you all my adventures since that, which have not been a few, i assure you." in short, he took up his lodgings in the same house where i lodged, and the room he lay in opened, as he was wishing it would, just opposite to my lodging-room, so we could almost call out of bed to one another; and i was not at all shy of him on that score, for i believed him perfectly honest, and so indeed he was; and if he had not, that article was at present no part of my concern. it was not till two or three days, and after his first hurries of business were over, that we began to enter into the history of our affairs on every side, but when we began, it took up all our conversation for almost a fortnight. first, i gave him a particular account of everything that happened material upon my voyage, and how we were driven into harwich by a very terrible storm; how i had left my woman behind me, so frighted with the danger she had been in that she durst not venture to set her foot into a ship again any more, and that i had not come myself if the bills i had of him had not been payable in holland; but that money, he might see, would make a woman go anywhere. he seemed to laugh at all our womanish fears upon the occasion of the storm, telling me it was nothing but what was very ordinary in those seas, but that they had harbours on every coast so near that they were seldom in danger of being lost indeed. "for," says he, "if they cannot fetch one coast, they can always stand away for another, and run afore it," as he called it, "for one side or other." but when i came to tell him what a crazy ship it was, and how, even when they got into harwich, and into smooth water, they were fain to run the ship on shore, or she would have sunk in the very harbour; and when i told him that when i looked out at the cabin-door i saw the dutchmen, one upon his knees here, and another there, at their prayers, then indeed he acknowledged i had reason to be alarmed; but, smiling, he added, "but you, madam," says he, "are so good a lady, and so pious, you would but have gone to heaven a little the sooner; the difference had not been much to you." i confess when he said this it made all the blood turn in my veins, and i thought i should have fainted. "poor gentleman," thought i, "you know little of me. what would i give to be really what you really think me to be!" he perceived the disorder, but said nothing till i spoke; when, shaking my head, "oh, sir!" said i, "death in any shape has some terror in it, but in the frightful figure of a storm at sea and a sinking ship, it comes with a double, a treble, and indeed an inexpressible horror; and if i were that saint you think me to be (which god knows i am not), it is still very dismal. i desire to die in a calm, if i can." he said a great many good things, and very prettily ordered his discourse between serious reflection and compliment, but i had too much guilt to relish it as it was meant, so i turned it off to something else, and talked of the necessity i had on me to come to holland, but i wished myself safe on shore in england again. he told me he was glad i had such an obligation upon me to come over into holland, however, but hinted that he was so interested in my welfare, and, besides, had such further designs upon me, that if i had not so happily been found in holland he was resolved to have gone to england to see me, and that it was one of the principal reasons of his leaving paris. i told him i was extremely obliged to him for so far interesting himself in my affairs, but that i had been so far his debtor before that i knew not how anything could increase the debt; for i owed my life to him already, and i could not be in debt for anything more valuable than that. he answered in the most obliging manner possible, that he would put it in my power to pay that debt, and all the obligations besides that ever he had, or should be able to lay upon me. i began to understand him now, and to see plainly that he resolved to make love to me, but i would by no means seem to take the hint; and, besides, i knew that he had a wife with him in paris; and i had, just then at least, no gust to any more intriguing. however, he surprised me into a sudden notice of the thing a little while after by saying something in his discourse that he did, as he said, in his wife's days. i started at that word, "what mean you by that, sir?" said i. "have you not a wife at paris?" "no, madam, indeed," said he; "my wife died the beginning of september last," which, it seems, was but a little after i came away. we lived in the same house all this while, and as we lodged not far off of one another, opportunities were not wanting of as near an acquaintance as we might desire; nor have such opportunities the least agency in vicious minds to bring to pass even what they might not intend at first. however, though he courted so much at a distance, yet his pretensions were very honourable; and as i had before found him a most disinterested friend, and perfectly honest in his dealings, even when i trusted him with all i had, so now i found him strictly virtuous, till i made him otherwise myself, even almost whether he would or no, as you shall hear. it was not long after our former discourse, when he repeated what he had insinuated before, namely, that he had yet a design to lay before me, which, if i would agree to his proposals, would more than balance all accounts between us. i told him i could not reasonably deny him anything; and except one thing, which i hoped and believed he would not think of, i should think myself very ungrateful if i did not do everything for him that lay in my power. he told me what he should desire of me would be fully in my power to grant, or else he should be very unfriendly to offer it; and still all this while he declined making the proposal, as he called it, and so for that time we ended our discourse, turning it off to other things. so that, in short, i began to think he might have met with some disaster in his business, and might have come away from paris in some discredit, or had had some blow on his affairs in general; and as really i had kindness enough to have parted with a good sum to have helped him, and was in gratitude bound to have done so, he having so effectually saved to me all i had, so i resolved to make him the offer the first time i had an opportunity, which two or three days after offered itself, very much to my satisfaction. he had told me at large, though on several occasions, the treatment he had met with from the jew, and what expense he had put him to; how at length he had cast him, as above, and had recovered good damage of him, but that the rogue was unable to make him any considerable reparation. he had told me also how the prince de ----'s gentleman had resented his treatment of his master, and how he had caused him to be used upon the pont neuf, &c., as i have mentioned above, which i laughed at most heartily. "it is a pity," said i, "that i should sit here and make that gentleman no amends; if you would direct me, sir," said i, "how to do it, i would make him a handsome present, and acknowledge the justice he had done to me, as well as to the prince, his master." he said he would do what i directed in it; so i told him i would send him five hundred crowns. "that's too much," said he, "for you are but half interested in the usage of the jew; it was on his master's account he corrected him, not on yours." well, however, we were obliged to do nothing in it, for neither of us knew how to direct a letter to him, or to direct anybody to him; so i told him i would leave it till i came to england, for that my woman, amy, corresponded with him, and that he had made love to her. "well, but, sir," said i, "as, in requital for his generous concern for me, i am careful to think of him, it is but just that what expense you have been obliged to be at, which was all on my account, should be repaid you; and therefore," said i, "let me see--." and there i paused, and began to reckon up what i had observed, from his own discourse, it had cost him in the several disputes and hearings which he had with that dog of a jew, and i cast them up at something above crowns; so i pulled out some bills which i had upon a merchant in amsterdam, and a particular account in bank, and was looking on them in order to give them to him; when he, seeing evidently what i was going about, interrupted me with some warmth, and told me he would have nothing of me on that account, and desired i would not pull out my bills and papers on that score; that he had not told me the story on that account, or with any such view; that it had been his misfortune first to bring that ugly rogue to me, which, though it was with a good design, yet he would punish himself with the expense he had been at for his being so unlucky to me; that i could not think so hard of him as to suppose he would take money of me, a widow, for serving me, and doing acts of kindness to me in a strange country, and in distress too; but he said he would repeat what he had said before, that he kept me for a deeper reckoning, and that, as he had told me, he would put me into a posture to even all that favour, as i called it, at once, so we should talk it over another time, and balance all together. now i expected it would come out, but still he put it off, as before, from whence i concluded it could not be matter of love, for that those things are not usually delayed in such a manner, and therefore it must be matter of money. upon which thought i broke the silence, and told him, that as he knew i had, by obligation, more kindness for him than to deny any favour to him that i could grant, and that he seemed backward to mention his case, i begged leave of him to give me leave to ask him whether anything lay upon his mind with respect to his business and effects in the world; that if it did, he knew what i had in the world as well as i did, and that, if he wanted money, i would let him have any sum for his occasion, as far as five or six thousand pistoles, and he should pay me as his own affairs would permit; and that, if he never paid me, i would assure him that i would never give him any trouble for it. he rose up with ceremony, and gave me thanks in terms that sufficiently told me he had been bred among people more polite and more courteous than is esteemed the ordinary usage of the dutch; and after his compliment was over he came nearer to me, and told me he was obliged to assure me, though with repeated acknowledgments of my kind offer, that he was not in any want of money; that he had met with no uneasiness in any of his affairs--no, not of any kind whatever, except that of the loss of his wife and one of his children, which indeed had troubled him much; but that this was no part of what he had to offer me, and by granting which i should balance all obligations; but that, in short, it was that, seeing providence had (as it were for that purpose) taken his wife from him, i would make up the loss to him; and with that he held me fast in his arms, and, kissing me, would not give me leave to say no, and hardly to breathe. at length, having got room to speak, i told him that, as i had said before, i could deny him but one thing in the world; i was very sorry he should propose that thing only that i could not grant. i could not but smile, however, to myself that he should make so many circles and roundabout motions to come at a discourse which had no such rarity at the bottom of it, if he had known all. but there was another reason why i resolved not to have him, when, at the same time, if he had courted me in a manner less honest or virtuous, i believe i should not have denied him; but i shall come to that part presently. he was, as i have said, long a-bringing it out, but when he had brought it out he pursued it with such importunities as would admit of no denial; at least he intended they should not; but i resisted them obstinately, and yet with expressions of the utmost kindness and respect for him that could be imagined, often telling him there was nothing else in the world that i could deny him, and showing him all the respect, and upon all occasions treating him with intimacy and freedom, as if he had been my brother. he tried all the ways imaginable to bring his design to pass, but i was inflexible. at last he thought of a way which, he flattered himself, would not fail; nor would he have been mistaken, perhaps, in any other woman in the world but me. this was, to try if he could take me at an advantage and get to bed to me, and then, as was most rational to think, i should willingly enough marry him afterwards. we were so intimate together that nothing but man and wife could, or at least ought, to be more; but still our freedoms kept within the bounds of modesty and decency. but one evening, above all the rest, we were very merry, and i fancied he pushed the mirth to watch for his advantage, and i resolved that i would at least feign to be as merry as he; and that, in short, if he offered anything he should have his will easily enough. about one o'clock in the morning--for so long we sat up together--i said, "come, 'tis one o'clock; i must go to bed." "well," says he, "i'll go with you." "no, no;" says i; "go to your own chamber." he said he would go to bed with me. "nay," says i, "if you will, i don't know what to say; if i can't help it, you must." however, i got from him, left him, and went into my chamber, but did not shut the door, and as he could easily see that i was undressing myself, he steps to his own room, which was but on the same floor, and in a few minutes undresses himself also, and returns to my door in his gown and slippers. i thought he had been gone indeed, and so that he had been in jest; and, by the way, thought either he had no mind to the thing, or that he never intended it; so i shut my door--that is, latched it, for i seldom locked or bolted it--and went to bed. i had not been in bed a minute but he comes in his gown to the door and opens it a little way, but not enough to come in or look in, and says softly, "what! are you really gone to bed?" "yes, yes," says i; "get you gone." "no, indeed," says he, "i shall not be gone; you gave me leave before to come to bed, and you shan't say 'get you gone' now." so he comes into my room, and then turns about and fastens the door, and immediately comes to the bedside to me. i pretended to scold and struggle, and bid him begone with more warmth than before; but it was all one; he had not a rag of clothes on but his gown and slippers and shirt, so he throws off his gown, and throws open the bed, and came in at once. i made a seeming resistance, but it was no more indeed; for, as above, i resolved from the beginning he should lie with me if he would, and, for the rest, i left it to come after. well, he lay with me that night, and the two next, and very merry we were all the three days between; but the third night he began to be a little more grave. "now, my dear," says he, "though i have pushed this matter farther than ever i intended, or than i believe you expected from me, who never made any pretences to you but what were very honest, yet to heal it all up, and let you see how sincerely i meant at first, and how honest i will ever be to you, i am ready to marry you still, and desire you to let it be done to-morrow morning; and i will give you the same fair conditions of marriage as i would have done before." this, it must be owned, was a testimony that he was very honest, and that he loved me sincerely; but i construed it quite another way, namely, that he aimed at the money. but how surprised did he look, and how was he confounded, when he found me receive his proposal with coldness and indifference, and still tell him that it was the only thing i could not grant! he was astonished. "what! not take me now," says he, "when i have been abed with you!" i answered coldly, though respectfully still, "it is true, to my shame be it spoken," says i, "that you have taken me by surprise, and have had your will of me; but i hope you will not take it ill that i cannot consent to marry for all that. if i am with child," said i, "care must be taken to manage that as you shall direct; i hope you won't expose me for my having exposed myself to you, but i cannot go any farther." and at that point i stood, and would hear of no matrimony by any means. now, because this may seem a little odd, i shall state the matter clearly, as i understood it myself. i knew that, while i was a mistress, it is customary for the person kept to receive from them that keep; but if i should be a wife, all i had then was given up to the husband, and i was henceforth to be under his authority only; and as i had money enough, and needed not fear being what they call a cast-off mistress, so i had no need to give him twenty thousand pounds to marry me, which had been buying my lodging too dear a great deal. thus his project of coming to bed to me was a bite upon himself, while he intended it for a bite upon me; and he was no nearer his aim of marrying me than he was before. all his arguments he could urge upon the subject of matrimony were at an end, for i positively declined marrying him; and as he had refused the thousand pistoles which i had offered him in compensation for his expenses and loss at paris with the jew, and had done it upon the hopes he had of marrying me, so when he found his way difficult still, he was amazed, and, i had some reason to believe, repented that he had refused the money. but thus it is when men run into wicked measures to bring their designs about. i, that was infinitely obliged to him before, began to talk to him as if i had balanced accounts with him now, and that the favour of lying with a whore was equal, not to the thousand pistoles only, but to all the debt i owed him for saving my life and all my effects. but he drew himself into it, and though it was a dear bargain, yet it was a bargain of his own making; he could not say i had tricked him into it. but as he projected and drew me in to lie with him, depending that was a sure game in order to a marriage, so i granted him the favour, as he called it, to balance the account of favours received from him, and keep the thousand pistoles with a good grace. he was extremely disappointed in this article, and knew not how to manage for a great while; and as i dare say, if he had not expected to have made it an earnest for marrying me, he would not have attempted me the other way, so, i believed, if it had not been for the money which he knew i had, he would never have desired to marry me after he had lain with me. for where is the man that cares to marry a whore, though of his own making? and as i knew him to be no fool, so i did him no wrong when i supposed that, but for the money, he would not have had any thoughts of me that way, especially after my yielding as i had done; in which it is to be remembered that i made no capitulation for marrying him when i yielded to him, but let him do just what he pleased, without any previous bargain. well, hitherto we went upon guesses at one another's designs; but as he continued to importune me to marry, though he had lain with me, and still did lie with me as often as he pleased, and i continued to refuse to marry him, though i let him lie with me whenever he desired it; i say, as these two circumstances made up our conversation, it could not continue long thus, but we must come to an explanation. one morning, in the middle of our unlawful freedoms--that is to say, when we were in bed together--he sighed, and told me he desired my leave to ask me one question, and that i would give him an answer to it with the same ingenious freedom and honesty that i had used to treat him with. i told him i would. why, then, his question was, why i would not marry him, seeing i allowed him all the freedom of a husband. "or," says he, "my dear, since you have been so kind as to take me to your bed, why will you not make me your own, and take me for good and all, that we may enjoy ourselves without any reproach to one another?" i told him, that as i confessed it was the only thing i could not comply with him in, so it was the only thing in all my actions that i could not give him a reason for; that it was true i had let him come to bed to me, which was supposed to be the greatest favour a woman could grant; but it was evident, and he might see it, that, as i was sensible of the obligation i was under to him for saving me from the worst circumstance it was possible for me to be brought to, i could deny him nothing; and if i had had any greater favour to yield him, i should have done it, that of matrimony only excepted, and he could not but see that i loved him to an extraordinary degree, in every part of my behaviour to him; but that as to marrying, which was giving up my liberty, it was what once he knew i had done, and he had seen how it had hurried me up and down in the world, and what it had exposed me to; that i had an aversion to it, and desired he would not insist upon it. he might easily see i had no aversion to him; and that, if i was with child by him, he should see a testimony of my kindness to the father, for that i would settle all i had in the world upon the child. he was mute a good while. at last says he, "come, my dear, you are the first woman in the world that ever lay with a man and then refused to marry him, and therefore there must be some other reason for your refusal; and i have therefore one other request, and that is, if i guess at the true reason, and remove the objection, will you then yield to me?" i told him if he removed the objection i must needs comply, for i should certainly do everything that i had no objection against. "why then, my dear, it must be that either you are already engaged or married to some other man, or you are not willing to dispose of your money to me, and expect to advance yourself higher with your fortune. now, if it be the first of these, my mouth will be stopped, and i have no more to say; but if it be the last, i am prepared effectually to remove the objection, and answer all you can say on that subject." i took him up short at the first of these, telling him he must have base thoughts of me indeed, to think that i could yield to him in such a manner as i had done, and continue it with so much freedom as he found i did, if i had a husband or were engaged to any other man; and that he might depend upon it that was not my case, nor any part of my case. "why then," said he, "as to the other, i have an offer to make to you that shall take off all the objection, viz., that i will not touch one pistole of your estate more than shall be with your own voluntary consent, neither now or at any other time, but you shall settle it as you please for your life, and upon who you please after your death;" that i should see he was able to maintain me without it, and that it was not for that that he followed me from paris. i was indeed surprised at that part of his offer, and he might easily perceive it; it was not only what i did not expect, but it was what i knew not what answer to make to. he had, indeed, removed my principal objection--nay, all my objections, and it was not possible for me to give any answer; for, if upon so generous an offer i should agree with him, i then did as good as confess that it was upon the account of my money that i refused him; and that though i could give up my virtue and expose myself, yet i would not give up my money, which, though it was true, yet was really too gross for me to acknowledge, and i could not pretend to marry him upon that principle neither. then as to having him, and make over all my estate out of his hands, so as not to give him the management of what i had, i thought it would be not only a little gothic and inhuman, but would be always a foundation of unkindness between us, and render us suspected one to another; so that, upon the whole, i was obliged to give a new turn to it, and talk upon a kind of an elevated strain, which really was not in my thoughts, at first, at all; for i own, as above, the divesting myself of my estate and putting my money out of my hand was the sum of the matter that made me refuse to marry; but, i say, i gave it a new turn upon this occasion, as follows:-- i told him i had, perhaps, different notions of matrimony from what the received custom had given us of it; that i thought a woman was a free agent as well as a man, and was born free, and, could she manage herself suitably, might enjoy that liberty to as much purpose as the men do; that the laws of matrimony were indeed otherwise, and mankind at this time acted quite upon other principles, and those such that a woman gave herself entirely away from herself, in marriage, and capitulated, only to be, at best, but an upper servant, and from the time she took the man she was no better or worse than the servant among the israelites, who had his ears bored--that is, nailed to the door-post--who by that act gave himself up to be a servant during life; that the very nature of the marriage contract was, in short, nothing but giving up liberty, estate, authority, and everything to the man, and the woman was indeed a mere woman ever after--that is to say, a slave. he replied, that though in some respects it was as i had said, yet i ought to consider that, as an equivalent to this, the man had all the care of things devolved upon him; that the weight of business lay upon his shoulders, and as he had the trust, so he had the toil of life upon him; his was the labour, his the anxiety of living; that the woman had nothing to do but to eat the fat and drink the sweet; to sit still and look around her, be waited on and made much of, be served and loved and made easy, especially if the husband acted as became him; and that, in general, the labour of the man was appointed to make the woman live quiet and unconcerned in the world; that they had the name of subjection without the thing; and if in inferior families they had the drudgery of the house and care of the provisions upon them, yet they had indeed much the easier part; for, in general, the women had only the care of managing--that is, spending what their husbands get; and that a woman had the name of subjection, indeed, but that they generally commanded, not the men only, but all they had; managed all for themselves; and where the man did his duty, the woman's life was all ease and tranquillity, and that she had nothing to do but to be easy, and to make all that were about her both easy and merry. i returned, that while a woman was single, she was a masculine in her politic capacity; that she had then the full command of what she had, and the full direction of what she did; that she was a man in her separate capacity, to all intents and purposes that a man could be so to himself; that she was controlled by none, because accountable to none, and was in subjection to none. so i sung these two lines of mr. ----'s:-- "oh! 'tis pleasant to be free, the sweetest miss is liberty." i added, that whoever the woman was that had an estate, and would give it up to be the slave of a great man, that woman was a fool, and must be fit for nothing but a beggar; that it was my opinion a woman was as fit to govern and enjoy her own estate without a man as a man was without a woman; and that, if she had a mind to gratify herself as to sexes, she might entertain a man as a man does a mistress; that while she was thus single she was her own, and if she gave away that power she merited to be as miserable as it was possible that any creature could be. all he could say could not answer the force of this as to argument; only this, that the other way was the ordinary method that the world was guided by; that he had reason to expect i should be content with that which all the world was contented with; that he was of the opinion that a sincere affection between a man and his wife answered all the objections that i had made about the being a slave, a servant, and the like; and where there was a mutual love there could be no bondage, but that there was but one interest, one aim, one design, and all conspired to make both very happy. "ay," said i, "that is the thing i complain of. the pretence of affection takes from a woman everything that can be called herself; she is to have no interest, no aim, no view; but all is the interest, aim, and view of the husband; she is to be the passive creature you spoke of," said i. "she is to lead a life of perfect indolence, and living by faith, not in god, but in her husband, she sinks or swims, as he is either fool or wise man, unhappy or prosperous; and in the middle of what she thinks is her happiness and prosperity, she is engulfed in misery and beggary, which she had not the least notice, knowledge, or suspicion of. how often have i seen a woman living in all the splendour that a plentiful fortune ought to allow her, with her coaches and equipages, her family and rich furniture, her attendants and friends, her visitors and good company, all about her to-day; to-morrow surprised with a disaster, turned out of all by a commission of bankrupt, stripped to the clothes on her back; her jointure, suppose she had it, is sacrificed to the creditors so long as her husband lived, and she turned into the street, and left to live on the charity of her friends, if she has any, or follow the monarch, her husband, into the mint, and live there on the wreck of his fortunes, till he is forced to run away from her even there; and then she sees her children starve, herself miserable, breaks her heart, and cries herself to death! this," says i, "is the state of many a lady that has had £ , to her portion." he did not know how feelingly i spoke this, and what extremities i had gone through of this kind; how near i was to the very last article above, viz., crying myself to death; and how i really starved for almost two years together. but he shook his head, and said, where had i lived? and what dreadful families had i lived among, that had frighted me into such terrible apprehensions of things? that these things indeed might happen where men run into hazardous things in trade, and, without prudence or due consideration, launched their fortunes in a degree beyond their strength, grasping at adventures beyond their stocks, and the like; but that, as he was stated in the world, if i would embark with him, he had a fortune equal with mine; that together we should have no occasion of engaging in business any more, but that in any part of the world where i had a mind to live, whether england, france, holland, or where i would, we might settle, and live as happily as the world could make any one live; that if i desired the management of our estate, when put together, if i would not trust him with mine, he would trust me with his; that we would be upon one bottom, and i should steer. "ay," says i, "you'll allow me to steer--that is, hold the helm--but you'll con the ship, as they call it; that is, as at sea, a boy serves to stand at the helm, but he that gives him the orders is pilot." he laughed at my simile. "no," says he; "you shall be pilot then; you shall con the ship." "ay," says i, "as long as you please; but you can take the helm out of my hand when you please, and bid me go spin. it is not you," says i, "that i suspect, but the laws of matrimony puts the power into your hands, bids you do it, commands you to command, and binds me, forsooth, to obey. you, that are now upon even terms with me, and i with you," says i, "are the next hour set up upon the throne, and the humble wife placed at your footstool; all the rest, all that you call oneness of interest, mutual affection, and the like, is courtesy and kindness then, and a woman is indeed infinitely obliged where she meets with it, but can't help herself where it fails." well, he did not give it over yet, but came to the serious part, and there he thought he should be too many for me. he first hinted that marriage was decreed by heaven; that it was the fixed state of life, which god had appointed for man's felicity, and for establishing a legal posterity; that there could be no legal claim of estates by inheritance but by children born in wedlock; that all the rest was sunk under scandal and illegitimacy; and very well he talked upon that subject indeed. but it would not do; i took him short there. "look you, sir," said i, "you have an advantage of me there indeed, in my particular case, but it would not be generous to make use of it. i readily grant that it were better for me to have married you than to admit you to the liberty i have given you, but as i could not reconcile my judgment to marriage, for the reasons above, and had kindness enough for you, and obligation too much on me to resist you, i suffered your rudeness and gave up my virtue. but i have two things before me to heal up that breach of honour without that desperate one of marriage, and those are, repentance for what is past, and putting an end to it for time to come." he seemed to be concerned to think that i should take him in that manner. he assured me that i misunderstood him; that he had more manners as well as more kindness for me, and more justice than to reproach me with what he had been the aggressor in, and had surprised me into; that what he spoke referred to my words above, that the woman, if she thought fit, might entertain a man, as a man did a mistress; and that i seemed to mention that way of living as justifiable, and setting it as a lawful thing, and in the place of matrimony. well, we strained some compliments upon those points, not worth repeating; and i added, i supposed when he got to bed to me he thought himself sure of me; and, indeed, in the ordinary course of things, after he had lain with me he ought to think so, but that, upon the same foot of argument which i had discoursed with him upon, it was just the contrary; and when a woman had been weak enough to yield up the last point before wedlock, it would be adding one weakness to another to take the man afterwards, to pin down the shame of it upon herself all the days of her life, and bind herself to live all her time with the only man that could upbraid her with it; that in yielding at first, she must be a fool, but to take the man is to be sure to be called fool; that to resist a man is to act with courage and vigour, and to cast off the reproach, which, in the course of things, drops out of knowledge and dies. the man goes one way and the woman another, as fate and the circumstances of living direct; and if they keep one another's counsel, the folly is heard no more of. "but to take the man," says i, "is the most preposterous thing in nature, and (saving your presence) is to befoul one's self, and live always in the smell of it. no, no," added i; "after a man has lain with me as a mistress, he ought never to lie with me as a wife. that's not only preserving the crime in memory, but it is recording it in the family. if the woman marries the man afterwards, she bears the reproach of it to the last hour. if her husband is not a man of a hundred thousand, he some time or other upbraids her with it. if he has children, they fail not one way or other to hear of it. if the children are virtuous, they do their mother the justice to hate her for it; if they are wicked, they give her the mortification of doing the like, and giving her for the example. on the other hand, if the man and the woman part, there is an end of the crime and an end of the clamour; time wears out the memory of it, or a woman may remove but a few streets, and she soon outlives it, and hears no more of it." he was confounded at this discourse, and told me he could not say but i was right in the main. that as to that part relating to managing estates, it was arguing _à la cavalier_; it was in some sense right, if the women were able to carry it on so, but that in general the sex were not capable of it; their heads were not turned for it, and they had better choose a person capable and honest, that knew how to do them justice as women, as well as to love them; and that then the trouble was all taken off of their hands. i told him it was a dear way of purchasing their ease, for very often when the trouble was taken off of their hands, so was their money too; and that i thought it was far safer for the sex not to be afraid of the trouble, but to be really afraid of their money; that if nobody was trusted, nobody would be deceived, and the staff in their own hands was the best security in the world. he replied, that i had started a new thing in the world; that however i might support it by subtle reasoning, yet it was a way of arguing that was contrary to the general practice, and that he confessed he was much disappointed in it; that, had he known i would have made such a use of it, he would never have attempted what he did, which he had no wicked design in, resolving to make me reparation, and that he was very sorry he had been so unhappy; that he was very sure he should never upbraid me with it hereafter, and had so good an opinion of me as to believe i did not suspect him; but seeing i was positive in refusing him, notwithstanding what had passed, he had nothing to do but secure me from reproach by going back again to paris, that so, according to my own way of arguing, it might die out of memory, and i might never meet with it again to my disadvantage. i was not pleased with this part at all, for i had no mind to let him go neither, and yet i had no mind to give him such hold of me as he would have had; and thus i was in a kind of suspense, irresolute, and doubtful what course to take. i was in the house with him, as i have observed, and i saw evidently that he was preparing to go back to paris; and particularly i found he was remitting money to paris, which was, as i understood afterwards, to pay for some wines which he had given order to have bought for him at troyes, in champagne, and i knew not what course to take; and, besides that, i was very loth to part with him. i found also that i was with child by him, which was what i had not yet told him of, and sometimes i thought not to tell him of it at all; but i was in a strange place, and had no acquaintance, though i had a great deal of substance, which indeed, having no friends there, was the more dangerous to me. this obliged me to take him one morning when i saw him, as i thought, a little anxious about his going, and irresolute. says i to him, "i fancy you can hardly find in your heart to leave me now." "the more unkind is it in you," said he, "severely unkind, to refuse a man that knows not how to part with you." "i am so far from being unkind to you," said i, "that i will go over all the world with you if you desire me to, except to paris, where you know i can't go." "it is a pity so much love," said he, "on both sides should ever separate." "why, then," said i, "do you go away from me?" "because," said he, "you won't take me." "but if i won't take you," said i, "you may take me anywhere but to paris." he was very loth to go anywhere, he said, without me, but he must go to paris or the east indies. i told him i did not use to court, but i durst venture myself to the east indies with him, if there was a necessity of his going. he told me, god be thanked he was in no necessity of going anywhere, but that he had a tempting invitation to go to the indies. i answered, i would say nothing to that, but that i desired he would go anywhere but to paris, because there he knew i must not go. he said he had no remedy but to go where i could not go, for he could not bear to see me if he must not have me. i told him that was the unkindest thing he could say of me, and that i ought to take it very ill, seeing i knew how very well to oblige him to stay, without yielding to what he knew i could not yield to. this amazed him, and he told me i was pleased to be mysterious, but that he was sure it was in nobody's power to hinder him going, if he resolved upon it, except me, who had influence enough upon him to make him do anything. yes, i told him, i could hinder him, because i knew he could no more do an unkind thing by me than he could do an unjust one; and to put him out of his pain, i told him i was with child. he came to me, and taking me in his arms and kissing me a thousand times almost, said, why would i be so unkind not to tell him that before? i told him 'twas hard, that to have him stay, i should be forced to do as criminals do to avoid the gallows, plead my belly; and that i thought i had given him testimonies enough of an affection equal to that of a wife, if i had not only lain with him, been with child by him, shown myself unwilling to part with him, but offered to go to the east indies with him; and except one thing that i could not grant, what could he ask more? he stood mute a good while, but afterwards told me he had a great deal more to say if i could assure him that i would not take ill whatever freedom he might use with me in his discourse. i told him he might use any freedom in words with me; for a woman who had given leave to such other freedoms as i had done had left herself no room to take anything ill, let it be what it would. "why, then," he said, "i hope you believe, madam, i was born a christian, and that i have some sense of sacred things upon my mind. when i first broke in upon my own virtue and assaulted yours; when i surprised and, as it were, forced you to that which neither you intended or i designed but a few hours before, it was upon a presumption that you would certainly marry me, if once i could go that length with you, and it was with an honest resolution to make you my wife. "but i have been surprised with such a denial that no woman in such circumstances ever gave to a man; for certainly it was never known that any woman refused to marry a man that had first lain with her, much less a man that had gotten her with child. but you go upon different notions from all the world, and though you reason upon it so strongly that a man knows hardly what to answer, yet i must own there is something in it shocking to nature, and something very unkind to yourself. but, above all, it is unkind to the child that is yet unborn, who, if we marry, will come into the world with advantage enough, but if not, is ruined before it is born; must bear the eternal reproach of what it is not guilty of; must be branded from its cradle with a mark of infamy, be loaded with the crimes and follies of its parents, and suffer for sins that it never committed. this i take to be very hard, and, indeed, cruel to the poor infant not yet born, who you cannot think of with any patience, if you have the common affection of a mother, and not do that for it which should at once place it on a level with the rest of the world, and not leave it to curse its parents for what also we ought to be ashamed of. i cannot, therefore," says he, "but beg and entreat you, as you are a christian and a mother, not to let the innocent lamb you go with be ruined before it is born, and leave it to curse and reproach us hereafter for what may be so easily avoided. "then, dear madam," said he, with a world of tenderness (and i thought i saw tears in his eyes), "allow me to repeat it, that i am a christian, and consequently i do not allow what i have rashly, and without due consideration, done; i say, i do not approve of it as lawful, and therefore, though i did, with the view i have mentioned, one unjustifiable action, i cannot say that i could satisfy myself to live in a continual practice of what in judgment we must both condemn; and though i love you above all the women in the world, and have done enough to convince you of it by resolving to marry you after what has passed between us, and by offering to quit all pretensions to any part of your estate, so that i should, as it were, take a wife after i had lain with her, and without a farthing portion, which, as my circumstances are, i need not do; i say, notwithstanding my affection to you, which is inexpressible, yet i cannot give up soul as well as body, the interest of this world and the hopes of another; and you cannot call this my disrespect to you." if ever any man in the world was truly valuable for the strictest honesty of intention, this was the man; and if ever woman in her senses rejected a man of merit on so trivial and frivolous a pretence, i was the woman; but surely it was the most preposterous thing that ever woman did. he would have taken me as a wife, but would not entertain me as a whore. was ever woman angry with any gentleman on that head? and was ever woman so stupid to choose to be a whore, where she might have been an honest wife? but infatuations are next to being possessed of the devil. i was inflexible, and pretended to argue upon the point of a woman's liberty as before, but he took me short, and with more warmth than he had yet used with me, though with the utmost respect, replied, "dear madam, you argue for liberty, at the same time that you restrain yourself from that liberty which god and nature has directed you to take, and, to supply the deficiency, propose a vicious liberty, which is neither honourable or religious. will you propose liberty at the expense of modesty?" i returned, that he mistook me; i did not propose it; i only said that those that could not be content without concerning the sexes in that affair might do so indeed; might entertain a man as men do a mistress, if they thought fit, but he did not hear me say i would do so; and though, by what had passed, he might well censure me in that part, yet he should find, for the future, that i should freely converse with him without any inclination that way. he told me he could not promise that for himself, and thought he ought not to trust himself with the opportunity, for that, as he had failed already, he was loth to lead himself into the temptation of offending again, and that this was the true reason of his resolving to go back to paris; not that he could willingly leave me, and would be very far from wanting my invitation; but if he could not stay upon terms that became him, either as an honest man or a christian, what could he do? and he hoped, he said, i could not blame him that he was unwilling anything that was to call him father should upbraid him with leaving him in the world to be called bastard; adding that he was astonished to think how i could satisfy myself to be so cruel to an innocent infant not yet born; professed he could neither bear the thoughts of it, much less bear to see it, and hoped i would not take it ill that he could not stay to see me delivered, for that very reason. i saw he spoke this with a disturbed mind, and that it was with some difficulty that he restrained his passion, so i declined any farther discourse upon it; only said i hoped he would consider of it. "oh, madam!" says he, "do not bid me consider; 'tis for you to consider;" and with that he went out of the room, in a strange kind of confusion, as was easy to be seen in his countenance. if i had not been one of the foolishest as well as wickedest creatures upon earth, i could never have acted thus. i had one of the honestest, completest gentlemen upon earth at my hand. he had in one sense saved my life, but he had saved that life from ruin in a most remarkable manner. he loved me even to distraction, and had come from paris to rotterdam on purpose to seek me. he had offered me marriage even after i was with child by him, and had offered to quit all his pretensions to my estate, and give it up to my own management, having a plentiful estate of his own. here i might have settled myself out of the reach even of disaster itself; his estate and mine would have purchased even then above two thousand pounds a year, and i might have lived like a queen--nay, far more happy than a queen; and, which was above all, i had now an opportunity to have quitted a life of crime and debauchery, which i had been given up to for several years, and to have sat down quiet in plenty and honour, and to have set myself apart to the great work which i have since seen so much necessity of and occasion for--i mean that of repentance. but my measure of wickedness was not yet full. i continued obstinate against matrimony, and yet i could not bear the thoughts of his going away neither. as to the child, i was not very anxious about it. i told him i would promise him it should never come to him to upbraid him with its being illegitimate; that if it was a boy, i would breed it up like the son of a gentleman, and use it well for his sake; and after a little more such talk as this, and seeing him resolved to go, i retired, but could not help letting him see the tears run down my cheeks. he came to me and kissed me, entreated me, conjured me by the kindness he had shown me in my distress, by the justice he had done me in my bills and money affairs, by the respect which made him refuse a thousand pistoles from me for his expenses with that traitor the jew, by the pledge of our misfortunes--so he called it--which i carried with me, and by all that the sincerest affection could propose to do, that i would not drive him away. but it would not do. i was stupid and senseless, deaf to all his importunities, and continued so to the last. so we parted, only desiring me to promise that i would write him word when i was delivered, and how he might give me an answer; and this i engaged my word i would do. and upon his desiring to be informed which way i intended to dispose of myself, i told him i resolved to go directly to england, and to london, where i proposed to lie in; but since he resolved to leave me, i told him i supposed it would be of no consequence to him what became of me. he lay in his lodgings that night, but went away early in the morning, leaving me a letter in which he repeated all he had said, recommended the care of the child, and desired of me that as he had remitted to me the offer of a thousand pistoles which i would have given him for the recompense of his charges and trouble with the jew, and had given it me back, so he desired i would allow him to oblige me to set apart that thousand pistoles, with its improvement, for the child, and for its education; earnestly pressing me to secure that little portion for the abandoned orphan when i should think fit, as he was sure i would, to throw away the rest upon something as worthless as my sincere friend at paris. he concluded with moving me to reflect, with the same regret as he did, on our follies we had committed together; asked me forgiveness for being the aggressor in the fact, and forgave me everything, he said, but the cruelty of refusing him, which he owned he could not forgive me so heartily as he should do, because he was satisfied it was an injury to myself, would be an introduction to my ruin, and that i would seriously repent of it. he foretold some fatal things which, he said, he was well assured i should fall into, and that at last i would be ruined by a bad husband; bid me be the more wary, that i might render him a false prophet; but to remember that, if ever i came into distress, i had a fast friend at paris, who would not upbraid me with the unkind things past, but would be always ready to return me good for evil. this letter stunned me. i could not think it possible for any one that had not dealt with the devil to write such a letter, for he spoke of some particular things which afterwards were to befall me with such an assurance that it frighted me beforehand; and when those things did come to pass, i was persuaded he had some more than human knowledge. in a word, his advices to me to repent were very affectionate, his warnings of evil to happen to me were very kind, and his promises of assistance, if i wanted him, were so generous that i have seldom seen the like; and though i did not at first set much by that part because i looked upon them as what might not happen, and as what was improbable to happen at that time, yet all the rest of his letter was so moving that it left me very melancholy, and i cried four-and-twenty hours after, almost without ceasing, about it; and yet even all this while, whatever it was that bewitched me, i had not one serious wish that i had taken him. i wished heartily, indeed, that i could have kept him with me, but i had a mortal aversion to marrying him, or indeed anybody else, but formed a thousand wild notions in my head that i was yet gay enough, and young and handsome enough, to please a man of quality, and that i would try my fortune at london, come of it what would. thus blinded by my own vanity, i threw away the only opportunity i then had to have effectually settled my fortunes, and secured them for this world; and i am a memorial to all that shall read my story, a standing monument of the madness and distraction which pride and infatuations from hell run us into, how ill our passions guide us, and how dangerously we act when we follow the dictates of an ambitious mind. i was rich, beautiful, and agreeable, and not yet old. i had known something of the influence i had had upon the fancies of men even of the highest rank. i never forgot that the prince de ---- had said, with an ecstasy, that i was the finest woman in france. i knew i could make a figure at london, and how well i could grace that figure. i was not at a loss how to behave, and having already been adored by princes, i thought of nothing less than of being mistress to the king himself. but i go back to my immediate circumstances at that time. i got over the absence of my honest merchant but slowly at first. it was with infinite regret that i let him go at all; and when i read the letter he left i was quite confounded. as soon as he was out of call and irrecoverable i would have given half i had in the world for him back again; my notion of things changed in an instant, and i called myself a thousand fools for casting myself upon a life of scandal and hazard, when, after the shipwreck of virtue, honour, and principle, and sailing at the utmost risk in the stormy seas of crime and abominable levity, i had a safe harbour presented, and no heart to cast anchor in it. his predictions terrified me; his promises of kindness if i came to distress melted me into tears, but frighted me with the apprehensions of ever coming into such distress, and filled my head with a thousand anxieties and thoughts how it should be possible for me, who had now such a fortune, to sink again into misery. then the dreadful scene of my life, when i was left with my five children, &c., as i have related, represented itself again to me, and i sat considering what measures i might take to bring myself to such a state of desolation again, and how i should act to avoid it. but these things wore off gradually. as to my friend the merchant, he was gone, and gone irrecoverably, for i durst not follow him to paris, for the reasons mentioned above. again, i was afraid to write to him to return, lest he should have refused, as i verily believed he would; so i sat and cried intolerably for some days--nay, i may say for some weeks; but, i say, it wore off gradually, and as i had a pretty deal of business for managing my effects, the hurry of that particular part served to divert my thoughts, and in part to wear out the impressions which had been made upon my mind. i had sold my jewels, all but the diamond ring which my gentleman the jeweller used to wear, and this, at proper times, i wore myself; as also the diamond necklace which the prince had given me, and a pair of extraordinary earrings worth about pistoles; the other, which was a fine casket, he left with me at his going to versailles, and a small case with some rubies and emeralds, &c. i say i sold them at the hague for pistoles. i had received all the bills which the merchant had helped me to at paris, and with the money i brought with me, they made up , pistoles more; so that i had in ready money, and in account in the bank at amsterdam, above one-and-twenty thousand pistoles, besides jewels; and how to get this treasure to england was my next care. the business i had had now with a great many people for receiving such large sums and selling jewels of such considerable value gave me opportunity to know and converse with several of the best merchants of the place, so that i wanted no direction now how to get my money remitted to england. applying, therefore, to several merchants, that i might neither risk it all on the credit of one merchant, nor suffer any single man to know the quantity of money i had; i say, applying myself to several merchants, i got bills of exchange payable in london for all my money. the first bills i took with me; the second bills i left in trust (in case of any disaster at sea) in the hands of the first merchant, him to whom i was recommended by my friend from paris. having thus spent nine months in holland, refused the best offer ever woman in my circumstances had, parted unkindly, and indeed barbarously, with the best friend and honestest man in the world, got all my money in my pocket, and a bastard in my belly, i took shipping at the brill in the packet-boat, and arrived safe at harwich, where my woman amy was come by my direction to meet me. i would willingly have given ten thousand pounds of my money to have been rid of the burthen i had in my belly, as above; but it could not be, so i was obliged to bear with that part, and get rid of it by the ordinary method of patience and a hard travail. i was above the contemptible usage that women in my circumstances oftentimes meet with. i had considered all that beforehand; and having sent amy beforehand, and remitted her money to do it, she had taken me a very handsome house in ---- street, near charing cross; had hired me two maids and a footman, who she had put in a good livery; and having hired a glass coach and four horses, she came with them and the man-servant to harwich to meet me, and had been there near a week before i came, so i had nothing to do but to go away to london to my own house, where i arrived in very good health, and where i passed for a french lady, by the title of ----. my first business was to get all my bills accepted, which, to cut the story short, was all both accepted and currently paid; and i then resolved to take me a country lodging somewhere near the town, to be incognito, till i was brought to bed; which, appearing in such a figure and having such an equipage, i easily managed without anybody's offering the usual insults of parish inquiries. i did not appear in my new house for some time, and afterwards i thought fit, for particular reasons, to quit that house, and not to come to it at all, but take handsome large apartments in the pall mall, in a house out of which was a private door into the king's garden, by the permission of the chief gardener, who had lived in the house. i had now all my effects secured; but my money being my great concern at that time, i found it a difficulty how to dispose of it so as to bring me in an annual interest. however, in some time i got a substantial safe mortgage for £ , by the assistance of the famous sir robert clayton, for which i had an estate of £ a year bound to me, and had £ per annum interest for it. this, with some other securities, made me a very handsome estate of above a thousand pounds a year; enough, one would think, to keep any woman in england from being a whore. i lay in at ----, about four miles from london, and brought a fine boy into the world, and, according to my promise, sent an account of it to my friend at paris, the father of it; and in the letter told him how sorry i was for his going away, and did as good as intimate that, if he would come once more to see me, i should use him better than i had done. he gave me a very kind and obliging answer, but took not the least notice of what i had said of his coming over, so i found my interest lost there for ever. he gave me joy of the child, and hinted that he hoped i would make good what he had begged for the poor infant as i had promised, and i sent him word again that i would fulfil his order to a tittle; and such a fool and so weak i was in this last letter, notwithstanding what i have said of his not taking notice of my invitation, as to ask his pardon almost for the usage i gave him at rotterdam, and stooped so low as to expostulate with him for not taking notice of my inviting him to come to me again, as i had done; and, which was still more, went so far as to make a second sort of an offer to him, telling him, almost in plain words, that if he would come over now i would have him; but he never gave me the least reply to it at all, which was as absolute a denial to me as he was ever able to give; so i sat down, i cannot say contented, but vexed heartily that i had made the offer at all, for he had, as i may say, his full revenge of me in scorning to answer, and to let me twice ask that of him which he with so much importunity begged of me before. i was now up again, and soon came to my city lodging in the pall mall, and here i began to make a figure suitable to my estate, which was very great; and i shall give you an account of my equipage in a few words, and of myself too. i paid £ a year for my new apartments, for i took them by the year; but then they were handsome lodgings indeed, and very richly furnished. i kept my own servants to clean and look after them, found my own kitchen ware and firing. my equipage was handsome, but not very great; i had a coach, a coachman, a footman, my woman amy, who i now dressed like a gentlewoman and made her my companion, and three maids; and thus i lived for a time. i dressed to the height of every mode, went extremely rich in clothes, and as for jewels, i wanted none. i gave a very good livery, laced with silver, and as rich as anybody below the nobility could be seen with; and thus i appeared, leaving the world to guess who or what i was, without offering to put myself forward. i walked sometimes in the mall with my woman amy, but i kept no company and made no acquaintances, only made as gay a show as i was able to do, and that upon all occasions. i found, however, the world was not altogether so unconcerned about me as i seemed to be about them; and first i understood that the neighbours began to be mighty inquisitive about me, as who i was, and what my circumstances were. amy was the only person that could answer their curiosity or give any account of me; and she, a tattling woman and a true gossip, took care to do that with all the art that she was mistress of. she let them know that i was the widow of a person of quality in france, that i was very rich, that i came over hither to look after an estate that fell to me by some of my relations who died here, that i was worth £ , all in my own hands, and the like. this was all wrong in amy, and in me too, though we did not see it at first, for this recommended me indeed to those sort of gentlemen they call fortune-hunters, and who always besieged ladies, as they called it--on purpose to take them prisoners, as i called it--that is to say, to marry the women and have the spending of their money. but if i was wrong in refusing the honourable proposals of the dutch merchant, who offered me the disposal of my whole estate, and had as much of his own to maintain me with, i was right now in refusing those offers which came generally from gentlemen of good families and good estates, but who, living to the extent of them, were always needy and necessitous, and wanted a sum of money to make themselves easy, as they call it--that is to say, to pay off encumbrances, sisters' portions, and the like; and then the woman is prisoner for life, and may live as they give her leave. this life i had seen into clearly enough, and therefore i was not to be catched that way. however, as i said, the reputation of my money brought several of those sort of gentry about me, and they found means, by one stratagem or other, to get access to my ladyship; but, in short, i answered them well enough, that i lived single and was happy; that as i had no occasion to change my condition for an estate, so i did not see that by the best offer that any of them could make me i could mend my fortune; that i might be honoured with titles indeed, and in time rank on public occasions with the peeresses (i mention that because one that offered at me was the eldest son of a peer), but that i was as well without the title as long as i had the estate, and while i had £ a year of my own i was happier than i could be in being prisoner of state to a nobleman, for i took the ladies of that rank to be little better. as i have mentioned sir robert clayton, with whom i had the good fortune to become acquainted, on account of the mortgage which he helped me to, it is necessary to take notice that i had much advantage in my ordinary affairs by his advice, and therefore i called it my good fortune; for as he paid me so considerable an annual income as £ a year, so i am to acknowledge myself much a debtor, not only to the justice of his dealings with me, but to the prudence and conduct which he guided me to, by his advice, for the management of my estate. and as he found i was not inclined to marry, he frequently took occasion to hint how soon i might raise my fortune to a prodigious height if i would but order my family economy so far within my revenue as to lay up every year something to add to the capital. i was convinced of the truth of what he said, and agreed to the advantages of it. you are to take it as you go that sir robert supposed by my own discourse, and especially by my woman amy, that i had £ a year income. he judged, as he said, by my way of living that i could not spend above one thousand, and so, he added, i might prudently lay by £ every year to add to the capital; and by adding every year the additional interest or income of the money to the capital, he proved to me that in ten years i should double the £ per annum that i laid by. and he drew me out a table, as he called it, of the increase, for me to judge by; and by which, he said, if the gentlemen of england would but act so, every family of them would increase their fortunes to a great degree, just as merchants do by trade; whereas now, says sir robert, by the humour of living up to the extent of their fortunes, and rather beyond, the gentlemen, says he, ay, and the nobility too, are almost all of them borrowers, and all in necessitous circumstances. as sir robert frequently visited me, and was (if i may say so from his own mouth) very well pleased with my way of conversing with him, for he knew nothing, not so much as guessed at what i had been; i say, as he came often to see me, so he always entertained me with this scheme of frugality; and one time he brought another paper, wherein he showed me, much to the same purpose as the former, to what degree i should increase my estate if i would come into his method of contracting my expenses; and by this scheme of his, it appeared that, laying up a thousand pounds a year, and every year adding the interest to it, i should in twelve years' time have in bank one-and-twenty thousand and fifty-eight pounds, after which i might lay up two thousand pounds a year. i objected that i was a young woman, that i had been used to live plentifully, and with a good appearance, and that i knew not how to be a miser. he told me that if i thought i had enough it was well, but that if i desired to have more, this was the way; that in another twelve years i should be too rich, so that i should not know what to do with it. "ay, sir," says i, "you are contriving how to make me a rich old woman, but that won't answer my end; i had rather have £ , now than £ , when i am fifty years old." "then, madam," says he, "i suppose your honour has no children?" "none, sir robert," said i, "but what are provided for." so i left him in the dark as much as i found him. however, i considered his scheme very well, though i said no more to him at that time, and i resolved, though i would make a very good figure, i say i resolved to abate a little of my expense, and draw in, live closer, and save something, if not so much as he proposed to me. it was near the end of the year that sir robert made this proposal to me, and when the year was up i went to his house in the city, and there i told him i came to thank him for his scheme of frugality; that i had been studying much upon it, and though i had not been able to mortify myself so much as to lay up a thousand pounds a year, yet, as i had not come to him for my interest half-yearly, as was usual, i was now come to let him know that i had resolved to lay up that seven hundred pounds a year, and never use a penny of it, desiring him to help me to put it out to advantage. sir robert, a man thoroughly versed in arts of improving money, but thoroughly honest, said to me, "madam, i am glad you approve of the method that i proposed to you; but you have begun wrong; you should have come for your interest at the half-year, and then you had had the money to put out. now you have lost half a year's interest of £ , which is £ ; for i had but per cent, on the mortgage." "well, well, sir," says i, "can you put this out for me now?" "let it lie, madam," says he, "till the next year, and then i'll put out your £ together, and in the meantime i'll pay you interest for the £ ." so he gave me his bill for the money, which he told me should be no less than £ per cent. sir robert clayton's bill was what nobody would refuse, so i thanked him and let it lie; and next year i did the same, and the third year sir robert got me a good mortgage for £ at £ per cent interest. so i had £ a year added to my income, which was a very satisfying article. but i return to my history. as i have said, i found that my measures were all wrong; the posture i set up in exposed me to innumerable visitors of the kind i have mentioned above. i was cried up for a vast fortune, and one that sir robert clayton managed for; and sir robert clayton was courted for me as much as i was for myself. but i had given sir robert his cue. i had told him my opinion of matrimony, in just the same terms as i had done my merchant, and he came into it presently. he owned that my observation was just, and that if i valued my liberty, as i knew my fortune, and that it was in my own hands, i was to blame if i gave it away to any one. but sir robert knew nothing of my design, that i aimed at being a kept mistress, and to have a handsome maintenance; and that i was still for getting money, and laying it up too, as much as he could desire me, only by a worse way. however, sir robert came seriously to me one day, and told me he had an offer of matrimony to make to me that was beyond all that he had heard had offered themselves, and this was a merchant. sir robert and i agreed exactly in our notions of a merchant. sir robert said, and i found it to be true, that a true-bred merchant is the best gentleman in the nation; that in knowledge, in manners, in judgment of things, the merchant outdid many of the nobility; that having once mastered the world, and being above the demand of business, though no real estate, they were then superior to most gentlemen, even in estate; that a merchant in flush business and a capital stock is able to spend more money than a gentleman of £ a year estate; that while a merchant spent, he only spent what he got, and not that, and that he laid up great sums every year; that an estate is a pond, but that a trade was a spring; that if the first is once mortgaged, it seldom gets clear, but embarrassed the person for ever; but the merchant had his estate continually flowing; and upon this he named me merchants who lived in more real splendour and spent more money than most of the noblemen in england could singly expend, and that they still grew immensely rich. he went on to tell me that even the tradesmen in london, speaking of the better sort of trades, could spend more money in their families, and yet give better fortunes to their children, than, generally speaking, the gentry of england from £ a year downward could do, and yet grow rich too. the upshot of all this was to recommend to me rather the bestowing my fortune upon some eminent merchant, who lived already in the first figure of a merchant, and who, not being in want or scarcity of money, but having a flourishing business and a flowing cash, would at the first word settle all my fortune on myself and children, and maintain me like a queen. this was certainly right, and had i taken his advice, i had been really happy; but my heart was bent upon an independency of fortune, and i told him i knew no state of matrimony but what was at best a state of inferiority, if not of bondage; that i had no notion of it; that i lived a life of absolute liberty now, was free as i was born, and having a plentiful fortune, i did not understand what coherence the words "honour and obey" had with the liberty of a free woman; that i knew no reason the men had to engross the whole liberty of the race, and make the woman, notwithstanding any disparity of fortune, be subject to the laws of marriage, of their own making; that it was my misfortune to be a woman, but i was resolved it should not be made worse by the sex; and, seeing liberty seemed to be the men's property, i would be a man-woman, for, as i was born free, i would die so. sir robert smiled, and told me i talked a kind of amazonian language; that he found few women of my mind, or that, if they were, they wanted resolution to go on with it; that, notwithstanding all my notions, which he could not but say had once some weight in them, yet he understood i had broke in upon them, and had been married. i answered, i had so; but he did not hear me say that i had any encouragement from what was past to make a second venture; that i was got well out of the toil, and if i came in again i should have nobody to blame but myself. sir robert laughed heartily at me, but gave over offering any more arguments, only told me he had pointed me out for some of the best merchants in london, but since i forbade him he would give me no disturbance of that kind. he applauded my way of managing my money, and told me i should soon be monstrous rich; but he neither knew or mistrusted that, with all this wealth, i was yet a whore, and was not averse to adding to my estate at the farther expense of my virtue. but to go on with my story as to my way of living. i found, as above, that my living as i did would not answer; that it only brought the fortune-hunters and bites about me, as i have said before, to make a prey of me and my money; and, in short, i was harassed with lovers, beaux, and fops of quality, in abundance, but it would not do. i aimed at other things, and was possessed with so vain an opinion of my own beauty, that nothing less than the king himself was in my eye. and this vanity was raised by some words let fall by a person i conversed with, who was, perhaps, likely enough to have brought such a thing to pass, had it been sooner; but that game began to be pretty well over at court. however, the having mentioned such a thing, it seems a little too publicly, it brought abundance of people about me, upon a wicked account too. and now i began to act in a new sphere. the court was exceedingly gay and fine, though fuller of men than of women, the queen not affecting to be very much in public. on the other hand, it is no slander upon the courtiers to say, they were as wicked as anybody in reason could desire them. the king had several mistresses, who were prodigious fine, and there was a glorious show on that side indeed. if the sovereign gave himself a loose, it could not be expected the rest of the court should be all saints; so far was it from that, though i would not make it worse than it was, that a woman that had anything agreeable in her appearance could never want followers. i soon found myself thronged with admirers, and i received visits from some persons of very great figure, who always introduced themselves by the help of an old lady or two who were now become my intimates; and one of them, i understood afterwards, was set to work on purpose to get into my favour, in order to introduce what followed. the conversation we had was generally courtly, but civil. at length some gentlemen proposed to play, and made what they called a party. this, it seems, was a contrivance of one of my female hangers-on, for, as i said, i had two of them, who thought this was the way to introduce people as often as she pleased; and so indeed it was. they played high and stayed late, but begged my pardon, only asked leave to make an appointment for the next night. i was as gay and as well pleased as any of them, and one night told one of the gentlemen, my lord ----, that seeing they were doing me the honour of diverting themselves at my apartment, and desired to be there sometimes, i did not keep a gaming-table, but i would give them a little ball the next day if they pleased, which they accepted very willingly. accordingly, in the evening the gentlemen began to come, where i let them see that i understood very well what such things meant. i had a large dining-room in my apartments, with five other rooms on the same floor, all which i made drawing-rooms for the occasion, having all the beds taken down for the day. in three of these i had tables placed, covered with wine and sweetmeats, the fourth had a green table for play, and the fifth was my own room, where i sat, and where i received all the company that came to pay their compliments to me. i was dressed, you may be sure, to all the advantage possible, and had all the jewels on that i was mistress of. my lord ----, to whom i had made the invitation, sent me a set of fine music from the playhouse, and the ladies danced, and we began to be very merry, when about eleven o'clock i had notice given me that there were some gentlemen coming in masquerade. i seemed a little surprised, and began to apprehend some disturbance, when my lord ---- perceiving it, spoke to me to be easy, for that there was a party of the guards at the door which should be ready to prevent any rudeness; and another gentleman gave me a hint as if the king was among the masks. i coloured as red as blood itself could make a face look, and expressed a great surprise; however, there was no going back, so i kept my station in my drawing-room, but with the folding-doors wide open. a while after the masks came in, and began with a dance _à la comique_, performing wonderfully indeed. while they were dancing i withdrew, and left a lady to answer for me that i would return immediately. in less than half-an-hour i returned, dressed in the habit of a turkish princess; the habit i got at leghorn, when my foreign prince bought me a turkish slave, as i have said. the maltese man-of-war had, it seems, taken a turkish vessel going from constantinople to alexandria, in which were some ladies bound for grand cairo in egypt; and as the ladies were made slaves, so their fine clothes were thus exposed; and with this turkish slave i bought the rich clothes too. the dress was extraordinary fine indeed; i had bought it as a curiosity, having never seen the like. the robe was a fine persian or india damask, the ground white, and the flowers blue and gold, and the train held five yards. the dress under it was a vest of the same, embroidered with gold, and set with some pearl in the work and some turquoise stones. to the vest was a girdle five or six inches wide, after the turkish mode; and on both ends where it joined, or hooked, was set with diamonds for eight inches either way, only they were not true diamonds, but nobody knew that but myself. the turban, or head-dress, had a pinnacle on the top, but not above five inches, with a piece of loose sarcenet hanging from it; and on the front, just over the forehead, was a good jewel which i had added to it. this habit, as above, cost me about sixty pistoles in italy, but cost much more in the country from whence it came; and little did i think when i bought it that i should put it to such a use as this, though i had dressed myself in it many times by the help of my little turk, and afterwards between amy and i, only to see how i looked in it. i had sent her up before to get it ready, and when i came up i had nothing to do but slip it on, and was down in my drawing-room in a little more than a quarter of an hour. when i came there the room was full of company; but i ordered the folding-doors to be shut for a minute or two till i had received the compliments of the ladies that were in the room, and had given them a full view of my dress. but my lord ----, who happened to be in the room, slipped out at another door, and brought back with him one of the masks, a tall, well-shaped person, but who had no name, being all masked; nor would it have been allowed to ask any person's name on such an occasion. the person spoke in french to me, that it was the finest dress he had ever seen, and asked me if he should have the honour to dance with me. i bowed, as giving my consent, but said, as i had been a mahometan, i could not dance after the manner of this country; i supposed their music would not play _à la moresque_. he answered merrily. i had a christian's face, and he'd venture it that i could dance like a christian; adding that so much beauty could not be mahometan. immediately the folding-doors were flung open, and he led me into the room. the company were under the greatest surprise imaginable; the very music stopped awhile to gaze, for the dress was indeed exceedingly surprising, perfectly new, very agreeable, and wonderful rich. the gentleman, whoever he was, for i never knew, led me only _à courant_, and then asked me if i had a mind to dance an antic--that is to say, whether i would dance the antic as they had danced in masquerade, or anything by myself. i told him anything else rather, if he pleased; so we danced only two french dances, and he led me to the drawing-room door, when he retired to the rest of the masks. when he left me at the drawing-room door i did not go in, as he thought i would have done, but turned about and showed myself to the whole room, and calling my woman to me, gave her some directions to the music, by which the company presently understood that i would give them a dance by myself. immediately all the house rose up and paid me a kind of a compliment by removing back every way to make me room, for the place was exceedingly full. the music did not at first hit the tune that i directed, which was a french tune, so i was forced to send my woman to them again, standing all this while at my drawing-room door; but as soon as my woman spoke to them again, they played it right, and i, to let them see it was so, stepped forward to the middle of the room. then they began it again, and i danced by myself a figure which i learnt in france, when the prince de ---- desired i would dance for his diversion. it was, indeed, a very fine figure, invented by a famous master at paris, for a lady or a gentleman to dance single; but being perfectly new, it pleased the company exceedingly, and they all thought it had been turkish; nay, one gentleman had the folly to expose himself so much as to say, and i think swore too, that he had seen it danced at constantinople, which was ridiculous enough. at the finishing the dance the company clapped, and almost shouted; and one of the gentlemen cried out "roxana! roxana! by ----," with an oath; upon which foolish accident i had the name of roxana presently fixed upon me all over the court end of town as effectually as if i had been christened roxana. i had, it seems, the felicity of pleasing everybody that night to an extreme; and my ball, but especially my dress, was the chat of the town for that week; and so the name of roxana was the toast at and about the court; no other health was to be named with it. now things began to work as i would have them, and i began to be very popular, as much as i could desire. the ball held till (as well as i was pleased with the show) i was sick of the night; the gentlemen masked went off about three o'clock in the morning, the other gentlemen sat down to play; the music held it out, and some of the ladies were dancing at six in the morning. but i was mighty eager to know who it was danced with me. some of the lords went so far as to tell me i was very much honoured in my company; one of them spoke so broad as almost to say it was the king, but i was convinced afterwards it was not; and another replied if he had been his majesty he should have thought it no dishonour to lead up a roxana; but to this hour i never knew positively who it was; and by his behaviour i thought he was too young, his majesty being at that time in an age that might be discovered from a young person, even in his dancing. be that as it would, i had five hundred guineas sent me the next morning, and the messenger was ordered to tell me that the persons who sent it desired a ball again at my lodgings on the next tuesday, but that they would have my leave to give the entertainment themselves. i was mighty well pleased with this, to be sure, but very inquisitive to know who the money came from; but the messenger was silent as death as to that point, and bowing always at my inquiries, begged me to ask no questions which he could not give an obliging answer to. i forgot to mention, that the gentlemen that played gave a hundred guineas to the box, as they called it, and at the end of their play they asked for my gentlewoman of the bedchamber, as they called her (mrs. amy, forsooth), and gave it her, and gave twenty guineas more among the servants. these magnificent doings equally both pleased and surprised me, and i hardly knew where i was; but especially that notion of the king being the person that danced with me, puffed me up to that degree, that i not only did not know anybody else, but indeed was very far from knowing myself. i had now, the next tuesday, to provide for the like company. but, alas! it was all taken out of my hand. three gentlemen, who yet were, it seems, but servants, came on the saturday, and bringing sufficient testimonies that they were right, for one was the same who brought the five hundred guineas; i say, three of them came, and brought bottles of all sorts of wines, and hampers of sweetmeats to such a quantity, it appeared they designed to hold the trade on more than once, and that they would furnish everything to a profusion. however, as i found a deficiency in two things, i made provision of about twelve dozen of fine damask napkins, with tablecloths of the same, sufficient to cover all the tables, with three tablecloths upon every table, and sideboards in proportion. also i bought a handsome quantity of plate, necessary to have served all the sideboards; but the gentlemen would not suffer any of it to be used, telling me they had bought fine china dishes and plates for the whole service, and that in such public places they could not be answerable for the plate. so it was set all up in a large glass cupboard in the room i sat in, where it made a very good show indeed. on tuesday there came such an appearance of gentlemen and ladies, that my apartments were by no means able to receive them, and those who in particular appeared as principals gave order below to let no more company come up. the street was full of coaches with coronets, and fine glass chairs, and, in short, it was impossible to receive the company. i kept my little room as before, and the dancers filled the great room; all the drawing-rooms also were filled, and three rooms below stairs, which were not mine. it was very well that there was a strong party of the guards brought to keep the door, for without that there had been such a promiscuous crowd, and some of them scandalous too, that we should have been all disorder and confusion; but the three head servants managed all that, and had a word to admit all the company by. it was uncertain to me, and is to this day, who it was that danced with me the wednesday before, when the ball was my own; but that the king was at this assembly was out of question with me, by circumstances that, i suppose, i could not be deceived in, and particularly that there were five persons who were not masked; three of them had blue garters, and they appeared not to me till i came out to dance. this meeting was managed just as the first, though with much more magnificence, because of the company. i placed myself (exceedingly rich in clothes and jewels) in the middle of my little room, as before, and made my compliment to all the company as they passed me, as i did before. but my lord ----, who had spoken openly to me the first night, came to me, and, unmasking, told me the company had ordered him to tell me they hoped they should see me in the dress i had appeared in the first day, which had been so acceptable that it had been the occasion of this new meeting. "and, madam," says he, "there are some in this assembly who it is worth your while to oblige." i bowed to my lord ----, and immediately withdrew. while i was above, a-dressing in my new habit, two ladies, perfectly unknown to me, were conveyed into my apartment below, by the order of a noble person, who, with his family, had been in persia; and here, indeed, i thought i should have been outdone, or perhaps balked. one of these ladies was dressed most exquisitely fine indeed, in the habit of a virgin lady of quality of georgia, and the other in the same habit of armenia, with each of them a woman slave to attend them. the ladies had their petticoats short to their ankles, but plaited all round, and before them short aprons, but of the finest point that could be seen. their gowns were made with long antique sleeves hanging down behind, and a train let down. they had no jewels, but their heads and breasts were dressed up with flowers, and they both came in veiled. their slaves were bareheaded, but their long, black hair was braided in locks hanging down behind to their waists, and tied up with ribands. they were dressed exceeding rich, and were as beautiful as their mistresses; for none of them had any masks on. they waited in my room till i came down, and all paid their respects to me after the persian manner, and sat down on a safra--that is to say, almost crosslegged, on a couch made up of cushions laid on the ground. this was admirably fine, and i was indeed startled at it. they made their compliment to me in french, and i replied in the same language. when the doors were opened, they walked into the dancing-room, and danced such a dance as indeed nobody there had ever seen, and to an instrument like a guitar, with a small low-sounding trumpet, which indeed was very fine, and which my lord ---- had provided. they danced three times all alone, for nobody indeed could dance with them. the novelty pleased, truly, but yet there was something wild and _bizarre_ in it, because they really acted to the life the barbarous country whence they came; but as mine had the french behaviour under the mahometan dress, it was every way as new, and pleased much better indeed. as soon as they had shown their georgian and armenian shapes, and danced, as i have said, three times, they withdrew, paid their compliment to me (for i was queen of the day), and went off to undress. some gentlemen then danced with ladies all in masks; and when they stopped, nobody rose up to dance, but all called out "roxana, roxana." in the interval, my lord ---- had brought another masked person into my room, who i knew not, only that i could discern it was not the same person that led me out before. this noble person (for i afterwards understood it was the duke of ----), after a short compliment, led me out into the middle of the room. i was dressed in the same vest and girdle as before, but the robe had a mantle over it, which is usual in the turkish habit, and it was of crimson and green, the green brocaded with gold; and my tyhiaai, or head-dress, varied a little from that i had before, as it stood higher, and had some jewels about the rising part, which made it look like a turban crowned. i had no mask, neither did i paint, and yet i had the day of all the ladies that appeared at the ball, i mean of those that appeared with faces on. as for those masked, nothing could be said of them, no doubt there might be many finer than i was; it must be confessed that the habit was infinitely advantageous to me, and everybody looked at me with a kind of pleasure, which gave me great advantage too. after i had danced with that noble person, i did not offer to dance by myself, as i had before; but they all called out "roxana" again; and two of the gentlemen came into the drawing-room to entreat me to give them the turkish dance, which i yielded to readily, so i came out and danced just as at first. while i was dancing, i perceived five persons standing all together, and among them only one with his hat on. it was an immediate hint to me who it was, and had at first almost put me into some disorder; but i went on, received the applause of the house, as before, and retired into my own room. when i was there, the five gentlemen came across the room to my side, and, coming in, followed by a throng of great persons, the person with his hat on said, "madam roxana, you perform to admiration." i was prepared, and offered to kneel to kiss his hand, but he declined it, and saluted me, and so, passing back again through the great room, went away. i do not say here who this was, but i say i came afterwards to know something more plainly. i would have withdrawn, and disrobed, being somewhat too thin in that dress, unlaced and open-breasted, as if i had been in my shift; but it could not be, and i was obliged to dance afterwards with six or eight gentlemen most, if not all of them, of the first rank; and i was told afterwards that one of them was the duke of m[onmou]th. about two or three o'clock in the morning the company began to decrease; the number of women especially dropped away home, some and some at a time; and the gentlemen retired downstairs, where they unmasked and went to play. amy waited at the room where they played, sat up all night to attend them, and in the morning when they broke up they swept the box into her lap, when she counted out to me sixty-two guineas and a half; and the other servants got very well too. amy came to me when they were all gone; "law, madam," says amy, with a long gaping cry, "what shall i do with all this money?" and indeed the poor creature was half mad with joy. i was now in my element. i was as much talked of as anybody could desire, and i did not doubt but something or other would come of it; but the report of my being so rich rather was a balk to my view than anything else; for the gentlemen that would perhaps have been troublesome enough otherwise, seemed to be kept off, for roxana was too high for them. there is a scene which came in here which i must cover from human eyes or ears. for three years and about a month roxana lived retired, having been obliged to make an excursion in a manner, and with a person which duty and private vows obliges her not to reveal, at least not yet. at the end of this time i appeared again; but, i must add, that as i had in this time of retreat made hay, &c., so i did not come abroad again with the same lustre, or shine with so much advantage as before. for as some people had got at least a suspicion of where i had been, and who had had me all the while, it began to be public that roxana was, in short, a mere roxana, neither better nor worse, and not that woman of honour and virtue that was at first supposed. you are now to suppose me about seven years come to town, and that i had not only suffered the old revenue, which i hinted was managed by sir robert clayton, to grow, as was mentioned before, but i had laid up an incredible wealth, the time considered; and had i yet had the least thought of reforming, i had all the opportunity to do it with advantage that ever woman had. for the common vice of all whores, i mean money, was out of the question, nay, even avarice itself seemed to be glutted; for, including what i had saved in reserving the interest of £ , , which, as above, i had left to grow, and including some very good presents i had made to me in mere compliment upon these shining masquerading meetings, which i held up for about two years, and what i made of three years of the most glorious retreat, as i call it, that ever woman had, i had fully doubled my first substance, and had near £ in money which i kept at home, besides abundance of plate and jewels, which i had either given me or had bought to set myself out for public days. in a word, i had now five-and-thirty thousand pounds estate; and as i found ways to live without wasting either principal or interest, i laid up £ every year at least out of the mere interest, adding it to the principal, and thus i went on. after the end of what i call my retreat, and out of which i brought a great deal of money, i appeared again, but i seemed like an old piece of plate that had been hoarded up some years, and comes out tarnished and discoloured; so i came out blown, and looked like a cast-off mistress; nor, indeed, was i any better, though i was not at all impaired in beauty except that i was a little fatter than i was formerly, and always granting that i was four years older. however, i preserved the youth of my temper, was always bright, pleasant in company, and agreeable to everybody, or else everybody flattered me; and in this condition i came abroad to the world again. and though i was not so popular as before, and indeed did not seek it, because i knew it could not be, yet i was far from being without company, and that of the greatest quality (of subjects i mean), who frequently visited me, and sometimes we had meetings for mirth and play at my apartments, where i failed not to divert them in the most agreeable manner possible. nor could any of them make the least particular application to me, from the notion they had of my excessive wealth, which, as they thought, placed me above the meanness of a maintenance, and so left no room to come easily about me. but at last i was very handsomely attacked by a person of honour, and (which recommended him particularly to me) a person of a very great estate. he made a long introduction to me upon the subject of my wealth. "ignorant creature!" said i to myself, considering him as a lord, "was there ever woman in the world that could stoop to the baseness of being a whore, and was above taking the reward of her vice! no, no, depend upon it, if your lordship obtains anything of me, you must pay for it; and the notion of my being so rich serves only to make it cost you the dearer, seeing you cannot offer a small matter to a woman of £ a year estate." after he had harangued upon that subject a good while, and had assured me he had no design upon me, that he did not come to make a prize of me, or to pick my pocket, which, by the way, i was in no fear of, for i took too much care of my money to part with any of it that way, he then turned his discourse to the subject of love, a point so ridiculous to me without the main thing, i mean the money, that i had no patience to hear him make so long a story of it. i received him civilly, and let him see i could bear to hear a wicked proposal without being affronted, and yet i was not to be brought into it too easily. he visited me a long while, and, in short, courted me as closely and assiduously as if he had been wooing me to matrimony. he made me several valuable presents, which i suffered myself to be prevailed with to accept, but not without great difficulty. gradually i suffered also his other importunities; and when he made a proposal of a compliment or appointment to me for a settlement, he said that though i was rich, yet there was not the less due from him to acknowledge the favours he received; and that if i was to be his i should not live at my own expense, cost what it would. i told him i was far from being extravagant, and yet i did not live at the expense of less than £ a year out of my own pocket; that, however, i was not covetous of settled allowances, for i looked upon that as a kind of golden chain, something like matrimony; that though i knew how to be true to a man of honour, as i knew his lordship to be, yet i had a kind of aversion to the bonds; and though i was not so rich as the world talked me up to be, yet i was not so poor as to bind myself to hardships for a pension. he told me he expected to make my life perfectly easy, and intended it so; that he knew of no bondage there could be in a private engagement between us; that the bonds of honour he knew i would be tied by, and think them no burthen; and for other obligations, he scorned to expect anything from me but what he knew as a woman of honour i could grant. then as to maintenance, he told me he would soon show me that he valued me infinitely above £ a year, and upon this foot we began. i seemed kinder to him after this discourse, and as time and private conversation made us very intimate, we began to come nearer to the main article, namely, the £ a year. he offered that at first word, and to acknowledge it as an infinite favour to have it be accepted of; and i, that thought it was too much by all the money, suffered myself to be mastered, or prevailed with to yield, even on but a bare engagement upon parole. when he had obtained his end that way, i told him my mind. "now you see, my lord," said i, "how weakly i have acted, namely, to yield to you without any capitulation, or anything secured to me but that which you may cease to allow when you please. if i am the less valued for such a confidence, i shall be injured in a manner that i will endeavour not to deserve." he told me that he would make it evident to me that he did not seek me by way of bargain, as such things were often done; that as i had treated him with a generous confidence, so i should find i was in the hands of a man of honour, and one that knew how to value the obligation; and upon this he pulled out a goldsmith's bill for £ , which (putting it into my hand), he said, he gave me as a pledge that i should not be a loser by my not having made a bargain with him. this was engaging indeed, and gave me a good idea of our future correspondence; and, in short, as i could not refrain treating him with more kindness than i had done before, so one thing begetting another, i gave him several testimonies that i was entirely his own by inclination as well as by the common obligation of a mistress, and this pleased him exceedingly. soon after this private engagement i began to consider whether it were not more suitable to the manner of life i now led to be a little less public; and, as i told my lord, it would rid me of the importunities of others, and of continual visits from a sort of people who he knew of, and who, by the way, having now got the notion of me which i really deserved, began to talk of the old game, love and gallantry, and to offer at what was rude enough--things as nauseous to me now as if i had been married and as virtuous as other people. the visits of these people began indeed to be uneasy to me, and particularly as they were always very tedious and impertinent; nor could my lord ---- be pleased with them at all if they had gone on. it would be diverting to set down here in what manner i repulsed these sort of people; how in some i resented it as an affront, and told them that i was sorry they should oblige me to vindicate myself from the scandal of such suggestions by telling them that i could see them no more, and by desiring them not to give themselves the trouble of visiting me, who, though i was not willing to be uncivil, yet thought myself obliged never to receive any visit from any gentleman after he had made such proposals as those to me. but these things would be too tedious to bring in here. it was on this account i proposed to his lordship my taking new lodgings for privacy; besides, i considered that as i might live very handsomely, and yet not so publicly, so i needed not spend so much money by a great deal; and if i made £ a year of this generous person, it was more than i had any occasion to spend by a great deal. my lord came readily into this proposal, and went further than i expected, for he found out a lodging for me in a very handsome house, where yet he was not known--i suppose he had employed somebody to find it out for him--and where he had a convenient way to come into the garden by a door that opened into the park, a thing very rarely allowed in those times. by this key he could come in at what time of night or day he pleased; and as we had also a little door in the lower part of the house which was always left upon a lock, and his was the master-key, so if it was twelve, one, or two o'clock at night, he could come directly into my bedchamber. _n.b._--i was not afraid i should be found abed with anybody else, for, in a word, i conversed with nobody at all. it happened pleasantly enough one night, his lordship had stayed late, and i, not expecting him that night, had taken amy to bed with me, and when my lord came into the chamber we were both fast asleep. i think it was near three o'clock when he came in, and a little merry, but not at all fuddled or what they call in drink; and he came at once into the room. amy was frighted out of her wits, and cried out. i said calmly, "indeed, my lord, i did not expect you to-night, and we have been a little frighted to-night with fire." "oh!" says he, "i see you have got a bedfellow with you." i began to make an apology. "no, no," says my lord, "you need no excuse, 'tis not a man bedfellow, i see;" but then, talking merrily enough, he catched his words back: "but, hark ye," says he, "now i think on 't, how shall i be satisfied it is not a man bedfellow?" "oh," says i, "i dare say your lordship is satisfied 'tis poor amy." "yes," says he, "'tis mrs. amy; but how do i know what amy is? it may be mr. amy for aught i know; i hope you'll give me leave to be satisfied." i told him, yes, by all means, i would have his lordship satisfied; but i supposed he knew who she was. well, he fell foul of poor amy, and indeed i thought once he would have carried the jest on before my face, as was once done in a like case; but his lordship was not so hot neither, but he would know whether amy was mr. amy or mrs. amy, and so, i suppose, he did; and then being satisfied in that doubtful case, he walked to the farther end of the room, and went into a little closet and sat down. in the meantime amy and i got up, and i bid her run and make the bed in another chamber for my lord, and i gave her sheets to put into it; which she did immediately, and i put my lord to bed there, and when i had done, at his desire went to bed to him. i was backward at first to come to bed to him, and made my excuse because i had been in bed with amy, and had not shifted me; but he was past those niceties at that time; and as long as he was sure it was mrs. amy, and not mr. amy, he was very well satisfied, and so the jest passed over. but amy appeared no more all that night, or the next day, and when she did, my lord was so merry with her upon his eclaircissement, as he called it, that amy did not know what to do with herself. not that amy was such a nice lady in the main, if she had been fairly dealt with, as has appeared in the former part of this work; but now she was surprised, and a little hurried, that she scarce knew where she was; and besides, she was, as to his lordship, as nice a lady as any in the world, and for anything he knew of her she appeared as such. the rest was to us only that knew of it. i held this wicked scene of life out eight years, reckoning from my first coming to england; and though my lord found no fault, yet i found, without much examining, that any one who looked in my face might see i was above twenty years old; and yet, without flattering myself, i carried my age, which was above fifty, very well too. i may venture to say that no woman ever lived a life like me, of six-and-twenty years of wickedness, without the least signals of remorse, without any signs of repentance, or without so much as a wish to put an end to it; i had so long habituated myself to a life of vice, that really it appeared to be no vice to me. i went on smooth and pleasant, i wallowed in wealth, and it flowed in upon me at such a rate, having taken the frugal measures that the good knight directed, so that i had at the end of the eight years two thousand eight hundred pounds coming yearly in, of which i did not spend one penny, being maintained by my allowance from my lord ----, and more than maintained by above £ per annum; for though he did not contract for £ a year, as i made dumb signs to have it be, yet he gave me money so often, and that in such large parcels, that i had seldom so little as seven to eight hundred pounds a year of him, one year with another. [illustration: the dutch merchant calls on roxana _"there," says she (ushering him in), "is the person who, i suppose, thou inquirest for"_ page ] i must go back here, after telling openly the wicked things i did, to mention something which, however, had the face of doing good. i remembered that when i went from england, which was fifteen years before, i had left five little children, turned out as it were to the wide world, and to the charity of their father's relations; the eldest was not six years old, for we had not been married full seven years when their father went away. after my coming to england i was greatly desirous to hear how things stood with them, and whether they were all alive or not, and in what manner they had been maintained; and yet i resolved not to discover myself to them in the least, or to let any of the people that had the breeding of them up know that there was such a body left in the world as their mother. amy was the only body i could trust with such a commission, and i sent her into spitalfields, to the old aunt and to the poor woman that were so instrumental in disposing the relations to take some care of the children, but they were both gone, dead and buried some years. the next inquiry she made was at the house where she carried the poor children, and turned them in at the door. when she came there she found the house inhabited by other people, so that she could make little or nothing of her inquiries, and came back with an answer that indeed was no answer to me, for it gave me no satisfaction at all. i sent her back to inquire in the neighbourhood what was become of the family that lived in that house; and if they were removed, where they lived, and what circumstances they were in; and, withal, if she could, what became of the poor children, and how they lived, and where; how they had been treated; and the like. she brought me back word upon this second going, that she heard, as to the family, that the husband, who, though but uncle-in-law to the children, had yet been kindest to them, was dead; and that the widow was left but in mean circumstances--that is to say, she did not want, but that she was not so well in the world as she was thought to be when her husband was alive; that, as to the poor children, two of them, it seems, had been kept by her, that is to say, by her husband, while he lived, for that it was against her will, that we all knew; but the honest neighbours pitied the poor children, they said, heartily; for that their aunt used them barbarously, and made them little better than servants in the house to wait upon her and her children, and scarce allowed them clothes fit to wear. these were, it seems, my eldest and third, which were daughters; the second was a son, the fourth a daughter, and the youngest a son. to finish the melancholy part of this history of my two unhappy girls, she brought me word that as soon as they were able to go out and get any work they went from her, and some said she had turned them out of doors; but it seems she had not done so, but she used them so cruelly that they left her, and one of them went to service to a neighbour's, a little way off, who knew her, an honest, substantial weaver's wife, to whom she was chambermaid, and in a little time she took her sister out of the bridewell of her aunt's house, and got her a place too. this was all melancholy and dull. i sent her then to the weaver's house, where the eldest had lived, but found that, her mistress being dead, she was gone, and nobody knew there whither she went, only that they heard she had lived with a great lady at the other end of the town; but they did not know who that lady was. these inquiries took us up three or four weeks, and i was not one jot the better for it, for i could hear nothing to my satisfaction. i sent her next to find out the honest man who, as in the beginning of my story i observed, made them be entertained, and caused the youngest to be fetched from the town where we lived, and where the parish officers had taken care of him. this gentleman was still alive; and there she heard that my youngest daughter and eldest son was dead also; but that my youngest son was alive, and was at that time about seventeen years old, and that he was put out apprentice by the kindness and charity of his uncle, but to a mean trade, and at which he was obliged to work very hard. amy was so curious in this part that she went immediately to see him, and found him all dirty and hard at work. she had no remembrance at all of the youth, for she had not seen him since he was about two years old; and it was evident he could have no knowledge of her. however, she talked with him, and found him a good, sensible, mannerly youth; that he knew little of the story of his father or mother, and had no view of anything but to work hard for his living; and she did not think fit to put any great things into his head, lest it should take him off of his business, and perhaps make him turn giddy-headed and be good for nothing; but she went and found out that kind man, his benefactor, who had put him out, and finding him a plain, well-meaning, honest, and kind-hearted man, she opened her tale to him the easier. she made a long story, how she had a prodigious kindness for the child, because she had the same for his father and mother; told him that she was the servant-maid that brought all of them to their aunt's door, and run away and left them; that their poor mother wanted bread, and what came of her after she would have been glad to know. she added that her circumstances had happened to mend in the world, and that, as she was in condition, so she was disposed to show some kindness to the children if she could find them out. he received her with all the civility that so kind a proposal demanded, gave her an account of what he had done for the child, how he had maintained him, fed and clothed him, put him to school, and at last put him out to a trade. she said he had indeed been a father to the child. "but, sir," says she, "'tis a very laborious, hard-working trade, and he is but a thin, weak boy." "that's true," says he; "but the boy chose the trade, and i assure you i gave £ with him, and am to find him clothes all his apprenticeship; and as to its being a hard trade," says he, "that's the fate of his circumstances, poor boy. i could not well do better for him." "well, sir, as you did all for him in charity," says she, "it was exceeding well; but, as my resolution is to do something for him, i desire you will, if possible, take him away again from that place, where he works so hard, for i cannot bear to see the child work so very hard for his bread, and i will do something for him that shall make him live without such hard labour." he smiled at that. "i can, indeed," says he, "take him away, but then i must lose my £ that i gave with him." "well, sir," said amy, "i'll enable you to lose that £ immediately;" and so she put her hand in her pocket and pulls out her purse. he begun to be a little amazed at her, and looked her hard in the face, and that so very much that she took notice of it, and said, "sir, i fancy by your looking at me you think you know me, but i am assured you do not, for i never saw your face before. i think you have done enough for the child, and that you ought to be acknowledged as a father to him; but you ought not to lose by your kindness to him, more than the kindness of bringing him up obliges you to; and therefore there's the £ ," added she, "and pray let him be fetched away." "well, madam," says he, "i will thank you for the boy, as well as for myself; but will you please to tell me what i must do with him?" "sir," says amy, "as you have been so kind to keep him so many years, i beg you will take him home again one year more, and i'll bring you a hundred pounds more, which i will desire you to lay out in schooling and clothes for him, and to pay you for his board. perhaps i may put him in a condition to return your kindness." he looked pleased, but surprised very much, and inquired of amy, but with very great respect, what he should go to school to learn, and what trade she would please to put him out to. amy said he should put him to learn a little latin, and then merchants' accounts, and to write a good hand, for she would have him be put to a turkey merchant. "madam," says he, "i am glad for his sake to hear you talk so; but do you know that a turkey merchant will not take him under £ or £ ?" "yes, sir," says amy, "i know it very well." "and," says he, "that it will require as many thousands to set him up?" "yes, sir," says amy, "i know that very well too;" and, resolving to talk very big, she added, "i have no children of my own, and i resolve to make him my heir, and if £ , be required to set him up, he shall not want it. i was but his mother's servant when he was born, and i mourned heartily for the disaster of the family, and i always said, if ever i was worth anything in the world, i would take the child for my own, and i'll be as good as my word now, though i did not then foresee that it would be with me as it has been since." and so amy told him a long story how she was troubled for me, and what she would give to hear whether i was dead or alive, and what circumstances i was in; that if she could but find me, if i was ever so poor, she would take care of me, and make a gentlewoman of me again. he told her that, as to the child's mother, she had been reduced to the last extremity, and was obliged (as he supposed she knew) to send the children all among her husband's friends; and if it had not been for him, they had all been sent to the parish; but that he obliged the other relations to share the charge among them; that he had taken two, whereof he had lost the eldest, who died of the smallpox, but that he had been as careful of this as of his own, and had made very little difference in their breeding up, only that when he came to put him out he thought it was best for the boy to put him to a trade which he might set up in without a stock, for otherwise his time would be lost; and that as to his mother, he had never been able to hear one word of her, no, not though he had made the utmost inquiry after her; that there went a report that she had drowned herself, but that he could never meet with anybody that could give him a certain account of it. amy counterfeited a cry for her poor mistress; told him she would give anything in the world to see her, if she was alive; and a great deal more such-like talk they had about that; then they returned to speak of the boy. he inquired of her why she did not seek after the child before, that he might have been brought up from a younger age, suitable to what she designed to do for him. she told him she had been out of england, and was but newly returned from the east indies. that she had been out of england, and was but newly returned, was true, but the latter was false, and was put in to blind him, and provide against farther inquiries; for it was not a strange thing for young women to go away poor to the east indies, and come home vastly rich. so she went on with directions about him, and both agreed in this, that the boy should by no means be told what was intended for him, but only that he should be taken home again to his uncle's, that his uncle thought the trade too hard for him, and the like. about three days after this amy goes again, and carried him the hundred pounds she promised him, but then amy made quite another figure than she did before; for she went in my coach, with two footmen after her, and dressed very fine also, with jewels and a gold watch; and there was indeed no great difficulty to make amy look like a lady, for she was a very handsome, well-shaped woman, and genteel enough. the coachman and servants were particularly ordered to show her the same respect as they would to me, and to call her madam collins, if they were asked any questions about her. when the gentleman saw what a figure she made it added to the former surprise, and he entertained her in the most respectful manner possible, congratulated her advancement in fortune, and particularly rejoiced that it should fall to the poor child's lot to be so provided for, contrary to all expectation. well, amy talked big, but very free and familiar, told them she had no pride in her good fortune (and that was true enough, for, to give amy her due, she was far from it, and was as good-humoured a creature as ever lived); that she was the same as ever; and that she always loved this boy, and was resolved to do something extraordinary for him. then she pulled out her money, and paid him down a hundred and twenty pounds, which, she said, she paid him that he might be sure he should be no loser by taking him home again, and that she would come and see him again, and talk farther about things with him, so that all might be settled for him, in such a manner as accidents, such as mortality, or anything else, should make no alteration to the child's prejudice. at this meeting the uncle brought his wife out, a good, motherly, comely, grave woman, who spoke very tenderly of the youth, and, as it appeared, had been very good to him, though she had several children of her own. after a long discourse, she put in a word of her own. "madam," says she, "i am heartily glad of the good intentions you have for this poor orphan, and i rejoice sincerely in it for his sake; but, madam, you know, i suppose, that there are two sisters alive too; may we not speak a word for them? poor girls," says she, "they have not been so kindly used as he has, and are turned out to the wide world." "where are they, madam?" says amy. "poor creatures," says the gentlewoman, "they are out at service, nobody knows where but themselves; their case is very hard." "well, madam," says amy, "though if i could find them i would assist them, yet my concern is for my boy, as i call him, and i will put him into a condition to take care of his sisters." "but, madam," says the good, compassionate creature, "he may not be so charitable perhaps by his own inclination, for brothers are not fathers, and they have been cruelly used already, poor girls; we have often relieved them, both with victuals and clothes too, even while they were pretended to be kept by their barbarous aunt." "well, madam," says amy, "what can i do for them? they are gone, it seems, and cannot be heard of. when i see them 'tis time enough." she pressed amy then to oblige their brother, out of the plentiful fortune he was like to have, to do something for his sisters when he should be able. amy spoke coldly of that still, but said she would consider of it; and so they parted for that time. they had several meetings after this, for amy went to see her adopted son, and ordered his schooling, clothes, and other things, but enjoined them not to tell the young man anything, but that they thought the trade he was at too hard for him, and they would keep him at home a little longer, and give him some schooling to fit him for other business; and amy appeared to him as she did before, only as one that had known his mother and had some kindness for him. thus this matter passed on for near a twelvemonth, when it happened that one of my maid-servants having asked amy leave (for amy was mistress of the servants, and took and put out such as she pleased)--i say, having asked leave to go into the city to see her friends, came home crying bitterly, and in a most grievous agony she was, and continued so several days till amy, perceiving the excess, and that the maid would certainly cry herself sick, she took an opportunity with her and examined her about it. the maid told her a long story, that she had been to see her brother, the only brother she had in the world, and that she knew he was put out apprentice to a ----; but there had come a lady in a coach to his uncle ----, who had brought him up, and made him take him home again; and so the wench run on with the whole story just as 'tis told above, till she came to that part that belonged to herself. "and there," says she, "i had not let them know where i lived, and the lady would have taken me, and, they say, would have provided for me too, as she has done for my brother; but nobody could tell where to find me, and so i have lost it all, and all the hopes of being anything but a poor servant all my days;" and then the girl fell a-crying again. amy said, "what's all this story? who could this lady be? it must be some trick, sure." "no," she said, "it was not a trick, for she had made them take her brother home from apprentice, and bought him new clothes, and put him to have more learning; and the gentlewoman said she would make him her heir." "her heir!" says amy. "what does that amount to? it may be she had nothing to leave him; she might make anybody her heir." "no, no,"' says the girl; "she came in a fine coach and horses, and i don't know how many footmen to attend her, and brought a great bag of gold and gave it to my uncle ----, he that brought up my brother, to buy him clothes and to pay for his schooling and board." "he that brought up your brother?" says amy. "why, did not he bring you up too as well as your brother? pray who brought you up, then?" here the poor girl told a melancholy story, how an aunt had brought up her and her sister, and how barbarously she had used them, as we have heard. by this time amy had her head full enough, and her heart too, and did not know how to hold it, or what to do, for she was satisfied that this was no other than my own daughter, for she told her all the history of her father and mother, and how she was carried by their maid to her aunt's door, just as is related in the beginning of my story. amy did not tell me this story for a great while, nor did she well know what course to take in it; but as she had authority to manage everything in the family, she took occasion some time after, without letting me know anything of it, to find some fault with the maid and turn her away. her reasons were good, though at first i was not pleased when i heard of it, but i was convinced afterwards that she was in the right, for if she had told me of it i should have been in great perplexity between the difficulty of concealing myself from my own child and the inconvenience of having my way of living be known among my first husband's relations, and even to my husband himself; for as to his being dead at paris, amy, seeing me resolved against marrying any more, had told me that she had formed that story only to make me easy when i was in holland if anything should offer to my liking. however, i was too tender a mother still, notwithstanding what i had done, to let this poor girl go about the world drudging, as it were, for bread, and slaving at the fire and in the kitchen as a cook-maid; besides, it came into my head that she might perhaps marry some poor devil of a footman, or a coachman, or some such thing, and be undone that way, or, which was worse, be drawn in to lie with some of that coarse, cursed kind, and be with child, and be utterly ruined that way; and in the midst of all my prosperity this gave me great uneasiness. as to sending amy to her, there was no doing that now, for, as she had been servant in the house, she knew amy as well as amy knew me; and no doubt, though i was much out of her sight, yet she might have had the curiosity to have peeped at me, and seen me enough to know me again if i had discovered myself to her; so that, in short, there was nothing to be done that way. however, amy, a diligent indefatigable creature, found out another woman, and gave her her errand, and sent her to the honest man's house in spitalfields, whither she supposed the girl would go after she was out of her place; and bade her talk with her, and tell her at a distance that as something had been done for her brother, so something would be done for her too; and, that she should not be discouraged, she carried her £ to buy her clothes, and bid her not go to service any more, but think of other things; that she should take a lodging in some good family, and that she should soon hear farther. the girl was overjoyed with this news, you may be sure, and at first a little too much elevated with it, and dressed herself very handsomely indeed, and as soon as she had done so came and paid a visit to madam amy, to let her see how fine she was. amy congratulated her, and wished it might be all as she expected, but admonished her not to be elevated with it too much; told her humility was the best ornament of a gentlewoman, and a great deal of good advice she gave her, but discovered nothing. all this was acted in the first years of my setting up my new figure here in town, and while the masks and balls were in agitation; and amy carried on the affair of setting out my son into the world, which we were assisted in by the sage advice of my faithful counsellor, sir robert clayton, who procured us a master for him, by whom he was afterwards sent abroad to italy, as you shall hear in its place; and amy managed my daughter too very well, though by a third hand. my amour with my lord ---- began now to draw to an end, and indeed, notwithstanding his money, it had lasted so long that i was much more sick of his lordship than he could be of me. he grew old and fretful, and captious, and i must add, which made the vice itself begin to grow surfeiting and nauseous to me, he grew worse and wickeder the older he grew, and that to such degree as is not fit to write of, and made me so weary of him that upon one of his capricious humours, which he often took occasion to trouble me with, i took occasion to be much less complaisant to him than i used to be; and as i knew him to be hasty, i first took care to put him into a little passion, and then to resent it, and this brought us to words, in which i told him i thought he grew sick of me; and he answered in a heat that truly so he was. i answered that i found his lordship was endeavouring to make me sick too; that i had met with several such rubs from him of late, and that he did not use me as he used to do, and i begged his lordship he would make himself easy. this i spoke with an air of coldness and indifference such as i knew he could not bear; but i did not downright quarrel with him and tell him i was sick of him too, and desire him to quit me, for i knew that would come of itself; besides, i had received a great deal of handsome usage from him, and i was loth to have the breach be on my side, that he might not be able to say i was ungrateful. [illustration: the amour draws to an end _i told him i thought he grew sick of me; and he answered in a heat that truly so he was_] but he put the occasion into my hands, for he came no more to me for two months; indeed i expected a fit of absence, for such i had had several times before, but not for above a fortnight or three weeks at most; but after i had stayed a month, which was longer than ever he kept away yet, i took a new method with him, for i was resolved now it should be in my power to continue or not, as i thought fit. at the end of a month, therefore, i removed, and took lodgings at kensington gravel pits, at that part next to the road to acton, and left nobody in my lodgings but amy and a footman, with proper instructions how to behave when his lordship, being come to himself, should think fit to come again, which i knew he would. about the end of two months, he came in the dusk of the evening as usual. the footman answered him, and told him his lady was not at home, but there was mrs. amy above; so he did not order her to be called down, but went upstairs into the dining-room, and mrs. amy came to him. he asked where i was. "my lord," said she, "my mistress has been removed a good while from hence, and lives at kensington." "ah, mrs. amy! how came you to be here, then?" "my lord," said she, "we are here till the quarter-day, because the goods are not removed, and to give answers if any comes to ask for my lady." "well, and what answer are you to give to me?" "indeed, my lord," says amy, "i have no particular answer to your lordship, but to tell you and everybody else where my lady lives, that they may not think she's run away." "no, mrs. amy," says he, "i don't think she's run away; but, indeed, i can't go after her so far as that." amy said nothing to that, but made a courtesy, and said she believed i would be there again for a week or two in a little time. "how little time, mrs amy?" says my lord. "she comes next tuesday," says amy. "very well," says my lord; "i'll call and see her then;" and so he went away. accordingly i came on the tuesday, and stayed a fortnight, but he came not; so i went back to kensington, and after that i had very few of his lordship's visits, which i was very glad of, and in a little time after was more glad of it than i was at first, and upon a far better account too. for now i began not to be sick of his lordship only, but really i began to be sick of the vice; and as i had good leisure now to divert and enjoy myself in the world as much as it was possible for any woman to do that ever lived in it, so i found that my judgment began to prevail upon me to fix my delight upon nobler objects than i had formerly done, and the very beginning of this brought some just reflections upon me relating to things past, and to the former manner of my living; and though there was not the least hint in all this from what may be called religion or conscience, and far from anything of repentance, or anything that was akin to it, especially at first, yet the sense of things, and the knowledge i had of the world, and the vast variety of scenes that i had acted my part in, began to work upon my senses, and it came so very strong upon my mind one morning when i had been lying awake some time in my bed, as if somebody had asked me the question, what was i a whore for now? it occurred naturally upon this inquiry, that at first i yielded to the importunity of my circumstances, the misery of which the devil dismally aggravated, to draw me to comply; for i confess i had strong natural aversions to the crime at first, partly owing to a virtuous education, and partly to a sense of religion; but the devil, and that greater devil of poverty, prevailed; and the person who laid siege to me did it in such an obliging, and i may almost say irresistible, manner, all still managed by the evil spirit; for i must be allowed to believe that he has a share in all such things, if not the whole management of them. but, i say, it was carried on by that person in such an irresistible manner that, as i said when i related the fact, there was no withstanding it; these circumstances, i say, the devil managed not only to bring me to comply, but he continued them as arguments to fortify my mind against all reflection, and to keep me in that horrid course i had engaged in, as if it were honest and lawful. but not to dwell upon that now; this was a pretence, and here was something to be said, though i acknowledge it ought not to have been sufficient to me at all; but, i say, to leave that, all this was out of doors; the devil himself could not form one argument, or put one reason into my head now, that could serve for an answer--no, not so much as a pretended answer to this question, why i should be a whore now. it had for a while been a little kind of excuse to me that i was engaged with this wicked old lord, and that i could not in honour forsake him; but how foolish and absurd did it look to repeat the word "honour" on so vile an occasion! as if a woman should prostitute her honour in point of honour--horrid inconsistency! honour called upon me to detest the crime and the man too, and to have resisted all the attacks which, from the beginning, had been made upon my virtue; and honour, had it been consulted, would have preserved me honest from the beginning: "for 'honesty' and 'honour' are the same." this, however, shows us with what faint excuses and with what trifles we pretend to satisfy ourselves, and suppress the attempts of conscience, in the pursuit of agreeable crime, and in the possessing those pleasures which we are loth to part with. but this objection would now serve no longer, for my lord had in some sort broke his engagements (i won't call it honour again) with me, and had so far slighted me as fairly to justify my entire quitting of him now; and so, as the objection was fully answered, the question remained still unanswered, why am i a whore now? nor indeed had i anything to say for myself, even to myself; i could not without blushing, as wicked as i was, answer that i loved it for the sake of the vice, and that i delighted in being a whore, as such; i say, i could not say this, even to myself, and all alone, nor indeed would it have been true. i was never able, in justice and with truth, to say i was so wicked as that; but as necessity first debauched me, and poverty made me a whore at the beginning, so excess of avarice for getting money and excess of vanity continued me in the crime, not being able to resist the flatteries of great persons; being called the finest woman in france; being caressed by a prince; and afterwards, i had pride enough to expect and folly enough to believe, though indeed without ground, by a great monarch. these were my baits, these the chains by which the devil held me bound, and by which i was indeed too fast held for any reasoning that i was then mistress of to deliver me from. but this was all over now; avarice could have no pretence. i was out of the reach of all that fate could be supposed to do to reduce me; now i was so far from poor, or the danger of it, that i had £ , in my pocket at least; nay, i had the income of £ , , for i had £ a year coming in upon very good land security, besides three or four thousand pounds in money, which i kept by me for ordinary occasions, and, besides, jewels, and plate, and goods which were worth near £ more; these put together, when i ruminated on it all in my thoughts, as you may be sure i did often, added weight still to the question, as above, and it sounded continually in my head, "what next? what am i a whore for now?" it is true this was, as i say, seldom out of my thoughts, but yet it made no impressions upon me of that kind which might be expected from a reflection of so important a nature, and which had so much of substance and seriousness in it. but, however, it was not without some little consequences, even at that time, and which gave a little turn to my way of living at first, as you shall hear in its place. but one particular thing intervened besides this which gave me some uneasiness at this time, and made way for other things that followed. i have mentioned in several little digressions the concern i had upon me for my children, and in what manner i had directed that affair; i must go on a little with that part, in order to bring the subsequent parts of my story together. my boy, the only son i had left that i had a legal right to call "son," was, as i have said, rescued from the unhappy circumstances of being apprentice to a mechanic, and was brought up upon a new foot; but though this was infinitely to his advantage, yet it put him back near three years in his coming into this world; for he had been near a year at the drudgery he was first put to, and it took up two years more to form him for what he had hopes given him he should hereafter be, so that he was full nineteen years old, or rather twenty years, before he came to be put out as i intended; at the end of which time i put him to a very flourishing italian merchant, and he again sent him to messina, in the island of sicily; and a little before the juncture i am now speaking of i had letters from him--that is to say, mrs. amy had letters from him, intimating that he was out of his time, and that he had an opportunity to be taken into an english house there, on very good terms, if his support from hence might answer what he was bid to hope for; and so begged that what would be done for him might be so ordered that he might have it for his present advancement, referring for the particulars to his master, the merchant in london, who he had been put apprentice to here; who, to cut the story short, gave such a satisfactory account of it, and of my young man, to my steady and faithful counsellor, sir robert clayton, that i made no scruple to pay £ , which was £ more than he demanded, or rather proposed, that he might have encouragement to enter into the world better than he expected. his master remitted the money very faithfully to him; and finding, by sir robert clayton, that the young gentleman--for so he called him--was well supported, wrote such letters on his account as gave him a credit at messina equal in value to the money itself. i could not digest it very well that i should all this while conceal myself thus from my own child, and make all this favour due, in his opinion, to a stranger; and yet i could not find in my heart to let my son know what a mother he had, and what a life she lived; when, at the same time that he must think himself infinitely obliged to me, he must be obliged, if he was a man of virtue, to hate his mother, and abhor the way of living by which all the bounty he enjoyed was raised. this is the reason of mentioning this part of my son's story, which is otherwise no ways concerned in my history, but as it put me upon thinking how to put an end to that wicked course i was in, that my own child, when he should afterwards come to england in a good figure, and with the appearance of a merchant, should not be ashamed to own me. but there was another difficulty, which lay heavier upon me a great deal, and that was my daughter, who, as before, i had relieved by the hands of another instrument, which amy had procured. the girl, as i have mentioned, was directed to put herself into a good garb, take lodgings, and entertain a maid to wait upon her, and to give herself some breeding--that is to say, to learn to dance, and fit herself to appear as a gentlewoman; being made to hope that she should, some time or other, find that she should be put into a condition to support her character, and to make herself amends for all her former troubles. she was only charged not to be drawn into matrimony till she was secured of a fortune that might assist to dispose of herself suitable not to what she then was, but what she was to be. the girl was too sensible of her circumstances not to give all possible satisfaction of that kind, and indeed she was mistress of too much understanding not to see how much she should be obliged to that part for her own interest. it was not long after this, but being well equipped, and in everything well set out, as she was directed, she came, as i have related above, and paid a visit to mrs. amy, and to tell her of her good fortune. amy pretended to be much surprised at the alteration, and overjoyed for her sake, and began to treat her very well, entertained her handsomely, and when she would have gone away, pretended to ask my leave, and sent my coach home with her; and, in short, learning from her where she lodged, which was in the city, amy promised to return her visit, and did so; and, in a word, amy and susan (for she was my own name) began an intimate acquaintance together. there was an inexpressible difficulty in the poor girl's way, or else i should not have been able to have forborne discovering myself to her, and this was, her having been a servant in my particular family; and i could by no means think of ever letting the children know what a kind of creature they owed their being to, or giving them an occasion to upbraid their mother with her scandalous life, much less to justify the like practice from my example. thus it was with me; and thus, no doubt, considering parents always find it that their own children are a restraint to them in their worst courses, when the sense of a superior power has not the same influence. but of that hereafter. there happened, however, one good circumstance in the case of this poor girl, which brought about a discovery sooner than otherwise it would have been, and it was thus. after she and amy had been intimate for some time, and had exchanged several visits, the girl, now grown a woman, talking to amy of the gay things that used to fall out when she was servant in my family, spoke of it with a kind of concern that she could not see (me) her lady; and at last she adds, "'twas very strange, madam," says she to amy, "but though i lived near two years in the house, i never saw my mistress in my life, except it was that public night when she danced in the fine turkish habit, and then she was so disguised that i knew nothing of her afterwards." amy was glad to hear this, but as she was a cunning girl from the beginning, she was not to be bit, and so she laid no stress upon that at first, but gave me an account of it; and i must confess it gave me a secret joy to think that i was not known to her, and that, by virtue of that only accident, i might, when other circumstances made room for it, discover myself to her, and let her know she had a mother in a condition fit to be owned. it was a dreadful restraint to me before, and this gave me some very sad reflections, and made way for the great question i have mentioned above; and by how much the circumstance was bitter to me, by so much the more agreeable it was to understand that the girl had never seen me, and consequently did not know me again if she was to be told who i was. however, the next time she came to visit amy, i was resolved to put it to a trial, and to come into the room and let her see me, and to see by that whether she knew me or not; but amy put me by, lest indeed, as there was reason enough to question, i should not be able to contain or forbear discovering myself to her; so it went off for that time. but both these circumstances, and that is the reason of mentioning them, brought me to consider of the life i lived, and to resolve to put myself into some figure of life in which i might not be scandalous to my own family, and be afraid to make myself known to my own children, who were my own flesh and blood. there was another daughter i had, which, with all our inquiries, we could not hear of, high nor low, for several years after the first. but i return to my own story. being now in part removed from my old station, i seemed to be in a fair way of retiring from my old acquaintances, and consequently from the vile, abominable trade i had driven so long; so that the door seemed to be, as it were, particularly open to my reformation, if i had any mind to it in earnest; but, for all that, some of my old friends, as i had used to call them, inquired me out, and came to visit me at kensington, and that more frequently than i wished they would do; but it being once known where i was, there was no avoiding it, unless i would have downright refused and affronted them; and i was not yet in earnest enough with my resolutions to go that length. the best of it was, my old lewd favourite, who i now heartily hated, entirely dropped me. he came once to visit me, but i caused amy to deny me, and say i was gone out. she did it so oddly, too, that when his lordship went away, he said coldly to her, "well, well, mrs. amy, i find your mistress does not desire to be seen; tell her i won't trouble her any more," repeating the words "any more" two or three times over, just at his going away. i reflected a little on it at first as unkind to him, having had so many considerable presents from him, but, as i have said, i was sick of him, and that on some accounts which, if i could suffer myself to publish them, would fully justify my conduct. but that part of the story will not bear telling, so i must leave it, and proceed. i had begun a little, as i have said above, to reflect upon my manner of living, and to think of putting a new face upon it, and nothing moved me to it more than the consideration of my having three children, who were now grown up; and yet that while i was in that station of life i could not converse with them or make myself known to them; and this gave me a great deal of uneasiness. at last i entered into talk on this part of it with my woman amy. we lived at kensington, as i have said, and though i had done with my old wicked l----, as above, yet i was frequently visited, as i said, by some others; so that, in a word, i began to be known in the town, not by name only, but by my character too, which was worse. it was one morning when amy was in bed with me, and i had some of my dullest thoughts about me, that amy, hearing me sigh pretty often, asked me if i was not well. "yes, amy, i am well enough," says i, "but my mind is oppressed with heavy thoughts, and has been so a good while;" and then i told her how it grieved me that i could not make myself known to my own children, or form any acquaintances in the world. "why so?" says amy. "why, prithee, amy," says i, "what will my children say to themselves, and to one another, when they find their mother, however rich she may be, is at best but a whore, a common whore? and as for acquaintance, prithee, amy, what sober lady or what family of any character will visit or be acquainted with a whore?" "why, all that's true, madam," says amy; "but how can it be remedied now?" "'tis true, amy," said i, "the thing cannot be remedied now, but the scandal of it, i fancy, may be thrown off." "truly," says amy, "i do not see how, unless you will go abroad again, and live in some other nation where nobody has known us or seen us, so that they cannot say they ever saw us before." that very thought of amy put what follows into my head, and i returned, "why, amy," says i, "is it not possible for me to shift my being from this part of the town and go and live in another part of the city, or another part of the country, and be as entirely concealed as if i had never been known?" "yes," says amy, "i believe it might; but then you must put off all your equipages and servants, coaches and horses, change your liveries--nay, your own clothes, and, if it was possible, your very face." "well," says i, "and that's the way, amy, and that i'll do, and that forthwith; for i am not able to live in this manner any longer." amy came into this with a kind of pleasure particular to herself--that is to say, with an eagerness not to be resisted; for amy was apt to be precipitant in her motions, and was for doing it immediately. "well," says i, "amy, as soon as you will; but what course must we take to do it? we cannot put off servants, and coach and horses, and everything, leave off housekeeping, and transform ourselves into a new shape all in a moment; servants must have warning, and the goods must be sold off, and a thousand things;" and this began to perplex us, and in particular took us up two or three days' consideration. at last amy, who was a clever manager in such cases, came to me with a scheme, as she called it. "i have found it out, madam," says she, "i have found a scheme how you shall, if you have a mind to it, begin and finish a perfect entire change of your figure and circumstances in one day, and shall be as much unknown, madam, in twenty-four hours, as you would be in so many years." "come, amy," says i, "let us hear of it, for you please me mightily with the thoughts of it." "why, then," says amy, "let me go into the city this afternoon, and i'll inquire out some honest, plain sober family, where i will take lodgings for you, as for a country gentlewoman that desires to be in london for about half a year, and to board yourself and a kinswoman--that is, half a servant, half a companion, meaning myself; and so agree with them by the month. to this lodging (if i hit upon one to your mind) you may go to-morrow morning in a hackney-coach, with nobody but me, and leave such clothes and linen as you think fit, but, to be sure, the plainest you have; and then you are removed at once; you never need set your foot in this house again" (meaning where we then were), "or see anybody belonging to it. in the meantime i'll let the servants know that you are going over to holland upon extraordinary business, and will leave off your equipages, and so i'll give them warning, or, if they will accept of it, give them a month's wages. then i'll sell off your furniture as well as i can. as to your coach, it is but having it new painted and the lining changed, and getting new harness and hammercloths, and you may keep it still or dispose of it as you think fit. and only take care to let this lodging be in some remote part of the town, and you may be as perfectly unknown as if you had never been in england in your life." this was amy's scheme, and it pleased me so well that i resolved not only to let her go, but was resolved to go with her myself; but amy put me off of that, because, she said, she should have occasion to hurry up and down so long that if i was with her it would rather hinder than further her, so i waived it. in a word, amy went, and was gone five long hours; but when she came back i could see by her countenance that her success had been suitable to her pains, for she came laughing and gaping. "o madam!" says she, "i have pleased you to the life;" and with that she tells me how she had fixed upon a house in a court in the minories; that she was directed to it merely by accident; that it was a female family, the master of the house being gone to new england, and that the woman had four children, kept two maids, and lived very handsomely, but wanted company to divert her; and that on that very account she had agreed to take boarders. amy agreed for a good, handsome price, because she was resolved i should be used well; so she bargained to give her £ for the half-year, and £ if we took a maid, leaving that to my choice; and that we might be satisfied we should meet with nothing very gay, the people were quakers, and i liked them the better. i was so pleased that i resolved to go with amy the next day to see the lodgings, and to see the woman of the house, and see how i liked them; but if i was pleased with the general, i was much more pleased with the particulars, for the gentlewoman--i must call her so, though she was a quaker--was a most courteous, obliging, mannerly person, perfectly well-bred and perfectly well-humoured, and, in short, the most agreeable conversation that ever i met with; and, which was worth all, so grave, and yet so pleasant and so merry, that 'tis scarcely possible for me to express how i was pleased and delighted with her company; and particularly, i was so pleased that i would go away no more; so i e'en took up my lodging there the very first night. in the meantime, though it took up amy almost a month so entirely to put off all the appearances of housekeeping, as above, it need take me up no time to relate it; 'tis enough to say that amy quitted all that part of the world and came pack and package to me, and here we took up our abode. i was now in a perfect retreat indeed, remote from the eyes of all that ever had seen me, and as much out of the way of being ever seen or heard of by any of the gang that used to follow me as if i had been among the mountains in lancashire; for when did a blue garter or a coach-and-six come into a little narrow passage in the minories or goodman's fields? and as there was no fear of them, so really i had no desire to see them, or so much as to hear from them any more as long as i lived. i seemed in a little hurry while amy came and went so every day at first, but when that was over i lived here perfectly retired, and with a most pleasant and agreeable lady; i must call her so, for, though a quaker, she had a full share of good breeding, sufficient to her if she had been a duchess; in a word, she was the most agreeable creature in her conversation, as i said before, that ever i met with. i pretended, after i had been there some time, to be extremely in love with the dress of the quakers, and this pleased her so much that she would needs dress me up one day in a suit of her own clothes; but my real design was to see whether it would pass upon me for a disguise. amy was struck with the novelty, though i had not mentioned my design to her, and when the quaker was gone out of the room says amy, "i guess your meaning; it is a perfect disguise to you. why, you look quite another body; i should not have known you myself. nay," says amy, "more than that, it makes you look ten years younger than you did." nothing could please me better than that, and when amy repeated it, i was so fond of it that i asked my quaker (i won't call her landlady; 'tis indeed too coarse a word for her, and she deserved a much better)--i say, i asked her if she would sell it. i told her i was so fond of it that i would give her enough to buy her a better suit. she declined it at first, but i soon perceived that it was chiefly in good manners, because i should not dishonour myself, as she called it, to put on her old clothes; but if i pleased to accept of them, she would give me them for my dressing-clothes, and go with me, and buy a suit for me that might be better worth my wearing. but as i conversed in a very frank, open manner with her, i bid her do the like with me; that i made no scruples of such things, but that if she would let me have them i would satisfy her. so she let me know what they cost, and to make her amends i gave her three guineas more than they cost her. this good (though unhappy) quaker had the misfortune to have had a bad husband, and he was gone beyond sea. she had a good house, and well furnished, and had some jointure of her own estate which supported her and her children, so that she did not want; but she was not at all above such a help as my being there was to her; so she was as glad of me as i was of her. however, as i knew there was no way to fix this new acquaintance like making myself a friend to her, i began with making her some handsome presents and the like to her children. and first, opening my bundles one day in my chamber, i heard her in another room, and called her in with a kind of familiar way. there i showed her some of my fine clothes, and having among the rest of my things a piece of very fine new holland, which i had bought a little before, worth about s. an ell, i pulled it out: "here, my friend," says i, "i will make you a present, if you will accept of it;" and with that i laid the piece of holland in her lap. i could see she was surprised, and that she could hardly speak. "what dost thou mean?" says she. "indeed i cannot have the face to accept so fine a present as this;" adding, "'tis fit for thy own use, but 'tis above my wear, indeed." i thought she had meant she must not wear it so fine because she was a quaker. so i returned, "why, do not you quakers wear fine linen neither?" "yes," says she, "we wear fine linen when we can afford it, but this is too good for me." however, i made her take it, and she was very thankful too. but my end was answered another way, for by this i engaged her so, that as i found her a woman of understanding, and of honesty too, i might, upon any occasion, have a confidence in her, which was, indeed, what i very much wanted. by accustoming myself to converse with her, i had not only learned to dress like a quaker, but so used myself to "thee" and "thou" that i talked like a quaker too, as readily and naturally as if i had been born among them; and, in a word, i passed for a quaker among all people that did not know me. i went but little abroad, but i had been so used to a coach that i knew not how well to go without one; besides, i thought it would be a farther disguise to me, so i told my quaker friend one day that i thought i lived too close, that i wanted air. she proposed taking a hackney-coach sometimes, or a boat; but i told her i had always had a coach of my own till now, and i could find in my heart to have one again. she seemed to think it strange at first, considering how close i lived, but had nothing to say when she found i did not value the expense; so, in short, i resolved i would have a coach. when we came to talk of equipages, she extolled the having all things plain. i said so too; so i left it to her direction, and a coachmaker was sent for, and he provided me a plain coach, no gilding or painting, lined with a light grey cloth, and my coachman had a coat of the same, and no lace on his hat. when all was ready i dressed myself in the dress i bought of her, and said, "come, i'll be a quaker to-day, and you and i'll go abroad;" which we did, and there was not a quaker in the town looked less like a counterfeit than i did. but all this was my particular plot, to be the more completely concealed, and that i might depend upon being not known, and yet need not be confined like a prisoner and be always in fear; so that all the rest was grimace. we lived here very easy and quiet, and yet i cannot say i was so in my mind; i was like a fish out of water. i was as gay and as young in my disposition as i was at five-and-twenty; and as i had always been courted, flattered, and used to love it, so i missed it in my conversation; and this put me many times upon looking back upon things past. i had very few moments in my life which, in their reflection, afforded me anything but regret: but of all the foolish actions i had to look back upon in my life, none looked so preposterous and so like distraction, nor left so much melancholy on my mind, as my parting with my friend, the merchant of paris, and the refusing him upon such honourable and just conditions as he had offered; and though on his just (which i called unkind) rejecting my invitation to come to him again, i had looked on him with some disgust, yet now my mind run upon him continually, and the ridiculous conduct of my refusing him, and i could never be satisfied about him. i flattered myself that if i could but see him i could yet master him, and that he would presently forget all that had passed that might be thought unkind; but as there was no room to imagine anything like that to be possible, i threw those thoughts off again as much as i could. however, they continually returned, and i had no rest night or day for thinking of him, who i had forgot above eleven years. i told amy of it, and we talked it over sometimes in bed, almost whole nights together. at last amy started a thing of her own head, which put it in a way of management, though a wild one too. "you are so uneasy, madam," says she, "about this mr. ----, the merchant at paris; come," says she, "if you'll give me leave, i'll go over and see what's become of him." "not for ten thousand pounds," said i; "no, nor if you met him in the street, not to offer to speak to him on my account." "no," says amy, "i would not speak to him at all; or if i did, i warrant you it shall not look to be upon your account. i'll only inquire after him, and if he is in being, you shall hear of him; if not, you shall hear of him still, and that may be enough." "why," says i, "if you will promise me not to enter into anything relating to me with him, nor to begin any discourse at all unless he begins it with you, i could almost be persuaded to let you go and try." amy promised me all that i desired; and, in a word, to cut the story short, i let her go, but tied her up to so many particulars that it was almost impossible her going could signify anything; and had she intended to observe them, she might as well have stayed at home as have gone, for i charged her, if she came to see him, she should not so much as take notice that she knew him again; and if he spoke to her, she should tell him she was come away from me a great many years ago, and knew nothing what was become of me; that she had been come over to france six years ago, and was married there, and lived at calais; or to that purpose. amy promised me nothing, indeed; for, as she said, it was impossible for her to resolve what would be fit to do, or not to do, till she was there upon the spot, and had found out the gentleman, or heard of him; but that then, if i would trust her, as i had always done, she would answer for it that she would do nothing but what should be for my interest, and what she would hope i should be very well pleased with. with this general commission, amy, notwithstanding she had been so frighted at the sea, ventured her carcass once more by water, and away she goes to france. she had four articles of confidence in charge to inquire after for me, and, as i found by her, she had one for herself--i say, four for me, because, though her first and principal errand was to inform myself of my dutch merchant, yet i gave her in charge to inquire, second, after my husband, who i left a trooper in the _gens d'armes_; third, after that rogue of a jew, whose very name i hated, and of whose face i had such a frightful idea that satan himself could not counterfeit a worse; and, lastly, after my foreign prince. and she discharged herself very well of them all, though not so successful as i wished. amy had a very good passage over the sea, and i had a letter from her, from calais, in three days after she went from london. when she came to paris she wrote me an account, that as to her first and most important inquiry, which was after the dutch merchant, her account was, that he had returned to paris, lived three years there, and quitting that city, went to live at rouen; so away goes amy for rouen. but as she was going to bespeak a place in the coach to rouen, she meets very accidentally in the street with her gentleman, as i called him--that is to say, the prince de ----'s gentleman, who had been her favourite, as above. you may be sure there were several other kind things happened between amy and him, as you shall hear afterwards; but the two main things were, first, that amy inquired about his lord, and had a full account of him, of which presently; and, in the next place, telling him whither she was going and for what, he bade her not go yet, for that he would have a particular account of it the next day from a merchant that knew him; and, accordingly, he brought her word the next day that he had been for six years before that gone for holland, and that he lived there still. this, i say, was the first news from amy for some time--i mean about my merchant. in the meantime amy, as i have said, inquired about the other persons she had in her instructions. as for the prince, the gentleman told her he was gone into germany, where his estate lay, and that he lived there; that he had made great inquiry after me; that he (his gentleman) had made all the search he had been able for me, but that he could not hear of me; that he believed, if his lord had known i had been in england, he would have gone over to me; but that, after long inquiry, he was obliged to give it over; but that he verily believed, if he could have found me, he would have married me; and that he was extremely concerned that he could hear nothing of me. i was not at all satisfied with amy's account, but ordered her to go to rouen herself, which she did, and there with much difficulty (the person she was directed to being dead)--i say, with much difficulty she came to be informed that my merchant had lived there two years, or something more, but that, having met with a very great misfortune, he had gone back to holland, as the french merchant said, where he had stayed two years; but with this addition, viz., that he came back again to rouen, and lived in good reputation there another year; and afterwards he was gone to england, and that he lived in london. but amy could by no means learn how to write to him there, till, by great accident, an old dutch skipper, who had formerly served him, coming to rouen, amy was told of it; and he told her that he lodged in st. laurence pountney's lane, in london, but was to be seen every day upon the exchange, in the french walk. this, amy thought, it was time enough to tell me of when she came over; and, besides, she did not find this dutch skipper till she had spent four or five months and been again in paris, and then come back to rouen for farther information. but in the meantime she wrote to me from paris that he was not to be found by any means; that he had been gone from paris seven or eight years; that she was told he had lived at rouen, and she was agoing thither to inquire, but that she had heard afterwards that he was gone also from thence to holland, so she did not go. this, i say, was amy's first account; and i, not satisfied with it, had sent her an order to go to rouen to inquire there also, as above. while this was negotiating, and i received these accounts from amy at several times, a strange adventure happened to me which i must mention just here. i had been abroad to take the air as usual with my quaker, as far as epping forest, and we were driving back towards london, when, on the road between bow and mile end, two gentlemen on horseback came riding by, having overtaken the coach and passed it, and went forwards towards london. they did not ride apace though they passed the coach, for we went very softly; nor did they look into the coach at all, but rode side by side, earnestly talking to one another and inclining their faces sideways a little towards one another, he that went nearest the coach with his face from it, and he that was farthest from the coach with his face towards it, and passing in the very next tract to the coach, i could hear them talk dutch very distinctly. but it is impossible to describe the confusion i was in when i plainly saw that the farthest of the two, him whose face looked towards the coach, was my friend the dutch merchant of paris. if it had been possible to conceal my disorder from my friend the quaker i would have done it, but i found she was too well acquainted with such things not to take the hint. "dost thou understand dutch?" said she. "why?" said i. "why," says she, "it is easy to suppose that thou art a little concerned at somewhat those men say; i suppose they are talking of thee." "indeed, my good friend," said i, "thou art mistaken this time, for i know very well what they are talking of, but 'tis all about ships and trading affairs." "well," says she, "then one of them is a man friend of thine, or somewhat is the case; for though thy tongue will not confess it, thy face does." i was going to have told a bold lie, and said i knew nothing of them; but i found it was impossible to conceal it, so i said, "indeed, i think i know the farthest of them; but i have neither spoken to him or so much as seen him for about eleven years." "well, then," says she, "thou hast seen him with more than common eyes when thou didst see him, or else seeing him now would not be such a surprise to thee." "indeed," said i, "it is true i am a little surprised at seeing him just now, for i thought he had been in quite another part of the world; and i can assure you i never saw him in england in my life." "well, then, it is the more likely he is come over now on purpose to seek thee." "no, no," said i, "knight-errantry is over; women are not so hard to come at that men should not be able to please themselves without running from one kingdom to another." "well, well," says she, "i would have him see thee for all that, as plainly as thou hast seen him." "no, but he shan't," says i, "for i am sure he don't know me in this dress, and i'll take care he shan't see my face, if i can help it;" so i held up my fan before my face, and she saw me resolute in that, so she pressed me no farther. we had several discourses upon the subject, but still i let her know i was resolved he should not know me; but at last i confessed so much, that though i would not let him know who i was or where i lived, i did not care if i knew where he lived and how i might inquire about him. she took the hint immediately, and her servant being behind the coach, she called him to the coach-side and bade him keep his eye upon that gentleman, and as soon as the coach came to the end of whitechapel he should get down and follow him closely, so as to see where he put up his horse, and then to go into the inn and inquire, if he could, who he was and where he lived. the fellow followed diligently to the gate of an inn in bishopsgate street, and seeing him go in, made no doubt but he had him fast; but was confounded when, upon inquiry, he found the inn was a thoroughfare into another street, and that the two gentlemen had only rode through the inn, as the way to the street where they were going; and so, in short, came back no wiser than he went. my kind quaker was more vexed at the disappointment, at least apparently so, than i was; and asking the fellow if he was sure he knew the gentleman again if he saw him, the fellow said he had followed him so close and took so much notice of him, in order to do his errand as it ought to be done, that he was very sure he should know him again; and that, besides, he was sure he should know his horse. this part was, indeed, likely enough; and the kind quaker, without telling me anything of the matter, caused her man to place himself just at the corner of whitechapel church wall every saturday in the afternoon, that being the day when the citizens chiefly ride abroad to take the air, and there to watch all the afternoon and look for him. it was not till the fifth saturday that her man came, with a great deal of joy, and gave her an account that he had found out the gentleman; that he was a dutchman, but a french merchant; that he came from rouen, and his name was ----, and that he lodged at mr. ----'s, on laurence pountney's hill. i was surprised, you may be sure, when she came and told me one evening all the particulars, except that of having set her man to watch. "i have found out thy dutch friend," says she, "and can tell thee how to find him too." i coloured again as red as fire. "then thou hast dealt with the evil one, friend," said i very gravely. "no, no," says she, "i have no familiar; but i tell thee i have found him for thee, and his name is so-and-so, and he lives as above recited." i was surprised again at this, not being able to imagine how she should come to know all this. however, to put me out of pain, she told me what she had done. "well," said i, "thou art very kind, but this is not worth thy pains; for now i know it, 'tis only to satisfy my curiosity; for i shall not send to him upon any account." "be that as thou wilt," says she. "besides," added she, "thou art in the right to say so to me, for why should i be trusted with it? though, if i were, i assure thee i should not betray thee." "that's very kind," said i, "and i believe thee; and assure thyself, if i do send to him, thou shalt know it, and be trusted with it too." during this interval of five weeks i suffered a hundred thousand perplexities of mind. i was thoroughly convinced i was right as to the person, that it was the man. i knew him so well, and saw him so plain, i could not be deceived. i drove out again in the coach (on pretence of air) almost every day in hopes of seeing him again, but was never so lucky as to see him; and now i had made the discovery i was as far to seek what measures to take as i was before. to send to him, or speak to him first if i should see him, so as to be known to him, that i resolved not to do, if i died for it. to watch him about his lodging, that was as much below my spirit as the other. so that, in a word, i was at a perfect loss how to act or what to do. at length came amy's letter, with the last account which she had at rouen from the dutch skipper, which, confirming the other, left me out of doubt that this was my man; but still no human invention could bring me to the speech of him in such a manner as would suit with my resolutions. for, after all, how did i know what his circumstances were? whether married or single? and if he had a wife, i knew he was so honest a man he would not so much as converse with me, or so much as know me if he met me in the street. in the next place, as he entirely neglected me, which, in short, is the worst way of slighting a woman, and had given no answer to my letters, i did not know but he might be the same man still; so i resolved that i could do nothing in it unless some fairer opportunity presented, which might make my way clearer to me; for i was determined he should have no room to put any more slights upon me. in these thoughts i passed away near three months; till at last, being impatient, i resolved to send for amy to come over, and tell her how things stood, and that i would do nothing till she came. amy, in answer, sent me word she would come away with all speed, but begged of me that i would enter into no engagement with him, or anybody, till she arrived; but still keeping me in the dark as to the thing itself which she had to say; at which i was heartily vexed, for many reasons. but while all these things were transacting, and letters and answers passed between amy and i a little slower than usual, at which i was not so well pleased as i used to be with amy's despatch--i say, in this time the following scene opened. it was one afternoon, about four o'clock, my friendly quaker and i sitting in her chamber upstairs, and very cheerful, chatting together (for she was the best company in the world), when somebody ringing hastily at the door, and no servant just then in the way, she ran down herself to the door, when a gentleman appears, with a footman attending, and making some apologies, which she did not thoroughly understand, he speaking but broken english, he asked to speak with me, by the very same name that i went by in her house, which, by the way, was not the name that he had known me by. she, with very civil language, in her way, brought him into a very handsome parlour below stairs, and said she would go and see whether the person who lodged in her house owned that name, and he should hear farther. i was a little surprised, even before i knew anything of who it was, my mind foreboding the thing as it happened (whence that arises let the naturalists explain to us); but i was frighted and ready to die when my quaker came up all gay and crowing. "there," says she, "is the dutch french merchant come to see thee." i could not speak one word to her nor stir off of my chair, but sat as motionless as a statue. she talked a thousand pleasant things to me, but they made no impression on me. at last she pulled me and teased me. "come, come," says she, "be thyself, and rouse up. i must go down again to him; what shall i say to him?" "say," said i, "that you have no such body in the house." "that i cannot do," says she, "because it is not the truth. besides, i have owned thou art above. come, come, go down with me." "not for a thousand guineas," said i. "well," says she, "i'll go and tell him thou wilt come quickly." so, without giving me time to answer her, away she goes. a million of thoughts circulated in my head while she was gone, and what to do i could not tell; i saw no remedy but i must speak with him, but would have given £ to have shunned it; yet had i shunned it, perhaps then i would have given £ again that i had seen him. thus fluctuating and unconcluding were my thoughts, what i so earnestly desired i declined when it offered itself; and what now i pretended to decline was nothing but what i had been at the expense of £ or £ to send amy to france for, and even without any view, or, indeed, any rational expectation of bringing it to pass; and what for half a year before i was so uneasy about that i could not be quiet night or day till amy proposed to go over to inquire after him. in short, my thoughts were all confused and in the utmost disorder. i had once refused and rejected him, and i repented it heartily; then i had taken ill his silence, and in my mind rejected him again, but had repented that too. now i had stooped so low as to send after him into france, which if he had known, perhaps, he had never come after me; and should i reject him a third time! on the other hand, he had repented too, in his turn, perhaps, and not knowing how i had acted, either in stooping to send in search after him or in the wickeder part of my life, was come over hither to seek me again; and i might take him, perhaps, with the same advantages as i might have done before, and would i now be backward to see him! well, while i was in this hurry my friend the quaker comes up again, and perceiving the confusion i was in, she runs to her closet and fetched me a little pleasant cordial; but i would not taste it. "oh," says she, "i understand thee. be not uneasy; i'll give thee something shall take off all the smell of it; if he kisses thee a thousand times he shall be no wiser." i thought to myself, "thou art perfectly acquainted with affairs of this nature; i think you must govern me now;" so i began to incline to go down with her. upon that i took the cordial, and she gave me a kind of spicy preserve after it, whose flavour was so strong, and yet so deliciously pleasant, that it would cheat the nicest smelling, and it left not the least taint of the cordial on the breath. well, after this, though with some hesitation still, i went down a pair of back-stairs with her, and into a dining-room, next to the parlour in which he was; but there i halted, and desired she would let me consider of it a little. "well, do so," says she, and left me with more readiness than she did before. "do consider, and i'll come to thee again." though i hung back with an awkwardness that was really unfeigned, yet when she so readily left me i thought it was not so kind, and i began to think she should have pressed me still on to it; so foolishly backward are we to the thing which, of all the world, we most desire; mocking ourselves with a feigned reluctance, when the negative would be death to us. but she was too cunning for me; for while i, as it were, blamed her in my mind for not carrying me to him, though, at the same time, i appeared backward to see him, on a sudden she unlocks the folding-doors, which looked into the next parlour, and throwing them open. "there," says she (ushering him in), "is the person who, i suppose, thou inquirest for;" and the same moment, with a kind decency, she retired, and that so swift that she would not give us leave hardly to know which way she went. i stood up, but was confounded with a sudden inquiry in my thoughts how i should receive him, and with a resolution as swift as lightning, in answer to it, said to myself, "it shall be coldly." so on a sudden i put on an air of stiffness and ceremony, and held it for about two minutes; but it was with great difficulty. he restrained himself too, on the other hand, came towards me gravely, and saluted me in form; but it was, it seems, upon his supposing the quaker was behind him, whereas she, as i said, understood things too well, and had retired as if she had vanished, that we might have full freedom; for, as she said afterwards, she supposed we had seen one another before, though it might have been a great while ago. whatever stiffness i had put on my behaviour to him, i was surprised in my mind, and angry at his, and began to wonder what kind of a ceremonious meeting it was to be. however, after he perceived the woman was gone he made a kind of a hesitation, looking a little round him. "indeed," said he, "i thought the gentlewoman was not withdrawn;" and with that he took me in his arms and kissed me three or four times; but i, that was prejudiced to the last degree with the coldness of his first salutes, when i did not know the cause of it, could not be thoroughly cleared of the prejudice though i did know the cause, and thought that even his return, and taking me in his arms, did not seem to have the same ardour with which he used to receive me, and this made me behave to him awkwardly, and i know not how for a good while; but this by the way. he began with a kind of an ecstasy upon the subject of his finding me out; how it was possible that he should have been four years in england, and had used all the ways imaginable, and could never so much as have the least intimation of me, or of any one like me; and that it was now above two years that he had despaired of it, and had given over all inquiry; and that now he should chop upon me, as it were, unlooked and unsought for. i could easily have accounted for his not finding me if i had but set down the detail of my real retirement; but i gave it a new, and indeed a truly hypocritical turn. i told him that any one that knew the manner of life i led might account for his not finding me; that the retreat i had taken up would have rendered it a hundred thousand to one odds that he ever found me at all; that, as i had abandoned all conversation, taken up another name, lived remote from london, and had not preserved one acquaintance in it, it was no wonder he had not met with me; that even my dress would let him see that i did not desire to be known by anybody. then he asked if i had not received some letters from him. i told him no, he had not thought fit to give me the civility of an answer to the last i wrote to him, and he could not suppose i should expect a return after a silence in a case where i had laid myself so low and exposed myself in a manner i had never been used to; that indeed i had never sent for any letters after that to the place where i had ordered his to be directed; and that, being so justly, as i thought, punished for my weakness, i had nothing to do but to repent of being a fool, after i had strictly adhered to a just principle before; that, however, as what i did was rather from motions of gratitude than from real weakness, however it might be construed by him, i had the satisfaction in myself of having fully discharged the debt. i added, that i had not wanted occasions of all the seeming advancements which the pretended felicity of a marriage life was usually set off with, and might have been what i desired not to name; but that, however low i had stooped to him, i had maintained the dignity of female liberty against all the attacks either of pride or avarice; and that i had been infinitely obliged to him for giving me an opportunity to discharge the only obligation that endangered me, without subjecting me to the consequence; and that i hoped he was satisfied i had paid the debt by offering myself to be chained, but was infinitely debtor to him another way for letting me remain free. he was so confounded at this discourse that he knew not what to say, and for a good while he stood mute indeed; but recovering himself a little, he said i run out into a discourse he hoped was over and forgotten, and he did not intend to revive it; that he knew i had not had his letters, for that, when he first came to england, he had been at the place to which they were directed, and found them all lying there but one, and that the people had not known how to deliver them; that he thought to have had a direction there how to find me, but had the mortification to be told that they did not so much as know who i was; that he was under a great disappointment; and that i ought to know, in answer to all my resentments, that he had done a long and, he hoped, a sufficient penance for the slight that i had supposed he had put upon me; that it was true (and i could not suppose any other) that upon the repulse i had given them in a case so circumstanced as his was, and after such earnest entreaties and such offers as he had made me, he went away with a mind heartily grieved and full of resentment; that he had looked back on the crime he had committed with some regret, but on the cruelty of my treatment of the poor infant i went with at that time with the utmost detestation, and that this made him unable to send an agreeable answer to me; for which reason he had sent none at all for some time; but that in about six or seven months, those resentments wearing off by the return of his affection to me and his concern in the poor child ----. there he stopped, and indeed tears stood in his eyes; while in a parenthesis he only added, and to this minute he did not know whether it was dead or alive. he then went on: those resentments wearing off, he sent me several letters--i think he said seven or eight--but received no answer; that then his business obliging him to go to holland, he came to england, as in his way, but found, as above, that his letters had not been called for, but that he left them at the house after paying the postage of them; and going then back to france, he was yet uneasy, and could not refrain the knight-errantry of coming to england again to seek me, though he knew neither where or of who to inquire for me, being disappointed in all his inquiries before; that he had yet taken up his residence here, firmly believing that one time or other he should meet me, or hear of me, and that some kind chance would at last throw him in my way; that he had lived thus above four years, and though his hopes were vanished, yet he had not any thoughts of removing any more in the world, unless it should be at last, as it is with other old men, he might have some inclination to go home to die in his own country, but that he had not thought of it yet; that if i would consider all these steps, i would find some reasons to forget his first resentments, and to think that penance, as he called it, which he had undergone in search of me an _amende honorable_, in reparation of the affront given to the kindness of my letter of invitation; and that we might at last make ourselves some satisfaction on both sides for the mortifications past. i confess i could not hear all this without being moved very much, and yet i continued a little stiff and formal too a good while. i told him that before i could give him any reply to the rest of his discourse i ought to give him the satisfaction of telling him that his son was alive, and that indeed, since i saw him so concerned about it, and mention it with such affection, i was sorry that i had not found out some way or other to let him know it sooner; but that i thought, after his slighting the mother, as above, he had summed up his affection to the child in the letter he had wrote to me about providing for it; and that he had, as other fathers often do, looked upon it as a birth which, being out of the way, was to be forgotten, as its beginning was to be repented of; that in providing sufficiently for it he had done more than all such fathers used to do, and might be well satisfied with it. he answered me that he should have been very glad if i had been so good but to have given him the satisfaction of knowing the poor unfortunate creature was yet alive, and he would have taken some care of it upon himself, and particularly by owning it for a legitimate child, which, where nobody had known to the contrary, would have taken off the infamy which would otherwise cleave to it, and so the child should not itself have known anything of its own disaster; but that he feared it was now too late. he added that i might see by all his conduct since that what unhappy mistake drew him into the thing at first, and that he would have been very far from doing the injury to me, or being instrumental to add _une miserable_ (that was his word) to the world, if he had not been drawn into it by the hopes he had of making me his own; but that, if it was possible to rescue the child from the consequences of its unhappy birth, he hoped i would give him leave to do it, and he would let me see that he had both means and affection still to do it; and that, notwithstanding all the misfortunes that had befallen him, nothing that belonged to him, especially by a mother he had such a concern for as he had for me, should ever want what he was in a condition to do for it. i could not hear this without being sensibly touched with it. i was ashamed that he should show that he had more real affection for the child, though he had never seen it in his life, than i that bore it, for indeed i did not love the child, nor love to see it; and though i had provided for it, yet i did it by amy's hand, and had not seen it above twice in four years, being privately resolved that when it grew up it should not be able to call me mother. however, i told him the child was taken care of, and that he need not be anxious about it, unless he suspected that i had less affection for it than he that had never seen it in his life; that he knew what i had promised him to do for it, namely, to give it the thousand pistoles which i had offered him, and which he had declined; that i assured him i had made my will, and that i had left it £ , and the interest of it till he should come of age, if i died before that time; that i would still be as good as that to it; but if he had a mind to take it from me into his government, i would not be against it; and to satisfy him that i would perform what i said, i would cause the child to be delivered to him, and the £ also for its support, depending upon it that he would show himself a father to it by what i saw of his affection to it now. i had observed that he had hinted two or three times in his discourse, his having had misfortunes in the world, and i was a little surprised at the expression, especially at the repeating it so often; but i took no notice of that part yet. he thanked me for my kindness to the child with a tenderness which showed the sincerity of all he had said before, and which increased the regret with which, as i said, i looked back on the little affection i had showed to the poor child. he told me he did not desire to take him from me, but so as to introduce him into the world as his own, which he could still do, having lived absent from his other children (for he had two sons and a daughter which were brought up at nimeguen, in holland, with a sister of his) so long that he might very well send another son of ten years old to be bred up with them, and suppose his mother to be dead or alive, as he found occasion; and that, as i had resolved to do so handsomely for the child, he would add to it something considerable, though, having had some great disappointments (repeating the words), he could not do for it as he would otherwise have done. i then thought myself obliged to take notice of his having so often mentioned his having met with disappointments. i told him i was very sorry to hear he had met with anything afflicting to him in the world; that i would not have anything belonging to me add to his loss, or weaken him in what he might do for his other children; and that i would not agree to his having the child away, though the proposal was infinitely to the child's advantage, unless he would promise me that the whole expense should be mine, and that, if he did not think £ enough for the child, i would give it more. we had so much discourse upon this and the old affairs that it took up all our time at his first visit. i was a little importunate with him to tell me how he came to find me out, but he put it off for that time, and only obtaining my leave to visit me again, he went away; and indeed my heart was so full with what he had said already that i was glad when he went away. sometimes i was full of tenderness and affection for him, and especially when he expressed himself so earnestly and passionately about the child; other times i was crowded with doubts about his circumstances. sometimes i was terrified with apprehensions lest, if i should come into a close correspondence with him, he should any way come to hear what kind of life i had led at pall mall and in other places, and it might make me miserable afterwards; from which last thought i concluded that i had better repulse him again than receive him. all these thoughts, and many more, crowded in so fast, i say, upon me that i wanted to give vent to them and get rid of him, and was very glad when he was gone away. we had several meetings after this, in which still we had so many preliminaries to go through that we scarce ever bordered upon the main subject. once, indeed, he said something of it, and i put it off with a kind of a jest. "alas!" says i, "those things are out of the question now; 'tis almost two ages since those things were talked between us," says i. "you see i am grown an old woman since that." another time he gave a little push at it again, and i laughed again. "why, what dost thou talk of?" said i in a formal way. "dost thou not see i am turned quaker? i cannot speak of those things now." "why," says he, "the quakers marry as well as other people, and love one another as well. besides," says he, "the quakers' dress does not ill become you," and so jested with me again, and so it went off for a third time. however, i began to be kind to him in process of time, as they call it, and we grew very intimate; and if the following accident had not unluckily intervened, i had certainly married him, or consented to marry him, the very next time he had asked me. i had long waited for a letter from amy, who, it seems, was just at that time gone to rouen the second time, to make her inquiries about him; and i received a letter from her at this unhappy juncture, which gave me the following account of my business:-- i. that for my gentleman, who i had now, as i may say, in my arms, she said he had been gone from paris, as i have hinted, having met with some great losses and misfortunes; that he had been in holland on that very account, whither he had also carried his children; that he was after that settled for some time at rouen; that she had been at rouen, and found there (by a mere accident), from a dutch skipper, that he was at london, had been there above three years; that he was to be found upon the exchange, on the french walk; and that he lodged at st. laurence pountney's lane, and the like; so amy said she supposed i might soon find him out, but that she doubted he was poor, and not worth looking after. this she did because of the next clause, which the jade had most mind to on many accounts. ii. that as to the prince ----; that, as above, he was gone into germany, where his estate lay; that he had quitted the french service, and lived retired; that she had seen his gentleman, who remained at paris to solicit his arrears, &c.; that he had given her an account how his lord had employed him to inquire for me and find me out, as above, and told her what pains he had taken to find me; that he had understood that i was gone to england; that he once had orders to go to england to find me; that his lord had resolved, if he could have found me, to have called me a countess, and so have married me, and have carried me into germany with him; and that his commission was still to assure me that the prince would marry me if i would come to him, and that he would send him an account that he had found me, and did not doubt but he would have orders to come over to england to attend me in a figure suitable to my quality. amy, an ambitious jade, who knew my weakest part--namely, that i loved great things, and that i loved to be flattered and courted--said abundance of kind things upon this occasion, which she knew were suitable to me and would prompt my vanity; and talked big of the prince's gentleman having orders to come over to me with a procuration to marry me by proxy (as princes usually do in like cases), and to furnish me with an equipage, and i know not how many fine things; but told me, withal, that she had not yet let him know that she belonged to me still, or that she knew where to find me, or to write to me; because she was willing to see the bottom of it, and whether it was a reality or a gasconade. she had indeed told him that, if he had any such commission, she would endeavour to find me out, but no more. iii. for the jew, she assured me that she had not been able to come at a certainty what was become of him, or in what part of the world he was; but that thus much she had learned from good hands, that he had committed a crime, in being concerned in a design to rob a rich banker at paris; and that he was fled, and had not been heard of there for above six years. iv. for that of my husband, the brewer, she learned, that being commanded into the field upon an occasion of some action in flanders, he was wounded at the battle of mons, and died of his wounds in the hospital of the invalids; so there was an end of my four inquiries, which i sent her over to make. this account of the prince, and the return of his affection to me, with all the flattering great things which seemed to come along with it; and especially as they came gilded and set out by my maid amy--i say this account of the prince came to me in a very unlucky hour, and in the very crisis of my affair. the merchant and i had entered into close conferences upon the grand affair. i had left off talking my platonics, and of my independency, and being a free woman, as before; and he having cleared up my doubts too, as to his circumstances and the misfortunes he had spoken of, i had gone so far that we had begun to consider where we should live, and in what figure, what equipage, what house, and the like. i had made some harangues upon the delightful retirement of a country life, and how we might enjoy ourselves so effectually without the encumbrances of business and the world; but all this was grimace, and purely because i was afraid to make any public appearance in the world, for fear some impertinent person of quality should chop upon me again and cry out, "roxana, roxana, by ----!" with an oath, as had been done before. my merchant, bred to business and used to converse among men of business, could hardly tell how to live without it; at least it appeared he should be like a fish out of water, uneasy and dying. but, however, he joined with me; only argued that we might live as near london as we could, that he might sometimes come to 'change and hear how the world should go abroad, and how it fared with his friends and his children. i answered that if he chose still to embarrass himself with business, i supposed it would be more to his satisfaction to be in his own country, and where his family was so well known, and where his children also were. he smiled at the thoughts of that, and let me know that he should be very willing to embrace such an offer; but that he could not expect it of me, to whom england was, to be sure, so naturalised now as that it would be carrying me out of my native country, which he would not desire by any means, however agreeable it might be to him. i told him he was mistaken in me; that as i had told him so much of a married state being a captivity, and the family being a house of bondage, that when i married i expected to be but an upper servant; so, if i did notwithstanding submit to it, i hoped he should see i knew how to act the servant's part, and do everything to oblige my master; that if i did not resolve to go with him wherever he desired to go, he might depend i would never have him. "and did i not," said i, "offer myself to go with you to the east indies?" all this while this was indeed but a copy of my countenance; for, as my circumstances would not admit of my stay in london, at least not so as to appear publicly, i resolved, if i took him, to live remote in the country, or go out of england with him. but in an evil hour, just now came amy's letter, in the very middle of all these discourses; and the fine things she had said about the prince began to make strange work with me. the notion of being a princess, and going over to live where all that had happened here would have been quite sunk out of knowledge as well as out of memory (conscience excepted), was mighty taking. the thoughts of being surrounded with domestics, honoured with titles, be called her highness, and live in all the splendour of a court, and, which was still more, in the arms of a man of such rank, and who, i knew, loved and valued me--all this, in a word, dazzled my eyes, turned my head, and i was as truly crazed and distracted for about a fortnight as most of the people in bedlam, though perhaps not quite so far gone. when my gentleman came to me the next time i had no notion of him; i wished i had never received him at all. in short, i resolved to have no more to say to him, so i feigned myself indisposed; and though i did come down to him and speak to him a little, yet i let him see that i was so ill that i was (as we say) no company, and that it would be kind in him to give me leave to quit him for that time. the next morning he sent a footman to inquire how i did; and i let him know i had a violent cold, and was very ill with it. two days after he came again, and i let him see me again, but feigned myself so hoarse that i could not speak to be heard, and that it was painful to me but to whisper; and, in a word, i held him in this suspense near three weeks. during this time i had a strange elevation upon my mind; and the prince, or the spirit of him, had such a possession of me that i spent most of this time in the realising all the great things of a life with the prince, to my mind pleasing my fancy with the grandeur i was supposing myself to enjoy, and with wickedly studying in what manner to put off this gentleman and be rid of him for ever. i cannot but say that sometimes the baseness of the action stuck hard with me; the honour and sincerity with which he had always treated me, and, above all, the fidelity he had showed me at paris, and that i owed my life to him--i say, all these stared in my face, and i frequently argued with myself upon the obligation i was under to him, and how base would it be now too, after so many obligations and engagements, to cast him off. but the title of highness, and of a princess, and all those fine things, as they came in, weighed down all this; and the sense of gratitude vanished as if it had been a shadow. at other times i considered the wealth i was mistress of; that i was able to live like a princess, though not a princess; and that my merchant (for he had told me all the affair of his misfortunes) was far from being poor, or even mean; that together we were able to make up an estate of between three and four thousand pounds a year, which was in itself equal to some princes abroad. but though this was true, yet the name of princess, and the flutter of it--in a word, the pride--weighed them down; and all these arguings generally ended to the disadvantage of my merchant; so that, in short, i resolved to drop him, and give him a final answer at his next coming; namely, that something had happened in my affairs which had caused me to alter my measures unexpectedly, and, in a word, to desire him to trouble himself no farther. i think, verily, this rude treatment of him was for some time the effect of a violent fermentation in my blood; for the very motion which the steady contemplation of my fancied greatness had put my spirits into had thrown me into a kind of fever, and i scarce knew what i did. i have wondered since that it did not make me mad; nor do i now think it strange to hear of those who have been quite lunatic with their pride, that fancied themselves queens and empresses, and have made their attendants serve them upon the knee, given visitors their hand to kiss, and the like; for certainly, if pride will not turn the brain, nothing can. however, the next time my gentleman came, i had not courage enough, or not ill nature enough, to treat him in the rude manner i had resolved to do, and it was very well i did not; for soon after, i had another letter from amy, in which was the mortifying news, and indeed surprising to me, that my prince (as i, with a secret pleasure, had called him) was very much hurt by a bruise he had received in hunting and engaging with a wild boar, a cruel and desperate sport which the noblemen of germany, it seems, much delight in. this alarmed me indeed, and the more because amy wrote me word that his gentleman was gone away express to him, not without apprehensions that he should find his master was dead before his coming home; but that he (the gentleman) had promised her that as soon as he arrived he would send back the same courier to her with an account of his master's health, and of the main affair; and that he had obliged amy to stay at paris fourteen days for his return; she having promised him before to make it her business to go to england and to find me out for his lord if he sent her such orders; and he was to send her a bill for fifty pistoles for her journey. so amy told me she waited for the answer. this was a blow to me several ways; for, first, i was in a state of uncertainty as to his person, whether he was alive or dead; and i was not unconcerned in that part, i assure you; for i had an inexpressible affection remaining for his person, besides the degree to which it was revived by the view of a firmer interest in him. but this was not all, for in losing him i forever lost the prospect of all the gaiety and glory that had made such an impression upon my imagination. in this state of uncertainty, i say, by amy's letter, i was like still to remain another fortnight; and had i now continued the resolution of using my merchant in the rude manner i once intended, i had made perhaps a sorry piece of work of it indeed, and it was very well my heart failed me as it did. however, i treated him with a great many shuffles, and feigned stories to keep him off from any closer conferences than we had already had, that i might act afterwards as occasion might offer, one way or other. but that which mortified me most was, that amy did not write, though the fourteen days were expired. at last, to my great surprise, when i was, with the utmost impatience, looking out at the window, expecting the postman that usually brought the foreign letters--i say i was agreeably surprised to see a coach come to the yard-gate where we lived, and my woman amy alight out of it and come towards the door, having the coachman bringing several bundles after her. i flew like lightning downstairs to speak to her, but was soon damped with her news. "is the prince alive or dead, amy?" says i. she spoke coldly and slightly. "he is alive, madam," said she. "but it is not much matter; i had as lieu he had been dead." so we went upstairs again to my chamber, and there we began a serious discourse of the whole matter. first, she told me a long story of his being hurt by a wild boar, and of the condition he was reduced to, so that every one expected he should die, the anguish of the wound having thrown him into a fever, with abundance of circumstances too long to relate here; how he recovered of that extreme danger, but continued very weak; how the gentleman had been _homme de parole_, and had sent back the courier as punctually as if it had been to the king; that he had given a long account of his lord, and of his illness and recovery; but the sum of the matter, as to me, was, that as to the lady, his lord was turned penitent, was under some vows for his recovery, and could not think any more on that affair; and especially, the lady being gone, and that it had not been offered to her, so there was no breach of honour; but that his lord was sensible of the good offices of mrs. amy, and had sent her the fifty pistoles for her trouble, as if she had really gone the journey. i was, i confess, hardly able to bear the first surprise of this disappointment. amy saw it, and gapes out (as was her way), "lawd, madam! never be concerned at it; you see he is gotten among the priests, and i suppose they have saucily imposed some penance upon him, and, it may be, sent him of an errand barefoot to some madonna or nôtredame, or other; and he is off of his amours for the present. i'll warrant you he'll be as wicked again as ever he was when he is got thorough well, and gets but out of their hands again. i hate this out-o'-season repentance. what occasion had he, in his repentance, to be off of taking a good wife? i should have been glad to see you have been a princess, and all that; but if it can't be, never afflict yourself; you are rich enough to be a princess to yourself; you don't want him, that's the best of it." well, i cried for all that, and was heartily vexed, and that a great while; but as amy was always at my elbow, and always jogging it out of my head with her mirth and her wit, it wore off again. then i told amy all the story of my merchant, and how he had found me out when i was in such a concern to find him; how it was true that he lodged in st. laurence pountney's lane; and how i had had all the story of his misfortune, which she had heard of, in which he had lost above £ sterling; and that he had told me frankly of it before she had sent me any account of it, or at least before i had taken any notice that i had heard of it. amy was very joyful at that part. "well, madam, then," says amy, "what need you value the story of the prince, and going i know not whither into germany to lay your bones in another world, and learn the devil's language, called high dutch? you are better here by half," says amy. "lawd, madam!" says she; "why, are you not as rich as croesus?" well, it was a great while still before i could bring myself off of this fancied sovereignty; and i, that was so willing once to be mistress to a king, was now ten thousand times more fond of being wife to a prince. so fast a hold has pride and ambition upon our minds, that when once it gets admission, nothing is so chimerical but, under this possession, we can form ideas of in our fancy and realise to our imagination. nothing can be so ridiculous as the simple steps we take in such cases; a man or a woman becomes a mere _malade imaginaire_, and, i believe, may as easily die with grief or run mad with joy (as the affair in his fancy appears right or wrong) as if all was real, and actually under the management of the person. i had indeed two assistants to deliver me from this snare, and these were, first, amy, who knew my disease, but was able to do nothing as to the remedy; the second, the merchant, who really brought the remedy, but knew nothing of the distemper. i remember, when all these disorders were upon my thoughts, in one of the visits my friend the merchant made me, he took notice that he perceived i was under some unusual disorder; he believed, he said, that my distemper, whatever it was, lay much in my head, and it being summer weather and very hot, proposed to me to go a little way into the air. i started at his expression. "what!" says i; "do you think, then, that i am crazed? you should, then, propose a madhouse for my cure." "no, no," says he, "i do not mean anything like that; i hope the head may be distempered and not the brain." well, i was too sensible that he was right, for i knew i had acted a strange, wild kind of part with him; but he insisted upon it, and pressed me to go into the country. i took him short again. "what need you," says i, "send me out of your way? it is in your power to be less troubled with me, and with less inconvenience to us both." he took that ill, and told me i used to have a better opinion of his sincerity, and desired to know what he had done to forfeit my charity. i mention this only to let you see how far i had gone in my measures of quitting him--that is to say, how near i was of showing him how base, ungrateful, and how vilely i could act; but i found i had carried the jest far enough, and that a little matter might have made him sick of me again, as he was before; so i began by little and little to change my way of talking to him, and to come to discourse to the purpose again as we had done before. a while after this, when we were very merry and talking familiarly together, he called me, with an air of particular satisfaction, his princess. i coloured at the word, for it indeed touched me to the quick; but he knew nothing of the reason of my being touched with it. "what d'ye mean by that?" said i. "nay," says he, "i mean nothing but that you are a princess to me." "well," says i, "as to that i am content, and yet i could tell you i might have been a princess if i would have quitted you, and believe i could be so still." "it is not in my power to make you a princess," says he, "but i can easily make you a lady here in england, and a countess too if you will go out of it." i heard both with a great deal of satisfaction, for my pride remained though it had been balked, and i thought with myself that this proposal would make me some amends for the loss of the title that had so tickled my imagination another way, and i was impatient to understand what he meant, but i would not ask him by any means; so it passed off for that time. when he was gone i told amy what he had said, and amy was as impatient to know the manner how it could be as i was; but the next time (perfectly unexpected to me) he told me that he had accidentally mentioned a thing to me last time he was with me, having not the least thought of the thing itself; but not knowing but such a thing might be of some weight to me, and that it might bring me respect among people where i might appear, he had thought since of it, and was resolved to ask me about it. i made light of it, and told him that, as he knew i had chosen a retired life, it was of no value to me to be called lady or countess either; but that if he intended to drag me, as i might call it, into the world again, perhaps it might be agreeable to him; but, besides that, i could not judge of the thing, because i did not understand how either of them was to be done. he told me that money purchased titles of honour in almost all parts of the world, though money could not give principles of honour, they must come by birth and blood; that, however, titles sometimes assist to elevate the soul and to infuse generous principles into the mind, and especially where there was a good foundation laid in the persons; that he hoped we should neither of us misbehave if we came to it; and that as we knew how to wear a title without undue elevations, so it might sit as well upon us as on another; that as to england, he had nothing to do but to get an act of naturalisation in his favour, and he knew where to purchase a patent for baronet--that is say, to have the honour and title transferred to him; but if i intended to go abroad with him, he had a nephew, the son of his eldest brother, who had the title of count, with the estate annexed, which was but small, and that he had frequently offered to make it over to him for a thousand pistoles, which was not a great deal of money, and considering it was in the family already, he would, upon my being willing, purchase it immediately. i told him i liked the last best, but then i would not let him buy it unless he would let me pay the thousand pistoles. "no, no," says he, "i refused a thousand pistoles that i had more right to have accepted than that, and you shall not be at so much expense now." "yes," says i, "you did refuse it, and perhaps repented it afterwards." "i never complained," said he. "but i did," says i, "and often repented it for you." "i do not understand you," says he. "why," said i, "i repented that i suffered you to refuse it." "well, well," said he, "we may talk of that hereafter, when you shall resolve which part of the world you will make your settled residence in." here he talked very handsomely to me, and for a good while together; how it had been his lot to live all his days out of his native country, and to be often shifting and changing the situation of his affairs; and that i myself had not always had a fixed abode, but that now, as neither of us was very young, he fancied i would be for taking up our abode where, if possible, we might remove no more; that as to his part, he was of that opinion entirely, only with this exception, that the choice of the place should be mine, for that all places in the world were alike to him, only with this single addition, namely, that i was with him. i heard him with a great deal of pleasure, as well for his being willing to give me the choice as for that i resolved to live abroad, for the reason i have mentioned already, namely, lest i should at any time be known in england, and all that story of roxana and the balls should come out; as also i was not a little tickled with the satisfaction of being still a countess, though i could not be a princess. i told amy all this story, for she was still my privy councillor; but when i asked her opinion, she made me laugh heartily. "now, which of the two shall i take, amy?" said i. "shall i be a lady--that is, a baronet's lady in england, or a countess in holland?" the ready-witted jade, that knew the pride of my temper too, almost as well as i did myself, answered (without the least hesitation), "both, madam. which of them?" says she (repeating the words). "why not both of them? and then you will be really a princess; for, sure, to be a lady in english and a countess in dutch may make a princess in high dutch." upon the whole, though amy was in jest, she put the thought into my head, and i resolved that, in short, i would be both of them, which i managed as you shall hear. first, i seemed to resolve that i would live and settle in england, only with this condition, namely, that i would not live in london. i pretended that it would choke me up; that i wanted breath when i was in london, but that anywhere else i would be satisfied; and then i asked him whether any seaport town in england would not suit him; because i knew, though he seemed to leave off, he would always love to be among business, and conversing with men of business; and i named several places, either nearest for business with france or with holland; as dover or southampton, for the first; and ipswich, or yarmouth, or hull for the last; but i took care that we would resolve upon nothing; only by this it seemed to be certain that we should live in england. it was time now to bring things to a conclusion, and so in about six weeks' time more we settled all our preliminaries; and, among the rest, he let me know that he should have the bill for his naturalisation passed time enough, so that he would be (as he called it) an englishman before we married. that was soon perfected, the parliament being then sitting, and several other foreigners joining in the said bill to save the expense. it was not above three or four days after, but that, without giving me the least notice that he had so much as been about the patent for baronet, he brought it me in a fine embroidered bag, and saluting me by the name of my lady ---- (joining his own surname to it), presented it to me with his picture set with diamonds, and at the same time gave me a breast-jewel worth a thousand pistoles, and the next morning we were married. thus i put an end to all the intriguing part of my life--a life full of prosperous wickedness; the reflections upon which were so much the more afflicting as the time had been spent in the grossest crimes, which, the more i looked back upon, the more black and horrid they appeared, effectually drinking up all the comfort and satisfaction which i might otherwise have taken in that part of life which was still before me. the first satisfaction, however, that i took in the new condition i was in was in reflecting that at length the life of crime was over, and that i was like a passenger coming back from the indies, who, having, after many years' fatigues and hurry in business, gotten a good estate, with innumerable difficulties and hazards, is arrived safe at london with all his effects, and has the pleasure of saying he shall never venture upon the seas any more. when we were married we came back immediately to my lodgings (for the church was but just by), and we were so privately married that none but amy and my friend the quaker was acquainted with it. as soon as we came into the house he took me in his arms, and kissing me, "now you are my own," says he. "oh that you had been so good to have done this eleven years ago!" "then," said i, "you, perhaps, would have been tired of me long ago; it is much better now, for now all our happy days are to come. besides," said i, "i should not have been half so rich;" but that i said to myself, for there was no letting him into the reason of it. "oh!" says he, "i should not have been tired of you; but, besides having the satisfaction of your company, it had saved me that unlucky blow at paris, which was a dead loss to me of above eight thousand pistoles, and all the fatigues of so many years' hurry and business;" and then he added, "but i'll make you pay for it all, now i have you." i started a little at the words. "ay," said i, "do you threaten already? pray what d'ye mean by that?" and began to look a little grave. "i'll tell you," says he, "very plainly what i mean;" and still he held me fast in his arms. "i intend from this time never to trouble myself with any more business, so i shall never get one shilling for you more than i have already; all that you will lose one way. next, i intend not to trouble myself with any of the care or trouble of managing what either you have for me or what i have to add to it; but you shall e'en take it all upon yourself, as the wives do in holland; so you will pay for it that way too, for all the drudgery shall be yours. thirdly, i intend to condemn you to the constant bondage of my impertinent company, for i shall tie you like a pedlar's pack at my back. i shall scarce ever be from you; for i am sure i can take delight in nothing else in this world." "very well," says i; "but i am pretty heavy. i hope you'll set me down sometimes when you are aweary." "as for that," says he, "tire me if you can." this was all jest and allegory; but it was all true, in the moral of the fable, as you shall hear in its place. we were very merry the rest of the day, but without any noise or clutter; for he brought not one of his acquaintance or friends, either english or foreigner. the honest quaker provided us a very noble dinner indeed, considering how few we were to eat it; and every day that week she did the like, and would at last have it be all at her own charge, which i was utterly averse to; first, because i knew her circumstances not to be very great, though not very low; and next, because she had been so true a friend, and so cheerful a comforter to me, ay, and counsellor too, in all this affair, that i had resolved to make her a present that should be some help to her when all was over. but to return to the circumstances of our wedding. after being very merry, as i have told you, amy and the quaker put us to bed, the honest quaker little thinking we had been abed together eleven years before. nay, that was a secret which, as it happened, amy herself did not know. amy grinned and made faces, as if she had been pleased; but it came out in so many words, when he was not by, the sum of her mumbling and muttering was, that this should have been done ten or a dozen years before; that it would signify little now; that was to say, in short, that her mistress was pretty near fifty, and too old to have any children. i chid her; the quaker laughed, complimented me upon my not being so old as amy pretended, that i could not be above forty, and might have a house full of children yet. but amy and i too knew better than she how it was, for, in short, i was old enough to have done breeding, however i looked; but i made her hold her tongue. in the morning my quaker landlady came and visited us before we were up, and made us eat cakes and drink chocolate in bed; and then left us again, and bid us take a nap upon it, which i believe we did. in short, she treated us so handsomely, and with such an agreeable cheerfulness, as well as plenty, as made it appear to me that quakers may, and that this quaker did, understand good manners as well as any other people. i resisted her offer, however, of treating us for the whole week; and i opposed it so long that i saw evidently that she took it ill, and would have thought herself slighted if we had not accepted it. so i said no more, but let her go on, only told her i would be even with her; and so i was. however, for that week she treated us as she said she would, and did it so very fine, and with such a profusion of all sorts of good things, that the greatest burthen to her was how to dispose of things that were left; for she never let anything, how dainty or however large, be so much as seen twice among us. i had some servants indeed, which helped her off a little; that is to say, two maids, for amy was now a woman of business, not a servant, and ate always with us. i had also a coachman and a boy. my quaker had a man-servant too, but had but one maid; but she borrowed two more of some of her friends for the occasion, and had a man-cook for dressing the victuals. she was only at a loss for plate, which she gave me a whisper of; and i made amy fetch a large strong-box, which i had lodged in a safe hand, in which was all the fine plate which i had provided on a worse occasion, as is mentioned before; and i put it into the quaker's hand, obliging her not to use it as mine, but as her own, for a reason i shall mention presently. i was now my lady ----, and i must own i was exceedingly pleased with it; 'twas so big and so great to hear myself called "her ladyship," and "your ladyship," and the like, that i was like the indian king at virginia, who, having a house built for him by the english, and a lock put upon the door, would sit whole days together with the key in his hand, locking and unlocking, and double-locking, the door, with an unaccountable pleasure at the novelty; so i could have sat a whole day together to hear amy talk to me, and call me "your ladyship" at every word; but after a while the novelty wore off and the pride of it abated, till at last truly i wanted the other title as much as i did that of ladyship before. we lived this week in all the innocent mirth imaginable, and our good-humoured quaker was so pleasant in her way that it was particularly entertaining to us. we had no music at all, or dancing; only i now and then sung a french song to divert my spouse, who desired it, and the privacy of our mirth greatly added to the pleasure of it. i did not make many clothes for my wedding, having always a great many rich clothes by me, which, with a little altering for the fashion, were perfectly new. the next day he pressed me to dress, though we had no company. at last, jesting with him, i told him i believed i was able to dress me so, in one kind of dress that i had by me, that he would not know his wife when he saw her, especially if anybody else was by. no, he said, that was impossible, and he longed to see that dress. i told him i would dress me in it, if he would promise me never to desire me to appear in it before company. he promised he would not, but wanted to know why too; as husbands, you know, are inquisitive creatures, and love to inquire after anything they think is kept from them; but i had an answer ready for him. "because," said i, "it is not a decent dress in this country, and would not look modest." neither, indeed, would it, for it was but one degree off from appearing in one's shift, but was the usual wear in the country where they were used. he was satisfied with my answer, and gave me his promise never to ask me to be seen in it before company. i then withdrew, taking only amy and the quaker with me; and amy dressed me in my old turkish habit which i danced in formerly, &c., as before. the quaker was charmed with the dress, and merrily said, that if such a dress should come to be worn here, she should not know what to do; she should be tempted not to dress in the quaker's way any more. when all the dress was put on, i loaded it with jewels, and in particular i placed the large breast-jewel which he had given me of a thousand pistoles upon the front of the _tyhaia_, or head-dress, where it made a most glorious show indeed. i had my own diamond necklace on, and my hair was _tout brilliant_, all glittering with jewels. his picture set with diamonds i had placed stitched to my vest, just, as might be supposed, upon my heart (which is the compliment in such cases among the eastern people); and all being open at the breast, there was no room for anything of a jewel there. in this figure, amy holding the train of my robe, i came down to him. he was surprised, and perfectly astonished. he knew me, to be sure, because i had prepared him, and because there was nobody else there but the quaker and amy; but he by no means knew amy, for she had dressed herself in the habit of a turkish slave, being the garb of my little turk which i had at naples, as i have said; she had her neck and arms bare, was bareheaded, and her hair braided in a long tassel hanging down her back; but the jade could neither hold her countenance or her chattering tongue, so as to be concealed long. well, he was so charmed with this dress that he would have me sit and dine in it; but it was so thin, and so open before, and the weather being also sharp, that i was afraid of taking cold; however, the fire being enlarged and the doors kept shut, i sat to oblige him, and he professed he never saw so fine a dress in his life. i afterwards told him that my husband (so he called the jeweller that was killed) bought it for me at leghorn, with a young turkish slave which i parted with at paris; and that it was by the help of that slave that i learned how to dress in it, and how everything was to be worn, and many of the turkish customs also, with some of their language. this story agreeing with the fact, only changing the person, was very natural, and so it went off with him; but there was good reason why i should not receive any company in this dress--that is to say, not in england. i need not repeat it; you will hear more of it. but when i came abroad i frequently put it on, and upon two or three occasions danced in it, but always at his request. we continued at the quaker's lodgings for above a year; for now, making as though it was difficult to determine where to settle in england to his satisfaction, unless in london, which was not to mine, i pretended to make him an offer, that, to oblige him, i began to incline to go and live abroad with him; that i knew nothing could be more agreeable to him, and that as to me, every place was alike; that, as i had lived abroad without a husband so many years, it could be no burthen to me to live abroad again, especially with him. then we fell to straining our courtesies upon one another. he told me he was perfectly easy at living in england, and had squared all his affairs accordingly; for that, as he had told me he intended to give over all business in the world, as well the care of managing it as the concern about it, seeing we were both in condition neither to want it or to have it be worth our while, so i might see it was his intention, by his getting himself naturalised, and getting the patent of baronet, &c. well, for all that, i told him i accepted his compliment, but i could not but know that his native country, where his children were breeding up, must be most agreeable to him, and that, if i was of such value to him, i would be there then, to enhance the rate of his satisfaction; that wherever he was would be a home to me, and any place in the world would be england to me if he was with me; and thus, in short, i brought him to give me leave to oblige him with going to live abroad, when, in truth, i could not have been perfectly easy at living in england, unless i had kept constantly within doors, lest some time or other the dissolute life i had lived here should have come to be known, and all those wicked things have been known too, which i now began to be very much ashamed of. when we closed up our wedding week, in which our quaker had been so very handsome to us, i told him how much i thought we were obliged to her for her generous carriage to us; how she had acted the kindest part through the whole, and how faithful a friend she had been to me upon all occasions; and then letting him know a little of her family unhappiness, i proposed that i thought i not only ought to be grateful to her, but really to do something extraordinary for her, towards making her easy in her affairs. and i added, that i had no hangers-on that should trouble him; that there was nobody belonged to me but what was thoroughly provided for, and that, if i did something for this honest woman that was considerable, it should be the last gift i would give to anybody in the world but amy; and as for her, we were not agoing to turn her adrift, but whenever anything offered for her, we would do as we saw cause; that, in the meantime, amy was not poor, that she had saved together between seven and eight hundred pounds. by the way, i did not tell him how, and by what wicked ways she got it, but that she had it; and that was enough to let him know she would never be in want of us. my spouse was exceedingly pleased with my discourse about the quaker, made a kind of a speech to me upon the subject of gratitude, told me it was one of the brightest parts of a gentlewoman, that it was so twisted with honesty, nay, and even with religion too, that he questioned whether either of them could be found where gratitude was not to be found; that in this act there was not only gratitude, but charity; and that to make the charity still more christian-like, the object too had real merit to attract it; he therefore agreed to the thing with all his heart, only would have had me let him pay it out of his effects. i told him, as for that, i did not design, whatever i had said formerly, that we should have two pockets; and that though i had talked to him of being a free woman, and an independent, and the like, and he had offered and promised that i should keep all my own estate in my own hands; yet, that since i had taken him, i would e'en do as other honest wives did--where i thought fit to give myself, i should give what i had too; that if i reserved anything, it should be only in case of mortality, and that i might give it to his children afterwards, as my own gift; and that, in short, if he thought fit to join stocks, we would see to-morrow morning what strength we could both make up in the world, and bringing it all together, consider, before we resolved upon the place of removing, how we should dispose of what we had, as well as of ourselves. this discourse was too obliging, and he too much of a man of sense not to receive it as it was meant. he only answered, we would do in that as we should both agree; but the thing under our present care was to show not gratitude only, but charity and affection too, to our kind friend the quaker; and the first word he spoke of was to settle a thousand pounds upon her for her life--that is to say, sixty pounds a year--but in such a manner as not to be in the power of any person to reach but herself. this was a great thing, and indeed showed the generous principles of my husband, and for that reason i mention it; but i thought that a little too much too, and particularly because i had another thing in view for her about the plate; so i told him i thought, if he gave her a purse with a hundred guineas as a present first, and then made her a compliment of £ per annum for her life, secured any such way as she should desire, it would be very handsome. he agreed to that; and the same day, in the evening, when we were just going to bed, he took my quaker by the hand, and, with a kiss, told her that we had been very kindly treated by her from the beginning of this affair, and his wife before, as she (meaning me) had informed him; and that he thought himself bound to let her see that she had obliged friends who knew how to be grateful; that for his part of the obligation he desired she would accept of that, for an acknowledgment in part only (putting the gold into her hand), and that his wife would talk with her about what farther he had to say to her; and upon that, not giving her time hardly to say "thank ye," away he went upstairs into our bedchamber, leaving her confused and not knowing what to say. when he was gone she began to make very handsome and obliging representations of her goodwill to us both, but that it was without expectation of reward; that i had given her several valuable presents before--and so, indeed, i had; for, besides the piece of linen which i had given her at first, i had given her a suit of damask table-linen, of the linen i bought for my balls, viz., three table-cloths and three dozen of napkins; and at another time i gave her a little necklace of gold beads, and the like; but that is by the way. but she mentioned them, i say, and how she was obliged by me on many other occasions; that she was not in condition to show her gratitude any other way, not being able to make a suitable return; and that now we took from her all opportunity, to balance my former friendship, and left her more in debt than she was before. she spoke this in a very good kind of manner, in her own way, but which was very agreeable indeed, and had as much apparent sincerity, and i verily believe as real as was possible to be expressed; but i put a stop to it, and bade her say no more, but accept of what my spouse had given her, which was but in part, as she had heard him say. "and put it up," says i, "and come and sit down here, and give me leave to say something else to you on the same head, which my spouse and i have settled between ourselves in your behalf." "what dost thee mean?" says she, and blushed, and looked surprised, but did not stir. she was going to speak again, but i interrupted her, and told her she should make no more apologies of any kind whatever, for i had better things than all this to talk to her of; so i went on, and told her, that as she had been so friendly and kind to us on every occasion, and that her house was the lucky place where we came together, and that she knew i was from her own mouth acquainted in part with her circumstances, we were resolved she should be the better for us as long as she lived. then i told what we had resolved to do for her, and that she had nothing more to do but to consult with me how it should be effectually secured for her, distinct from any of the effects which were her husband's; and that if her husband did so supply her that she could live comfortably, and not want it for bread or other necessaries, she should not make use of it, but lay up the income of it, and add it every year to the principal, so to increase the annual payment, which in time, and perhaps before she might come to want it, might double itself; that we were very willing whatever she should so lay up should be to herself, and whoever she thought fit after her; but that the forty pounds a year must return to our family after her life, which we both wished might be long and happy. let no reader wonder at my extraordinary concern for this poor woman, or at my giving my bounty to her a place in this account. it is not, i assure you, to make a pageantry of my charity, or to value myself upon the greatness of my soul, that should give in so profuse a manner as this, which was above my figure, if my wealth had been twice as much as it was; but there was another spring from whence all flowed, and 'tis on that account i speak of it. was it possible i could think of a poor desolate woman with four children, and her husband gone from her, and perhaps good for little if he had stayed--i say, was i, that had tasted so deep of the sorrows of such a kind of widowhood, able to look on her, and think of her circumstances, and not be touched in an uncommon manner? no, no; i never looked on her and her family, though she was not left so helpless and friendless as i had been, without remembering my own condition, when amy was sent out to pawn or sell my pair of stays to buy a breast of mutton and a bunch of turnips; nor could i look on her poor children, though not poor and perishing, like mine, without tears; reflecting on the dreadful condition that mine were reduced to, when poor amy sent them all into their aunt's in spitalfields, and run away from them. these were the original springs, or fountain-head, from whence my affectionate thoughts were moved to assist this poor woman. when a poor debtor, having lain long in the compter, or ludgate, or the king's bench for debt, afterwards gets out, rises again in the world, and grows rich, such a one is a certain benefactor to the prisoners there, and perhaps to every prison he passes by as long as he lives, for he remembers the dark days of his own sorrow; and even those who never had the experience of such sorrows to stir up their minds to acts of charity would have the same charitable, good disposition did they as sensibly remember what it is that distinguishes them from others by a more favourable and merciful providence. this, i say, was, however, the spring of my concern for this honest, friendly, and grateful quaker; and as i had so plentiful a fortune in the world, i resolved she should taste the fruit of her kind usage to me in a manner that she could not expect. all the while i talked to her i saw the disorder of her mind; the sudden joy was too much for her, and she coloured, trembled, changed, and at last grew pale, and was indeed near fainting, when she hastily rung a little bell for her maid, who coming in immediately, she beckoned to her--for speak she could not--to fill her a glass of wine; but she had no breath to take it in, and was almost choked with that which she took in her mouth. i saw she was ill, and assisted her what i could, and with spirits and things to smell to just kept her from fainting, when she beckoned to her maid to withdraw, and immediately burst out in crying, and that relieved her. when she recovered herself a little she flew to me, and throwing her arms about my neck, "oh!" says she, "thou hast almost killed me;" and there she hung, laying her head in my neck for half a quarter of an hour, not able to speak, but sobbing like a child that had been whipped. i was very sorry that i did not stop a little in the middle of my discourse and make her drink a glass of wine before it had put her spirits into such a violent motion; but it was too late, and it was ten to one odds but that it had killed her. but she came to herself at last, and began to say some very good things in return for my kindness. i would not let her go on, but told her i had more to say to her still than all this, but that i would let it alone till another time. my meaning was about the box of plate, good part of which i gave her, and some i gave to amy; for i had so much plate, and some so large, that i thought if i let my husband see it he might be apt to wonder what occasion i could ever have for so much, and for plate of such a kind too; as particularly a great cistern for bottles, which cost a hundred and twenty pounds, and some large candlesticks too big for any ordinary use. these i caused amy to sell; in short, amy sold above three hundred pounds' worth of plate; what i gave the quaker was worth above sixty pounds, and i gave amy above thirty pounds' worth, and yet i had a great deal left for my husband. nor did our kindness to the quaker end with the forty pounds a year, for we were always, while we stayed with her, which was above ten months, giving her one good thing or another; and, in a word, instead of lodging with her, she boarded with us, for i kept the house, and she and all her family ate and drank with us, and yet we paid her the rent of the house too; in short, i remembered my widowhood, and i made this widow's heart glad many a day the more upon that account. and now my spouse and i began to think of going over to holland, where i had proposed to him to live, and in order to settle all the preliminaries of our future manner of living, i began to draw in my effects, so as to have them all at command upon whatever occasion we thought fit; after which, one morning i called my spouse up to me: "hark ye, sir," said i to him, "i have two very weighty questions to ask of you. i don't know what answer you will give to the first, but i doubt you will be able to give but a sorry answer to the other, and yet, i assure you, it is of the last importance to yourself, and towards the future part of your life, wherever it is to be." he did not seem to be much alarmed, because he could see i was speaking in a kind of merry way. "let's hear your questions, my dear," says he, "and i'll give the best answer i can to them." "why, first," says i: "i. you have married a wife here, made her a lady, and put her in expectation of being something else still when she comes abroad. pray have you examined whether you are able to supply all her extravagant demands when she comes abroad, and maintain an expensive englishwoman in all her pride and vanity? in short, have you inquired whether you are able to keep her? "ii. you have married a wife here, and given her a great many fine things, and you maintain her like a princess, and sometimes call her so. pray what portion have you had with her? what fortune has she been to you? and where does her estate lie, that you keep her so fine? i am afraid that you keep her in a figure a great deal above her estate, at least above all that you have seen of it yet. are you sure you han't got a bite, and that you have not made a beggar a lady?" "well," says he, "have you any more questions to ask? let's have them all together; perhaps they may be all answered in a few words, as well as these two." "no," says i, "these are the two grand questions--at least for the present." "why, then," says he, "i'll answer you in a few words; that i am fully master of my own circumstances, and, without farther inquiry, can let my wife you speak of know, that as i have made her a lady i can maintain her as a lady, wherever she goes with me; and this whether i have one pistole of her portion, or whether she has any portion or no; and as i have not inquired whether she has any portion or not, so she shall not have the less respect showed her from me, or be obliged to live meaner, or be anyways straitened on that account; on the contrary, if she goes abroad to live with me in my own country, i will make her more than a lady, and support the expense of it too, without meddling with anything she has; and this, i suppose," says he, "contains an answer to both your questions together." he spoke this with a great deal more earnestness in his countenance than i had when i proposed my questions, and said a great many kind things upon it, as the consequence of former discourses, so that i was obliged to be in earnest too. "my dear," says i, "i was but in jest in my questions; but they were proposed to introduce what i am going to say to you in earnest; namely, that if i am to go abroad, 'tis time i should let you know how things stand, and what i have to bring you with your wife; how it is to be disposed and secured, and the like; and therefore come," says i, "sit down, and let me show you your bargain here; i hope you will find that you have not got a wife without a fortune." he told me then, that since he found i was in earnest, he desired that i would adjourn it till to-morrow, and then we would do as the poor people do after they marry, feel in their pockets, and see how much money they can bring together in the world. "well," says i, "with all my heart;" and so we ended our talk for that time. as this was in the morning, my spouse went out after dinner to his goldsmith's, as he said, and about three hours after returns with a porter and two large boxes with him; and his servant brought another box, which i observed was almost as heavy as the two that the porter brought, and made the poor fellow sweat heartily; he dismissed the porter, and in a little while after went out again with his man, and returning at night, brought another porter with more boxes and bundles, and all was carried up, and put into a chamber, next to our bedchamber; and in the morning he called for a pretty large round table, and began to unpack. when the boxes were opened, i found they were chiefly full of books, and papers, and parchments, i mean books of accounts, and writings, and such things as were in themselves of no moment to me, because i understood them not; but i perceived he took them all out, and spread them about him upon the table and chairs, and began to be very busy with them; so i withdrew and left him; and he was indeed so busy among them, that he never missed me till i had been gone a good while; but when he had gone through all his papers, and come to open a little box, he called for me again. "now," says he, and called me his countess, "i am ready to answer your first question; if you will sit down till i have opened this box, we will see how it stands." so we opened the box; there was in it indeed what i did not expect, for i thought he had sunk his estate rather than raised it; but he produced me in goldsmiths' bills, and stock in the english east india company, about sixteen thousand pounds sterling; then he gave into my hands nine assignments upon the bank of lyons in france, and two upon the rents of the town-house in paris, amounting in the whole to crowns per annum, or annual rent, as it is called there; and lastly, the sum of , rixdollars in the bank of amsterdam; besides some jewels and gold in the box to the value of about £ or £ , among which was a very good necklace of pearl of about £ value; and that he pulled out and tied about my neck, telling me that should not be reckoned into the account. i was equally pleased and surprised, and it was with an inexpressible joy that i saw him so rich. "you might well tell me," said i, "that you were able to make me countess, and maintain me as such." in short, he was immensely rich; for besides all this, he showed me, which was the reason of his being so busy among the books, i say, he showed me several adventures he had abroad in the business of his merchandise; as particularly an eighth share in an east india ship then abroad; an account-courant with a merchant at cadiz in spain; about £ lent upon bottomry, upon ships gone to the indies; and a large cargo of goods in a merchant's hands, for sale at lisbon in portugal; so that in his books there was about £ , more; all which put together, made about £ , sterling, and £ a year. i stood amazed at this account, as well i might, and said nothing to him for a good while, and the rather because i saw him still busy looking over his books. after a while, as i was going to express my wonder, "hold, my dear," says he, "this is not all neither;" then he pulled me out some old seals, and small parchment rolls, which i did not understand; but he told me they were a right of reversion which he had to a paternal estate in his family, and a mortgage of , rixdollars, which he had upon it, in the hands of the present possessor; so that was about £ more. "but now hold again," says he, "for i must pay my debts out of all this, and they are very great, i assure you;" and the first he said was a black article of pistoles, which he had a lawsuit about at paris, but had it awarded against him, which was the loss he had told me of, and which made him leave paris in disgust; that in other accounts he owed about £ sterling; but after all this, upon the whole, he had still £ , clear stock in money, and £ a year in rent. after some pause, it came to my turn to speak. "well," says i, "'tis very hard a gentleman with such a fortune as this should come over to england, and marry a wife with nothing; it shall never," says i, "be said, but what i have, i'll bring into the public stock;" so i began to produce. first, i pulled out the mortgage which good sir robert had procured for me, the annual rent £ per annum; the principal money £ , . secondly, i pulled out another mortgage upon land, procured by the same faithful friend, which at three times had advanced £ , . thirdly, i pulled him out a parcel of little securities, procured by several hands, by fee-farm rents, and such petty mortgages as those times afforded, amounting to £ , principal money, and paying six hundred and thirty-six pounds a-year. so that in the whole there was two thousand and fifty-six pounds a year ready money constantly coming in. when i had shown him all these, i laid them upon the table, and bade him take them, that he might be able to give me an answer to the second question. what fortune he had with his wife? and laughed a little at it. he looked at them awhile, and then handed them all back again to me: "i will not touch them," says he, "nor one of them, till they are all settled in trustees' hands for your own use, and the management wholly your own." i cannot omit what happened to me while all this was acting; though it was cheerful work in the main, yet i trembled every joint of me, worse for aught i know than ever belshazzar did at the handwriting on the wall, and the occasion was every way as just. "unhappy wretch," said i to myself, "shall my ill-got wealth, the product of prosperous lust, and of a vile and vicious life of whoredom and adultery, be intermingled with the honest well-gotten estate of this innocent gentleman, to be a moth and a caterpillar among it, and bring the judgments of heaven upon him, and upon what he has, for my sake? shall my wickedness blast his comforts? shall i be fire in his flax? and be a means to provoke heaven to curse his blessings? god forbid! i'll keep them asunder if it be possible." this is the true reason why i have been so particular in the account of my vast acquired stock; and how his estate, which was perhaps the product of many years' fortunate industry, and which was equal if not superior to mine at best, was, at my request, kept apart from mine, as is mentioned above. i have told you how he gave back all my writings into my own hands again. "well," says i, "seeing you will have it be kept apart, it shall be so, upon one condition, which i have to propose, and no other." "and what is the condition?" says he. "why," says i, "all the pretence i can have for the making over my own estate to me is, that in case of your mortality, i may have it reserved for me, if i outlive you." "well," says he, "that is true" "but then," said i, "the annual income is always received by the husband, during his life, as 'tis supposed, for the mutual subsistence of the family; now," says i, "here is £ a year, which i believe is as much as we shall spend, and i desire none of it may be saved; and all the income of your own estate, the interest of the £ , and the £ a year, may be constantly laid by for the increase of your estate; and so," added i, "by joining the interest every year to the capital you will perhaps grow as rich as you would do if you were to trade with it all, if you were obliged to keep house out of it too." he liked the proposal very well, and said it should be so; and this way i, in some measure, satisfied myself that i should not bring my husband under the blast of a just providence, for mingling my cursed ill-gotten wealth with his honest estate. this was occasioned by the reflections which, at some certain intervals of time, came into my thoughts of the justice of heaven, which i had reason to expect would some time or other still fall upon me or my effects, for the dreadful life i had lived. and let nobody conclude from the strange success i met with in all my wicked doings, and the vast estate which i had raised by it, that therefore i either was happy or easy. no, no, there was a dart struck into the liver; there was a secret hell within, even all the while, when our joy was at the highest; but more especially now, after it was all over, and when, according to all appearance, i was one of the happiest women upon earth; all this while, i say, i had such constant terror upon my mind, as gave me every now and then very terrible shocks, and which made me expect something very frightful upon every accident of life. in a word, it never lightened or thundered, but i expected the next flash would penetrate my vitals, and melt the sword (soul) in this scabbard of flesh; it never blew a storm of wind, but i expected the fall of some stack of chimneys, or some part of the house, would bury me in its ruins; and so of other things. but i shall perhaps have occasion to speak of all these things again by-and-by; the case before us was in a manner settled; we had full four thousand pounds per annum for our future subsistence, besides a vast sum in jewels and plate; and besides this, i had about eight thousand pounds reserved in money which i kept back from him, to provide for my two daughters, of whom i have much yet to say. with this estate, settled as you have heard, and with the best husband in the world, i left england again; i had not only, in human prudence, and by the nature of the thing, being now married and settled in so glorious a manner,--i say, i had not only abandoned all the gay and wicked course which i had gone through before, but i began to look back upon it with that horror and that detestation which is the certain companion, if not the forerunner, of repentance. sometimes the wonders of my present circumstances would work upon me, and i should have some raptures upon my soul, upon the subject of my coming so smoothly out of the arms of hell, that i was not ingulfed in ruin, as most who lead such lives are, first or last; but this was a flight too high for me; i was not come to that repentance that is raised from a sense of heaven's goodness; i repented of the crime, but it was of another and lower kind of repentance, and rather moved by my fears of vengeance, than from a sense of being spared from being punished, and landed safe after a storm. the first thing which happened after our coming to the hague (where we lodged for a while) was, that my spouse saluted me one morning with the title of countess, as he said he intended to do, by having the inheritance to which the honour was annexed made over to him. it is true, it was a reversion, but it soon fell, and in the meantime, as all the brothers of a count are called counts, so i had the title by courtesy, about three years before i had it in reality. i was agreeably surprised at this coming so soon, and would have had my spouse have taken the money which it cost him out of my stock, but he laughed at me, and went on. i was now in the height of my glory and prosperity, and i was called the countess de ----; for i had obtained that unlooked for, which i secretly aimed at, and was really the main reason of my coming abroad. i took now more servants, lived in a kind of magnificence that i had not been acquainted with, was called "your honour" at every word, and had a coronet behind my coach; though at the same time i knew little or nothing of my new pedigree. the first thing that my spouse took upon him to manage, was to declare ourselves married eleven years before our arriving in holland; and consequently to acknowledge our little son, who was yet in england, to be legitimate; order him to be brought over, and added to his family, and acknowledge him to be our own. this was done by giving notice to his people at nimeguen, where his children (which were two sons and a daughter) were brought up, that he was come over from england, and that he was arrived at the hague with his wife, and should reside there some time, and that he would have his two sons brought down to see him; which accordingly was done, and where i entertained them with all the kindness and tenderness that they could expect from their mother-in-law; and who pretended to be so ever since they were two or three years old. this supposing us to have been so long married was not difficult at all, in a country where we had been seen together about that time, viz., eleven years and a half before, and where we had never been seen afterwards till we now returned together: this being seen together was also openly owned and acknowledged, of course, by our friend the merchant at rotterdam, and also by the people in the house where we both lodged in the same city, and where our first intimacies began, and who, as it happened, were all alive; and therefore, to make it the more public, we made a tour to rotterdam again, lodged in the same house, and was visited there by our friend the merchant, and afterwards invited frequently to his house, where he treated us very handsomely. this conduct of my spouse, and which he managed very cleverly, was indeed a testimony of a wonderful degree of honesty and affection to our little son; for it was done purely for the sake of the child. i call it an honest affection, because it was from a principle of honesty that he so earnestly concerned himself to prevent the scandal which would otherwise have fallen upon the child, who was itself innocent; and as it was from this principle of justice that he so earnestly solicited me, and conjured me by the natural affections of a mother, to marry him when it was yet young within me and unborn, that the child might not suffer for the sin of its father and mother; so, though at the same time he really loved me very well, yet i had reason to believe that it was from this principle of justice to the child that he came to england again to seek me with design to marry me, and, as he called it, save the innocent lamb from infamy worse than death. it was with a just reproach to myself that i must repeat it again, that i had not the same concern for it, though it was the child of my own body; nor had i ever the hearty affectionate love to the child that he had. what the reason of it was i cannot tell; and, indeed, i had shown a general neglect of the child through all the gay years of my london revels, except that i sent amy to look upon it now and then, and to pay for its nursing; as for me, i scarce saw it four times in the first four years of its life, and often wished it would go quietly out of the world; whereas a son which i had by the jeweller, i took a different care of, and showed a different concern for, though i did not let him know me; for i provided very well for him, had him put out very well to school, and when he came to years fit for it, let him go over with a person of honesty and good business, to the indies; and after he had lived there some time, and began to act for himself, sent him over the value of £ , at several times, with which he traded and grew rich; and, as 'tis to be hoped, may at last come over again with forty or fifty thousand pounds in his pocket, as many do who have not such encouragement at their beginning. i also sent him over a wife, a beautiful young lady, well-bred, an exceeding good-natured pleasant creature; but the nice young fellow did not like her, and had the impudence to write to me, that is, to the person i employed to correspond with him, to send him another, and promised that he would marry her i had sent him, to a friend of his, who liked her better than he did; but i took it so ill, that i would not send him another, and withal, stopped another article of £ which i had appointed to send him. he considered of it afterwards, and offered to take her; but then truly she took so ill the first affront he put upon her, that she would not have him, and i sent him word i thought she was very much in the right. however, after courting her two years, and some friends interposing, she took him, and made him an excellent wife, as i knew she would, but i never sent him the thousand pounds cargo, so that he lost that money for misusing me, and took the lady at last without it. my new spouse and i lived a very regular, contemplative life; and, in itself, certainly a life filled with all human felicity. but if i looked upon my present situation with satisfaction, as i certainly did, so, in proportion, i on all occasions looked back on former things with detestation, and with the utmost affliction; and now, indeed, and not till now, those reflections began to prey upon my comforts, and lessen the sweets of my other enjoyments. they might be said to have gnawed a hole in my heart before; but now they made a hole quite through it: now they ate into all my pleasant things, made bitter every sweet, and mixed my sighs with every smile. not all the affluence of a plentiful fortune; not a hundred thousand pounds estate (for, between us, we had little less); not honour and titles, attendants and equipages; in a word, not all the things we call pleasure, could give me any relish, or sweeten the taste of things to me; at least, not so much but i grew sad, heavy, pensive, and melancholy; slept little, and ate little; dreamed continually of the most frightful and terrible things imaginable: nothing but apparitions of devils and monsters, falling into gulfs, and off from steep and high precipices, and the like; so that in the morning, when i should rise, and be refreshed with the blessing of rest, i was hag-ridden with frights and terrible things formed merely in the imagination, and was either tired and wanted sleep, or overrun with vapours, and not fit for conversing with my family, or any one else. my husband, the tenderest creature in the world, and particularly so to me, was in great concern for me, and did everything that lay in his power to comfort and restore me; strove to reason me out of it; then tried all the ways possible to divert me: but it was all to no purpose, or to but very little. my only relief was sometimes to unbosom myself to poor amy, when she and i was alone; and she did all she could to comfort me. but all was to little effect there; for, though amy was the better penitent before, when we had been in the storm, amy was just where she used to be now, a wild, gay, loose wretch, and not much the graver for her age; for amy was between forty and fifty by this time too. but to go on with my own story. as i had no comforter, so i had no counsellor; it was well, as i often thought, that i was not a roman catholic; for what a piece of work should i have made, to have gone to a priest with such a history as i had to tell him; and what penance would any father confessor have obliged me to perform, especially if he had been honest, and true to his office! however, as i had none of the recourse, so i had none of the absolution, by which the criminal confessing goes away comforted; but i went about with a heart loaded with crime, and altogether in the dark as to what i was to do; and in this condition i languished near two years. i may well call it languishing, for if providence had not relieved me, i should have died in little time. but of that hereafter. i must now go back to another scene, and join it to this end of my story, which will complete all my concern with england, at least all that i shall bring into this account. i have hinted at large what i had done for my two sons, one at messina, and the other in the indies; but i have not gone through the story of my two daughters. i was so in danger of being known by one of them, that i durst not see her, so as to let her know who i was; and for the other, i could not well know how to see her, and own her, and let her see me, because she must then know that i would not let her sister know me, which would look strange; so that, upon the whole, i resolved to see neither of them at all. but amy managed all that for me; and when she had made gentlewomen of them both, by giving them a good, though late education, she had like to have blown up the whole case, and herself and me too, by an unhappy discovery of herself to the last of them, that is, to her who was our cook-maid, and who, as i said before, amy had been obliged to turn away, for fear of the very discovery which now happened. i have observed already in what manner amy managed her by a third person; and how the girl, when she was set up for a lady, as above, came and visited amy at my lodgings; after which, amy going, as was her custom, to see the girl's brother (my son) at the honest man's house in spitalfields, both the girls were there, merely by accident, at the same time; and the other girl unawares discovered the secret, namely, that this was the lady that had done all this for them. amy was greatly surprised at it; but as she saw there was no remedy, she made a jest of it, and so after that conversed openly, being still satisfied that neither of them could make much of it, as long as they knew nothing of me. so she took them together one time, and told them the history, as she called it, of their mother, beginning at the miserable carrying them to their aunt's; she owned she was not their mother herself, but described her to them. however, when she said she was not their mother, one of them expressed herself very much surprised, for the girl had taken up a strong fancy that amy was really her mother, and that she had, for some particular reasons, concealed it from her; and therefore, when she told her frankly that she was not her mother, the girl fell a-crying, and amy had much ado to keep life in her. this was the girl who was at first my cook-maid in the pall mall. when amy had brought her to again a little, and she had recovered her first disorder, amy asked what ailed her? the poor girl hung about her, and kissed her, and was in such a passion still, though she was a great wench of nineteen or twenty years old, that she could not be brought to speak a great while. at last, having recovered her speech, she said still, "but oh! do not say you a'n't my mother! i'm sure you are my mother;" and then the girl cried again like to kill herself. amy could not tell what to do with her a good while; she was loth to say again she was not her mother, because she would not throw her into a fit of crying again; but she went round about a little with her. "why, child," says she, "why would you have me be your mother? if it be because i am so kind to you, be easy, my dear," says amy; "i'll be as kind to you still, as if i was your mother." "ay, but," says the girl, "i am sure you are my mother too; and what have i done that you won't own me, and that you will not be called my mother? though i am poor, you have made me a gentlewoman," says she, "and i won't do anything to disgrace you; besides," added she, "i can keep a secret, too, especially for my own mother, sure;" then she calls amy her dear mother, and hung about her neck again, crying still vehemently. this last part of the girl's words alarmed amy, and, as she told me, frighted her terribly; nay, she was so confounded with it, that she was not able to govern herself, or to conceal her disorder from the girl herself, as you shall hear. amy was at a full stop, and confused to the last degree; and the girl, a sharp jade, turned it upon her. "my dear mother," says she, "do not be uneasy about it; i know it all; but do not be uneasy, i won't let my sister know a word of it, or my brother either, without you giving me leave; but don't disown me now you have found me; don't hide yourself from me any longer; i can't bear that," says she, "it will break my heart." "i think the girl's mad," says amy; "why, child, i tell thee, if i was thy mother i would not disown thee; don't you see i am as kind to you as if i was your mother?" amy might as well have sung a song to a kettledrum, as talk to her. "yes," says the girl, "you are very good to me indeed;" and that was enough to make anybody believe she was her mother too; but, however, that was not the case, she had other reasons to believe, and to know, that she was her mother; and it was a sad thing she would not let her call her mother, who was her own child. amy was so heart-full with the disturbance of it, that she did not enter farther with her into the inquiry, as she would otherwise have done; i mean, as to what made the girl so positive; but comes away, and tells me the whole story. i was thunderstruck with the story at first, and much more afterwards, as you shall hear; but, i say, i was thunderstruck at first, and amazed, and said to amy, "there must be something or other in it more than we know of." but, having examined farther into it, i found the girl had no notion of anybody but of amy; and glad i was that i was not concerned in the pretence, and that the girl had no notion of me in it. but even this easiness did not continue long; for the next time amy went to see her, she was the same thing, and rather more violent with amy than she was before. amy endeavoured to pacify her by all the ways imaginable: first, she told her she took it ill that she would not believe her; and told her, if she would not give over such a foolish whimsey, she would leave her to the wide world as she found her. this put the girl into fits, and she cried ready to kill herself, and hung about amy again like a child. "why," says amy, "why can you not be easy with me, then, and compose yourself, and let me go on to do you good, and show you kindness, as i would do, and as i intend to do? can you think that if i was your mother, i would not tell you so? what whimsey is this that possesses your mind?" says amy. well, the girl told her in a few words (but those few such as frighted amy out of her wits, and me too) that she knew well enough how it was. "i know," says she, "when you left ----," naming the village, "where i lived when my father went away from us all, that you went over to france; i know that too, and who you went with," says the girl; "did not my lady roxana come back again with you? i know it all well enough; though i was but a child, i have heard it all." and thus she run on with such discourse as put amy out of all temper again; and she raved at her like a bedlam, and told her she would never come near her any more; she might go a-begging again if she would; she'd have nothing to do with her. the girl, a passionate wench, told her she knew the worst of it, she could go to service again, and if she would not own her own child, she must do as she pleased; then she fell into a passion of crying again, as if she would kill herself. in short, this girl's conduct terrified amy to the last degree, and me too; and was it not that we knew the girl was quite wrong in some things, she was yet so right in some other, that it gave me a great deal of perplexity; but that which put amy the most to it, was that the girl (my daughter) told her that she (meaning me, her mother) had gone away with the jeweller, and into france too; she did not call him the jeweller, but with the landlord of the house; who, after her mother fell into distress, and that amy had taken all the children from her, made much of her, and afterwards married her. in short, it was plain the girl had but a broken account of things, but yet that she had received some accounts that had a reality in the bottom of them, so that, it seems, our first measures, and the amour with the jeweller, were not so concealed as i thought they had been; and, it seems, came in a broken manner to my sister-in-law, who amy carried the children to, and she made some bustle, it seems, about it. but, as good luck was, it was too late, and i was removed and gone, none knew whither, or else she would have sent all the children home to me again, to be sure. this we picked out of the girl's discourse, that is to say, amy did, at several times; but it all consisted of broken fragments of stories, such as the girl herself had heard so long ago, that she herself could make very little of it; only that in the main, that her mother had played the whore; had gone away with the gentleman that was landlord of the house; that he married her; that she went into france. and, as she had learned in my family, where she was a servant, that mrs. amy and her lady roxana had been in france together, so she put all these things together, and joining them with the great kindness that amy now showed her, possessed the creature that amy was really her mother, nor was it possible for amy to conquer it for a long time. but this, after i had searched into it, as far as by amy's relation i could get an account of it, did not disquiet me half so much as that the young slut had got the name of roxana by the end, and that she knew who her lady roxana was, and the like; though this, neither, did not hang together, for then she would not have fixed upon amy for her mother. but some time after, when amy had almost persuaded her out of it, and that the girl began to be so confounded in her discourses of it, that she made neither head nor tail, at last the passionate creature flew out in a kind of rage, and said to amy, that if she was not her mother, madam roxana was her mother then, for one of them, she was sure, was her mother; and then all this that amy had done for her was by madam roxana's order. "and i am sure," says she, "it was my lady roxana's coach that brought the gentlewoman, whoever it was, to my uncle's in spitalfields, for the coachman told me so." amy fell a-laughing at her aloud, as was her usual way; but, as amy told me, it was but on one side of her mouth, for she was so confounded at her discourse, that she was ready to sink into the ground; and so was i too when she told it me. however, amy brazened her out of it all; told her, "well, since you think you are so high-born as to be my lady roxana's daughter, you may go to her and claim your kindred, can't you? i suppose," says amy, "you know where to find her?" she said she did not question to find her, for she knew where she was gone to live privately; but, though, she might be removed again. "for i know how it is," says she, with a kind of a smile or a grin; "i know how it all is, well enough." amy was so provoked, that she told me, in short, she began to think it would be absolutely necessary to murder her. that expression filled me with horror, all my blood ran chill in my veins, and a fit of trembling seized me, that i could not speak a good while; at last. "what, is the devil in you, amy?" said i. "nay, nay," says she, "let it be the devil or not the devil, if i thought she knew one tittle of your history, i would despatch her if she were my own daughter a thousand times." "and i," says i in a rage, "as well as i love you, would be the first that should put the halter about your neck, and see you hanged with more satisfaction than ever i saw you in my life; nay," says i, "you would not live to be hanged, i believe i should cut your throat with my own hand; i am almost ready to do it," said i, "as 'tis, for your but naming the thing." with that, i called her cursed devil, and bade her get out of the room. i think it was the first time that ever i was angry with amy in all my life; and when all was done, though she was a devilish jade in having such a thought, yet it was all of it the effect of her excess of affection and fidelity to me. but this thing gave me a terrible shock, for it happened just after i was married, and served to hasten my going over to holland; for i would not have been seen, so as to be known by the name of roxana, no, not for ten thousand pounds; it would have been enough to have ruined me to all intents and purposes with my husband, and everybody else too; i might as well have been the "german princess." well, i set amy to work; and give amy her due, she set all her wits to work to find out which way this girl had her knowledge, but, more particularly, how much knowledge she had--that is to say, what she really knew, and what she did not know, for this was the main thing with me; how she could say she knew who madam roxana was, and what notions she had of that affair, was very mysterious to me, for it was certain she could not have a right notion of me, because she would have it be that amy was her mother. i scolded heartily at amy for letting the girl ever know her, that is to say, know her in this affair; for that she knew her could not be hid, because she, as i might say, served amy, or rather under amy, in my family, as is said before; but she (amy) talked with her at first by another person, and not by herself; and that secret came out by an accident, as i have said above. amy was concerned at it as well as i, but could not help it; and though it gave us great uneasiness, yet, as there was no remedy, we were bound to make as little noise of it as we could, that it might go no farther. i bade amy punish the girl for it, and she did so, for she parted with her in a huff, and told her she should see she was not her mother, for that she could leave her just where she found her; and seeing she could not be content to be served by the kindness of a friend, but that she would needs make a mother of her, she would, for the future, be neither mother or friend, and so bid her go to service again, and be a drudge as she was before. the poor girl cried most lamentably, but would not be beaten out of it still; but that which dumbfoundered amy more than all the rest was that when she had berated the poor girl a long time, and could not beat her out of it, and had, as i have observed, threatened to leave her, the girl kept to what she said before, and put this turn to it again, that she was sure, if amy wa'n't, my lady roxana was her mother, and that she would go find her out; adding, that she made no doubt but she could do it, for she knew where to inquire the name of her new husband. amy came home with this piece of news in her mouth to me. i could easily perceive when she came in that she was mad in her mind, and in a rage at something or other, and was in great pain to get it out; for when she came first in, my husband was in the room. however, amy going up to undress her, i soon made an excuse to follow her, and coming into the room, "what the d--l is the matter, amy?" says i; "i am sure you have some bad news." "news," says amy aloud; "ay, so i have; i think the d--l is in that young wench. she'll ruin us all and herself too; there's no quieting her." so she went on and told me all the particulars; but sure nothing was so astonished as i was when she told me that the girl knew i was married, that she knew my husband's name, and would endeavour to find me out. i thought i should have sunk down at the very words. in the middle of all my amazement, amy starts up and runs about the room like a distracted body. "i must put an end to it, that i will; i can't bear it--i must murder her, i'll kill the b----;" and swears by her maker, in the most serious tone in the world, and then repeated it over three or four times, walking to and again in the room. "i will, in short, i will kill her, if there was not another wench in the world." "prithee hold thy tongue, amy," says i; "why, thou art mad." "ay, so i am," says she, "stark mad; but i'll be the death of her for all that, and then i shall be sober again." "but you sha'n't," says i, "you sha'n't hurt a hair of her head; why, you ought to be hanged for what you have done already, for having resolved on it is doing it; as to the guilt of the fact you are a murderer already, as much as if you had done it already." "i know that," says amy, "and it can be no worse; i'll put you out of your pain, and her too; she shall never challenge you for her mother in this world, whatever she may in the next." "well, well," says i, "be quiet, and do not talk thus, i can't bear it." so she grew a little soberer after a while. i must acknowledge, the notion of being discovered carried with it so many frightful ideas, and hurried my thoughts so much, that i was scarce myself any more than amy, so dreadful a thing is a load of guilt upon the mind. and yet when amy began the second time to talk thus abominably of killing the poor child, of murdering her, and swore by her maker that she would, so that i began to see that she was in earnest, i was farther terrified a great deal, and it helped to bring me to myself again in other cases. we laid our heads together then to see if it was possible to discover by what means she had learned to talk so, and how she (i mean my girl) came to know that her mother had married a husband; but it would not do, the girl would acknowledge nothing, and gave but a very imperfect account of things still, being disgusted to the last degree with amy's leaving her so abruptly as she did. well, amy went to the house where the boy was; but it was all one, there they had only heard a confused story of the lady somebody, they knew not who, which the same wench had told them, but they gave no heed to it at all. amy told them how foolishly the girl had acted, and how she had carried on the whimsey so far, in spite of all they could say to her; that she had taken it so ill, she would see her no more, and so she might e'en go to service again if she would, for she (amy) would have nothing to do with her unless she humbled herself and changed her note, and that quickly too. the good old gentleman, who had been the benefactor to them all, was greatly concerned at it, and the good woman his wife was grieved beyond all expressing, and begged her ladyship (meaning amy), not to resent it; they promised, too, they would talk with her about it, and the old gentlewoman added, with some astonishment, "sure she cannot be such a fool but she will be prevailed with to hold her tongue, when she has it from your own mouth that you are not her mother, and sees that it disobliges your ladyship to have her insist upon it." and so amy came away with some expectation that it would be stopped here. but the girl was such a fool for all that, and persisted in it obstinately, notwithstanding all they could say to her; nay, her sister begged and entreated her not to play the fool, for that it would ruin her too, and that the lady (meaning amy) would abandon them both. well, notwithstanding this, she insisted, i say, upon it, and which was worse, the longer it lasted the more she began to drop amy's ladyship, and would have it that the lady roxana was her mother, and that she had made some inquiries about it, and did not doubt but she should find her out. when it was come to this, and we found there was nothing to be done with the girl, but that she was so obstinately bent upon the search after me, that she ventured to forfeit all she had in view; i say, when i found it was come to this, i began to be more serious in my preparations of my going beyond sea, and particularly, it gave me some reason to fear that there was something in it. but the following accident put me beside all my measures, and struck me into the greatest confusion that ever i was in my life. i was so near going abroad that my spouse and i had taken measures for our going off; and because i would be sure not to go too public, but so as to take away all possibility of being seen, i had made some exception to my spouse against going in the ordinary public passage boats. my pretence to him was the promiscuous crowds in those vessels, want of convenience, and the like. so he took the hint, and found me out an english merchant-ship, which was bound for rotterdam, and getting soon acquainted with the master, he hired his whole ship, that is to say, his great cabin, for i do not mean his ship for freight, that so we had all the conveniences possible for our passage; and all things being near ready, he brought home the captain one day to dinner with him, that i might see him, and be acquainted a little with him. so we came after dinner to talk of the ship and the conveniences on board, and the captain pressed me earnestly to come on board and see the ship, intimating that he would treat us as well as he could; and in discourse i happened to say i hoped he had no other passengers. he said no, he had not; but, he said, his wife had courted him a good while to let her go over to holland with him, for he always used that trade, but he never could think of venturing all he had in one bottom; but if i went with him he thought to take her and her kinswoman along with him this voyage, that they might both wait upon me; and so added, that if we would do him the honour to dine on board the next day, he would bring his wife on board, the better to make us welcome. who now could have believed the devil had any snare at the bottom of all this? or that i was in any danger on such an occasion, so remote and out of the way as this was? but the event was the oddest that could be thought of. as it happened, amy was not at home when we accepted this invitation, and so she was left out of the company; but instead of amy, we took our honest, good-humoured, never-to-be-omitted friend the quaker, one of the best creatures that ever lived, sure; and who, besides a thousand good qualities unmixed with one bad one, was particularly excellent for being the best company in the world; though i think i had carried amy too, if she had not been engaged in this unhappy girl's affair. for on a sudden the girl was lost, and no news was to be heard of her; and amy had haunted her to every place she could think of, that it was likely to find her in; but all the news she could hear of her was, that she was gone to an old comrade's house of hers, which she called sister, and who was married to a master of a ship, who lived at redriff; and even this the jade never told me. it seems, when this girl was directed by amy to get her some breeding, go to the boarding-school, and the like, she was recommended to a boarding-school at camberwell, and there she contracted an acquaintance with a young lady (so they are all called), her bedfellow, that they called sisters, and promised never to break off their acquaintance. but judge you what an unaccountable surprise i must be in when i came on board the ship and was brought into the captain's cabin, or what they call it, the great cabin of the ship, to see his lady or wife, and another young person with her, who, when i came to see her near hand, was my old cook-maid in the pall mall, and, as appeared by the sequel of the story, was neither more or less than my own daughter. that i knew her was out of doubt; for though she had not had opportunity to see me very often, yet i had often seen her, as i must needs, being in my own family so long. if ever i had need of courage, and a full presence of mind, it was now; it was the only valuable secret in the world to me, all depended upon this occasion; if the girl knew me, i was undone; and to discover any surprise or disorder had been to make her know me, or guess it, and discover herself. i was once going to feign a swooning and fainting away, and so falling on the ground, or floor, put them all into a hurry and fright, and by that means to get an opportunity to be continually holding something to my nose to smell to, and so hold my hand or my handkerchief, or both, before my mouth; then pretend i could not bear the smell of the ship, or the closeness of the cabin. but that would have been only to remove into a clearer air upon the quarter-deck, where we should, with it, have had a clearer light too; and if i had pretended the smell of the ship, it would have served only to have carried us all on shore to the captain's house, which was hard by; for the ship lay so close to the shore, that we only walked over a plank to go on board, and over another ship which lay within her; so this not appearing feasible, and the thought not being two minutes old, there was no time, for the two ladies rose up, and we saluted, so that i was bound to come so near my girl as to kiss her, which i would not have done had it been possible to have avoided it, but there was no room to escape. i cannot but take notice here, that notwithstanding there was a secret horror upon my mind, and i was ready to sink when i came close to her to salute her, yet it was a secret inconceivable pleasure to me when i kissed her, to know that i kissed my own child, my own flesh and blood, born of my body, and who i had never kissed since i took the fatal farewell of them all, with a million of tears, and a heart almost dead with grief, when amy and the good woman took them all away, and went with them to spitalfields. no pen can describe, no words can express, i say, the strange impression which this thing made upon my spirits. i felt something shoot through my blood, my heart fluttered, my head flashed, and was dizzy, and all within me, as i thought, turned about, and much ado i had not to abandon myself to an excess of passion at the first sight of her, much more when my lips touched her face. i thought i must have taken her in my arms and kissed her again a thousand times, whether i would or no. but i roused up my judgment, and shook it off, and with infinite uneasiness in my mind, i sat down. you will not wonder if upon this surprise i was not conversable for some minutes, and that the disorder had almost discovered itself. i had a complication of severe things upon me, i could not conceal my disorder without the utmost difficulty, and yet upon my concealing it depended the whole of my prosperity; so i used all manner of violence with myself to prevent the mischief which was at the door. well, i saluted her, but as i went first forward to the captain's lady, who was at the farther end of the cabin, towards the light, i had the occasion offered to stand with my back to the light, when i turned about to her, who stood more on my left hand, so that she had not a fair sight of me, though i was so near her. i trembled, and knew neither what i did or said, i was in the utmost extremity, between so many particular circumstances as lay upon me, for i was to conceal my disorder from everybody at the utmost peril, and at the same time expected everybody would discern it. i was to expect she would discover that she knew me, and yet was, by all means possible, to prevent it. i was to conceal myself, if possible, and yet had not the least room to do anything towards it. in short, there was no retreat, no shifting anything off, no avoiding or preventing her having a full sight of me, nor was there any counterfeiting my voice, for then my husband would have perceived it. in short, there was not the least circumstance that offered me any assistance, or any favourable thing to help me in this exigence. after i had been upon the rack for near half-an-hour, during which i appeared stiff and reserved, and a little too formal, my spouse and the captain fell into discourses about the ship and the sea, and business remote from us women; and by-and-by the captain carried him out upon the quarter-deck, and left us all by ourselves in the great cabin. then we began to be a little freer one with another, and i began to be a little revived by a sudden fancy of my own--namely, i thought i perceived that the girl did not know me, and the chief reason of my having such a notion was because i did not perceive the least disorder in her countenance, or the least change in her carriage, no confusion, no hesitation in her discourse; nor, which i had my eye particularly upon, did i observe that she fixed her eyes much upon me, that is to say, not singling me out to look steadily at me, as i thought would have been the case, but that she rather singled out my friend the quaker, and chatted with her on several things; but i observed, too, that it was all about indifferent matters. this greatly encouraged me, and i began to be a little cheerful; but i was knocked down again as with a thunderclap, when turning to the captain's wife, and discoursing of me, she said to her, "sister, i cannot but think my lady to be very much like such a person." then she named the person, and the captain's wife said she thought so too. the girl replied again, she was sure she had seen me before, but she could not recollect where; i answered (though her speech was not directed to me) that i fancied she had not seen me before in england, but asked if she had lived in holland. she said, no, no, she had never been out of england, and i added, that she could not then have known me in england, unless it was very lately, for i had lived at rotterdam a great while. this carried me out of that part of the broil pretty well, and to make it go off better, when a little dutch boy came into the cabin, who belonged to the captain, and who i easily perceived to be dutch, i jested and talked dutch to him, and was merry about the boy, that is to say, as merry as the consternation i was still in would let me be. however, i began to be thoroughly convinced by this time that the girl did not know me, which was an infinite satisfaction to me, or, at least, that though she had some notion of me, yet that she did not think anything about my being who i was, and which, perhaps, she would have been as glad to have known as i would have been surprised if she had; indeed, it was evident that, had she suspected anything of the truth, she would not have been able to have concealed it. thus this meeting went off, and, you may be sure, i was resolved, if once i got off of it, she should never see me again to revive her fancy; but i was mistaken there too, as you shall hear. after we had been on board, the captain's lady carried us home to her house, which was but just on shore, and treated us there again very handsomely, and made us promise that we would come again and see her before we went to concert our affairs for the voyage and the like, for she assured us that both she and her sister went the voyage at that time for our company, and i thought to myself, "then you'll never go the voyage at all;" for i saw from that moment that it would be no way convenient for my ladyship to go with them, for that frequent conversation might bring me to her mind, and she would certainly claim her kindred to me in a few days, as indeed would have been the case. it is hardly possible for me to conceive what would have been our part in this affair had my woman amy gone with me on board this ship; it had certainly blown up the whole affair, and i must for ever after have been this girl's vassal, that is to say, have let her into the secret, and trusted to her keeping it too, or have been exposed and undone. the very thought filled me with horror. but i was not so unhappy neither, as it fell out, for amy was not with us, and that was my deliverance indeed; yet we had another chance to get over still. as i resolved to put off the voyage, so i resolved to put off the visit, you may be sure, going upon this principle, namely, that i was fixed in it that the girl had seen her last of me, and should never see me more. however, to bring myself well off, and, withal, to see, if i could, a little farther into the matter, i sent my friend the quaker to the captain's lady to make the visit promised, and to make my excuse that i could not possibly wait on her, for that i was very much out of order; and in the end of the discourse i bade her insinuate to them that she was afraid i should not be able to get ready to go the voyage as soon as the captain would be obliged to go, and that perhaps we might put it off to his next voyage. i did not let the quaker into any other reason for it than that i was indisposed; and not knowing what other face to put upon that part, i made her believe that i thought i was a-breeding. it was easy to put that into her head, and she of course hinted to the captain's lady that she found me so very ill that she was afraid i would miscarry, and then, to be sure, i could not think of going. she went, and she managed that part very dexterously, as i knew she would, though she knew not a word of the grand reason of my indisposition; but i was all sunk and dead-hearted again when she told me she could not understand the meaning of one thing in her visit, namely, that the young woman, as she called her, that was with the captain's lady, and who she called sister, was most impertinently inquisitive into things; as who i was? how long i had been in england? where i had lived? and the like; and that, above all the rest, she inquired if i did not live once at the other end of the town. "i thought her inquiries so out of the way," says the honest quaker, "that i gave her not the least satisfaction; but as i saw by thy answers on board the ship, when she talked of thee, that thou didst not incline to let her be acquainted with thee, so i was resolved that she should not be much the wiser for me; and when she asked me if thou ever lived'st here or there, i always said, no, but that thou wast a dutch lady, and was going home again to thy family, and lived abroad." i thanked her very heartily for that part, and indeed she served me in it more than i let her know she did: in a word, she thwarted the girl so cleverly, that if she had known the whole affair she could not have done it better. but, i must acknowledge, all this put me upon the rack again, and i was quite discouraged, not at all doubting but that the jade had a right scent of things, and that she knew and remembered my face, but had artfully concealed her knowledge of me till she might perhaps do it more to my disadvantage. i told all this to amy, for she was all the relief i had. the poor soul (amy) was ready to hang herself, that, as she said, she had been the occasion of it all; and that if i was ruined (which was the word i always used to her), she had ruined me; and she tormented herself about it so much, that i was sometimes fain to comfort her and myself too. what amy vexed herself at was, chiefly, that she should be surprised so by the girl, as she called her; i mean surprised into a discovery of herself to the girl; which indeed was a false step of amy's, and so i had often told her. but it was to no purpose to talk of that now, the business was, how to get clear of the girl's suspicions, and of the girl too, for it looked more threatening every day than other; and if i was uneasy at what amy had told me of her rambling and rattling to her (amy), i had a thousand times as much reason to be uneasy now, when she had chopped upon me so unhappily as this; and not only had seen my face, but knew too where i lived, what name i went by, and the like. and i am not come to the worst of it yet neither, for a few days after my friend the quaker had made her visit, and excused me on the account of indisposition, as if they had done it in over and above kindness, because they had been told i was not well, they come both directly to my lodgings to visit me: the captain's wife and my daughter (who she called sister), and the captain, to show them the place; the captain only brought them to the door, put them in, and went away upon some business. had not the kind quaker, in a lucky moment, come running in before them, they had not only clapped in upon me, in the parlour, as it had been a surprise, but which would have been a thousand times worse, had seen amy with me; i think if that had happened, i had had no remedy but to take the girl by herself, and have made myself known to her, which would have been all distraction. but the quaker, a lucky creature to me, happened to see them come to the door, before they rung the bell, and instead of going to let them in, came running in with some confusion in her countenance, and told me who was a-coming; at which amy run first and i after her, and bid the quaker come up as soon as she had let them in. i was going to bid her deny me, but it came into my thoughts, that having been represented so much out of order, it would have looked very odd; besides, i knew the honest quaker, though she would do anything else for me, would not lie for me, and it would have been hard to have desired it of her. after she had let them in, and brought them into the parlour, she came up to amy and i, who were hardly out of the fright, and yet were congratulating one another that amy was not surprised again. they paid their visit in form, and i received them as formally, but took occasion two or three times to hint that i was so ill that i was afraid i should not be able to go to holland, at least not so soon as the captain must go off; and made my compliment how sorry i was to be disappointed of the advantage of their company and assistance in the voyage; and sometimes i talked as if i thought i might stay till the captain returned, and would be ready to go again; then the quaker put in, that then i might be too far gone, meaning with child, that i should not venture at all; and then (as if she should be pleased with it) added, she hoped i would stay and lie in at her house; so as this carried its own face with it, 'twas well enough. but it was now high time to talk of this to my husband, which, however, was not the greatest difficulty before me; for after this and other chat had taken up some time, the young fool began her tattle again; and two or three times she brought it in, that i was so like a lady that she had the honour to know at the other end of the town, that she could not put that lady out of her mind when i was by, and once or twice i fancied the girl was ready to cry; by and by she was at it again, and at last i plainly saw tears in her eyes; upon which i asked her if the lady was dead, because she seemed to be in some concern for her. she made me much easier by her answer than ever she did before; she said she did not really know, but she believed she was dead. this, i say, a little relieved my thoughts, but i was soon down again; for, after some time, the jade began to grow talkative; and as it was plain that she had told all that her head could retain of roxana, and the days of joy which i had spent at that part of the town, another accident had like to have blown us all up again. i was in a kind of dishabille when they came, having on a loose robe, like a morning-gown, but much after the italian way; and i had not altered it when i went up, only dressed my head a little; and as i had been represented as having been lately very ill, so the dress was becoming enough for a chamber. this morning vest, or robe, call it as you please, was more shaped to the body than we wear them since, showing the body in its true shape, and perhaps a little too plainly if it had been to be worn where any men were to come; but among ourselves it was well enough, especially for hot weather; the colour was green, figured, and the stuff a french damask, very rich. this gown or vest put the girl's tongue a running again, and her sister, as she called her, prompted it; for as they both admired my vest, and were taken up much about the beauty of the dress, the charming damask, the noble trimming, and the like, my girl puts in a word to the sister (captain's wife), "this is just such a thing as i told you," says she, "the lady danced in." "what," says the captain's wife, "the lady roxana that you told me of? oh! that's a charming story," says she, "tell it my lady." i could not avoid saying so too, though from my soul i wished her in heaven for but naming it; nay, i won't say but if she had been carried t'other way it had been much as one to me, if i could but have been rid of her, and her story too, for when she came to describe the turkish dress, it was impossible but the quaker, who was a sharp, penetrating creature, should receive the impression in a more dangerous manner than the girl, only that indeed she was not so dangerous a person; for if she had known it all, i could more freely have trusted her than i could the girl, by a great deal, nay, i should have been perfectly easy in her. however, as i have said, her talk made me dreadfully uneasy, and the more when the captain's wife mentioned but the name of roxana. what my face might do towards betraying me i knew not, because i could not see myself, but my heart beat as if it would have jumped out at my mouth, and my passion was so great, that, for want of vent, i thought i should have burst. in a word, i was in a kind of a silent rage, for the force i was under of restraining my passion was such as i never felt the like of. i had no vent, nobody to open myself to, or to make a complaint to, for my relief; i durst not leave the room by any means, for then she would have told all the story in my absence, and i should have been perpetually uneasy to know what she had said, or had not said; so that, in a word, i was obliged to sit and hear her tell all the story of roxana, that is to say, of myself, and not know at the same time whether she was in earnest or in jest, whether she knew me or no; or, in short, whether i was to be exposed, or not exposed. she began only in general with telling where she lived, what a place she had of it, how gallant a company her lady had always had in the house; how they used to sit up all night in the house gaming and dancing; what a fine lady her mistress was, and what a vast deal of money the upper servants got; as for her, she said, her whole business was in the next house, so that she got but little, except one night that there was twenty guineas given to be divided among the servants, when, she said, she got two guineas and a half for her share. she went on, and told them how many servants there was, and how they were ordered; but, she said, there was one mrs. amy who was over them all; and that she, being the lady's favourite, got a great deal. she did not know, she said, whether amy was her christian name or her surname, but she supposed it was her surname; that they were told she got threescore pieces of gold at one time, being the same night that the rest of the servants had the twenty guineas divided among them. i put in at that word, and said it was a vast deal to give away. "why," says i, "it was a portion for a servant." "o madam!" says she, "it was nothing to what she got afterwards; we that were servants hated her heartily for it; that is to say, we wished it had been our lot in her stead." then i said again, "why, it was enough to get her a good husband, and settle her for the world, if she had sense to manage it." "so it might, to be sure, madam," says she, "for we were told she laid up above £ ; but, i suppose, mrs. amy was too sensible that her character would require a good portion to put her off." "oh," said i, "if that was the case it was another thing." "nay," says she, "i don't know, but they talked very much of a young lord that was very great with her." "and pray what came of her at last?" said i, for i was willing to hear a little (seeing she would talk of it) what she had to say, as well of amy as of myself. "i don't know, madam," said she, "i never heard of her for several years, till t'other day i happened to see her." "did you indeed?" says i (and made mighty strange of it); "what! and in rags, it may be," said i; "that's often the end of such creatures." "just the contrary, madam," says she. "she came to visit an acquaintance of mine, little thinking, i suppose, to see me, and, i assure you, she came in her coach." "in her coach!" said i; "upon my word, she had made her market then; i suppose she made hay while the sun shone. was she married, pray?" "i believe she had been married, madam," says she, "but it seems she had been at the east indies; and if she was married, it was there, to be sure. i think she said she had good luck in the indies." "that is, i suppose," said i, "had buried her husband there." "i understood it so, madam," says she, "and that she had got his estate." "was that her good luck?" said i; "it might be good to her, as to the money indeed, but it was but the part of a jade to call it good luck." thus far our discourse of mrs. amy went, and no farther, for she knew no more of her; but then the quaker unhappily, though undesignedly, put in a question, which the honest good-humoured creature would have been far from doing if she had known that i had carried on the discourse of amy on purpose to drop roxana out of the conversation. but i was not to be made easy too soon. the quaker put in, "but i think thou saidst something was behind of thy mistress; what didst thou call her? roxana, was it not? pray, what became of her?" "ay, ay, roxana," says the captain's wife; "pray, sister, let's hear the story of roxana; it will divert my lady, i'm sure." "that's a damned lie," said i to myself; "if you knew how little 't would divert me, you would have too much advantage over me." well, i saw no remedy, but the story must come on, so i prepared to hear the worst of it. "roxana!" says she, "i know not what to say of her; she was so much above us, and so seldom seen, that we could know little of her but by report; but we did sometimes see her too; she was a charming woman indeed, and the footmen used to say that she was to be sent for to court." "to court!" said i; "why, she was at court, wasn't she? the pall mall is not far from whitehall." "yes, madam," says she, "but i mean another way." "i understand thee," says the quaker; "thou meanest, i suppose, to be mistress to the king." "yes, madam," said she. i cannot help confessing what a reserve of pride still was left in me; and though i dreaded the sequel of the story, yet when she talked how handsome and how fine a lady this roxana was, i could not help being pleased and tickled with it, and put in questions two or three times of how handsome she was; and was she really so fine a woman as they talked of; and the like, on purpose to hear her repeat what the people's opinion of me was, and how i had behaved. "indeed," says she, at last, "she was a most beautiful creature as ever i saw in my life." "but then," said i, "you never had the opportunity to see her but when she was set out to the best advantage." "yes, yes, madam," says she, "i have seen her several times in her _déshabille_. and i can assure you, she was a very fine woman; and that which was more still, everybody said she did not paint." this was still agreeable to me one way; but there was a devilish sting in the tail of it all, and this last article was one; wherein she said she had seen me several times in my _déshabille_. this put me in mind that then she must certainly know me, and it would come out at last; which was death to me but to think of. "well, but, sister," says the captain's wife, "tell my lady about the ball; that's the best of all the story; and of roxana's dancing in a fine outlandish dress." "that's one of the brightest parts of her story indeed," says the girl. "the case was this: we had balls and meetings in her ladyship's apartments every week almost; but one time my lady invited all the nobles to come such a time, and she would give them a ball; and there was a vast crowd indeed," says she. "i think you said the king was there, sister, didn't you?" "no, madam," says she, "that was the second time, when they said the king had heard how finely the turkish lady danced, and that he was there to see her; but the king, if his majesty was there, came disguised." "that is, what they call incog.," says my friend the quaker; "thou canst not think the king would disguise himself." "yes," says the girl, "it was so; he did not come in public with his guards, but we all knew which was the king well enough, that is to say, which they said was the king." "well," says the captain's wife, "about the turkish dress; pray let us hear that." "why," says she, "my lady sat in a fine little drawing-room, which opened into the great room, and where she received the compliments of the company; and when the dancing began, a great lord," says she, "i forget who they called him (but he was a very great lord or duke, i don't know which), took her out, and danced with her; but after a while, my lady on a sudden shut the drawing-room, and ran upstairs with her woman, mrs. amy; and though she did not stay long (for i suppose she had contrived it all beforehand), she came down dressed in the strangest figure that ever i saw in my life; but it was exceeding fine." here she went on to describe the dress, as i have done already; but did it so exactly, that i was surprised at the manner of her telling it; there was not a circumstance of it left out. i was now under a new perplexity, for this young slut gave so complete an account of everything in the dress, that my friend the quaker coloured at it, and looked two or three times at me, to see if i did not do so too; for (as she told me afterwards) she immediately perceived it was the same dress that she had seen me have on, as i have said before. however, as she saw i took no notice of it, she kept her thought private to herself; and i did so too, as well as i could. i put in two or three times, that she had a good memory, that could be so particular in every part of such a thing. "oh, madam!" says she, "we that were servants, stood by ourselves in a corner, but so as we could see more than some strangers; besides," says she, "it was all our conversation for several days in the family, and what one did not observe another did." "why," says i to her, "this was no persian dress; only, i suppose your lady was some french comedian, that is to say, a stage amazon, that put on a counterfeit dress to please the company, such as they used in the play of tamerlane at paris, or some such." "no, indeed, madam," says she, "i assure you my lady was no actress; she was a fine modest lady, fit to be a princess; everybody said if she was a mistress, she was fit to be a mistress to none but the king; and they talked her up for the king as if it had really been so. besides, madam," says she, "my lady danced a turkish dance; all the lords and gentry said it was so; and one of them swore he had seen it danced in turkey himself, so that it could not come from the theatre at paris; and then the name roxana," says she, "was a turkish name." "well," said i, "but that was not your lady's name, i suppose?" "no, no, madam," said she, "i know that. i know my lady's name and family very well; roxana was not her name, that's true, indeed." here she run me aground again, for i durst not ask her what was roxana's real name, lest she had really dealt with the devil, and had boldly given my own name in for answer; so that i was still more and more afraid that the girl had really gotten the secret somewhere or other; though i could not imagine neither how that could be. in a word, i was sick of the discourse, and endeavoured many ways to put an end to it, but it was impossible; for the captain's wife, who called her sister, prompted her, and pressed her to tell it, most ignorantly thinking that it would be a pleasant tale to all of us. two or three times the quaker put in, that this lady roxana had a good stock of assurance; and that it was likely, if she had been in turkey, she had lived with, or been kept by, some great bashaw there. but still she would break in upon all such discourse, and fly out into the most extravagant praises of her mistress, the famed roxana. i run her down as some scandalous woman; that it was not possible to be otherwise; but she would not hear of it; her lady was a person of such and such qualifications that nothing but an angel was like her, to be sure; and yet, after all she could say, her own account brought her down to this, that, in short, her lady kept little less than a gaming ordinary; or, as it would be called in the times since that, an assembly for gallantry and play. all this while i was very uneasy, as i said before, and yet the whole story went off again without any discovery, only that i seemed a little concerned that she should liken me to this gay lady, whose character i pretended to run down very much, even upon the foot of her own relation. but i was not at the end of my mortifications yet, neither, for now my innocent quaker threw out an unhappy expression, which put me upon the tenters again. says she to me, "this lady's habit, i fancy, is just such a one as thine, by the description of it;" and then turning to the captain's wife, says she, "i fancy my friend has a finer turkish or persian dress, a great deal." "oh," says the girl, "'tis impossible to be finer; my lady's," says she, "was all covered with gold and diamonds; her hair and head-dress, i forget the name they gave it," said she, "shone like the stars, there were so many jewels in it." i never wished my good friend the quaker out of my company before now; but, indeed, i would have given some guineas to have been rid of her just now; for beginning to be curious in the comparing the two dresses, she innocently began a description of mine; and nothing terrified me so much as the apprehension lest she should importune me to show it, which i was resolved i would never agree to. but before it came to this, she pressed my girl to describe the tyhaia, or head-dress, which she did so cleverly that the quaker could not help saying mine was just such a one; and after several other similitudes, all very vexatious to me, out comes the kind motion to me to let the ladies see my dress; and they joined their eager desires of it, even to importunity. i desired to be excused, though i had little to say at first why i declined it; but at last it came into my head to say it was packed up with my other clothes that i had least occasion for, in order to be sent on board the captain's ship; but that if we lived to come to holland together (which, by the way, i resolved should never happen), then, i told them, at unpacking my clothes, they should see me dressed in it; but they must not expect i should dance in it, like the lady roxana in all her fine things. this carried it off pretty well; and getting over this, got over most of the rest, and i began to be easy again; and, in a word, that i may dismiss the story too, as soon as may be, i got rid at last of my visitors, who i had wished gone two hours sooner than they intended it. as soon as they were gone, i ran up to amy, and gave vent to my passions by telling her the whole story, and letting her see what mischiefs one false step of hers had like, unluckily, to have involved us all in; more, perhaps, than we could ever have lived to get through. amy was sensible of it enough, and was just giving her wrath a vent another way, viz., by calling the poor girl all the damned jades and fools (and sometimes worse names) that she could think of, in the middle of which up comes my honest, good quaker, and put an end to our discourse. the quaker came in smiling (for she was always soberly cheerful). "well," says she, "thou art delivered at last; i come to joy thee of it; i perceived thou wert tired grievously of thy visitors." "indeed," says i, "so i was; that foolish young girl held us all in a canterbury story; i thought she would never have done with it." "why, truly, i thought she was very careful to let thee know she was but a cook-maid." "ay," says i, "and at a gaming-house, or gaming-ordinary, and at t'other end of the town too; all which (by the way) she might know would add very little to her good name among us citizens." "i can't think," says the quaker, "but she had some other drift in that long discourse; there's something else in her head," says she, "i am satisfied of that." thought i, "are you satisfied of it? i am sure i am the less satisfied for that; at least 'tis but small satisfaction to me to hear you say so. what can this be?" says i; "and when will my uneasiness have an end?" but this was silent, and to myself, you may be sure. but in answer to my friend the quaker, i returned by asking her a question or two about it; as what she thought was in it, and why she thought there was anything in it. "for," says i, "she can have nothing in it relating to me." "nay," says the kind quaker, "if she had any view towards thee, that's no business of mine; and i should be far from desiring thee to inform me." this alarmed me again; not that i feared trusting the good-humoured creature with it, if there had been anything of just suspicion in her; but this affair was a secret i cared not to communicate to anybody. however, i say, this alarmed me a little; for as i had concealed everything from her, i was willing to do so still; but as she could not but gather up abundance of things from the girl's discourse, which looked towards me, so she was too penetrating to be put off with such answers as might stop another's mouth. only there was this double felicity in it, first, that she was not inquisitive to know or find anything out, and not dangerous if she had known the whole story. but, as i say, she could not but gather up several circumstances from the girl's discourse, as particularly the name of amy, and the several descriptions of the turkish dress which my friend the quaker had seen, and taken so much notice of, as i have said above. as for that, i might have turned it off by jesting with amy, and asking her who she lived with before she came to live with me. but that would not do, for we had unhappily anticipated that way of talking, by having often talked how long amy had lived with me; and, which was still worse, by having owned formerly that i had had lodgings in the pall mall; so that all those things corresponded too well. there was only one thing that helped me out with the quaker, and that was the girl's having reported how rich mrs. amy was grown, and that she kept her coach. now, as there might be many more mrs. amys besides mine, so it was not likely to be my amy, because she was far from such a figure as keeping her coach; and this carried it off from the suspicions which the good friendly quaker might have in her head. but as to what she imagined the girl had in her head, there lay more real difficulty in that part a great deal, and i was alarmed at it very much, for my friend the quaker told me that she observed the girl was in a great passion when she talked of the habit, and more when i had been importuned to show her mine, but declined it. she said she several times perceived her to be in disorder, and to restrain herself with great difficulty; and once or twice she muttered to herself that she had found it out, or that she would find it out, she could not tell whether; and that she often saw tears in her eyes; that when i said my suit of turkish clothes was put up, but that she should see it when we arrived in holland, she heard her say softly she would go over on purpose then. after she had ended her observations, i added: "i observed, too, that the girl talked and looked oddly, and that she was mighty inquisitive, but i could not imagine what it was she aimed at." "aimed at," says the quaker, "'tis plain to me what she aims at. she believes thou art the same lady roxana that danced in the turkish vest, but she is not certain." "does she believe so?" says i; "if i had thought that, i would have put her out of her pain." "believe so!" says the quaker; "yes, and i began to think so too, and should have believed so still, if thou had'st not satisfied me to the contrary by thy taking no notice of it, and by what thou hast said since." "should you have believed so?" said i warmly; "i am very sorry for that. why, would you have taken me for an actress, or a french stage-player?" "no," says the good kind creature, "thou carriest it too far; as soon as thou madest thy reflections upon her, i knew it could not be; but who could think any other when she described the turkish dress which thou hast here, with the head-tire and jewels, and when she named thy maid amy too, and several other circumstances concurring? i should certainly have believed it," said she, "if thou hadst not contradicted it; but as soon as i heard thee speak, i concluded it was otherwise." "that was very kind," said i, "and i am obliged to you for doing me so much justice; it is more, it seems, than that young talking creature does." "nay," says the quaker, "indeed she does not do thee justice; for she as certainly believes it still as ever she did." "does she?" said i. "ay," says the quaker; "and i warrant thee she'll make thee another visit about it." "will she?" said i; "then i believe i shall downright affront her." "no, thou shalt not affront her," says she (full of her good-humour and temper), "i'll take that part off thy hands, for i'll affront her for thee, and not let her see thee." i thought that was a very kind offer, but was at a loss how she would be able to do it; and the thought of seeing her there again half distracted me, not knowing what temper she would come in, much less what manner to receive her in; but my fast friend and constant comforter, the quaker, said she perceived the girl was impertinent, and that i had no inclination to converse with her, and she was resolved i should not be troubled with her. but i shall have occasion to say more of this presently, for this girl went farther yet than i thought she had. it was now time, as i said before, to take measures with my husband, in order to put off my voyage; so i fell into talk with him one morning as he was dressing, and while i was in bed. i pretended i was very ill; and as i had but too easy a way to impose upon him, because he so absolutely believed everything i said, so i managed my discourse as that he should understand by it i was a-breeding, though i did not tell him so. however, i brought it about so handsomely that, before he went out of the room, he came and sat down by my bedside, and began to talk very seriously to me upon the subject of my being so every day ill, and that, as he hoped i was with child, he would have me consider well of it, whether i had not best alter my thoughts of the voyage to holland; for that being sea-sick, and which was worse, if a storm should happen, might be very dangerous to me. and after saying abundance of the kindest things that the kindest of husbands in the world could say, he concluded that it was his request to me, that i would not think any more of going till after all should be over; but that i would, on the contrary, prepare to lie-in where i was, and where i knew, as well as he, i could be very well provided, and very well assisted. this was just what i wanted, for i had, as you have heard, a thousand good reasons why i should put off the voyage, especially with that creature in company; but i had a mind the putting it off should be at his motion, not my own; and he came into it of himself, just as i would have had it. this gave me an opportunity to hang back a little, and to seem as if i was unwilling. i told him i could not abide to put him to difficulties and perplexities in his business; that now he had hired the great cabin in the ship, and, perhaps, paid some of the money, and, it may be, taken freight for goods; and to make him break it all off again would be a needless charge to him, or, perhaps, a damage to the captain. as to that, he said, it was not to be named, and he would not allow it to be any consideration at all; that he could easily pacify the captain of the ship by telling him the reason of it, and that if he did make him some satisfaction for the disappointment, it should not be much. "but, my dear," says i, "you ha'n't heard me say i am with child, neither can i say so; and if it should not be so at last, then i shall have made a fine piece of work of it indeed; besides," says i, "the two ladies, the captain's wife and her sister, they depend upon our going over, and have made great preparations, and all in compliment to me; what must i say to them?" "well, my dear," says he, "if you should not be with child, though i hope you are, yet there is no harm done; the staying three or four months longer in england will be no damage to me, and we can go when we please, when we are sure you are not with child, or, when it appearing that you are with child, you shall be down and up again; and as for the captain's wife and sister, leave that part to me; i'll answer for it there shall be no quarrel raised upon that subject. i'll make your excuse to them by the captain himself, so all will be well enough there, i'll warrant you." this was as much as i could desire, and thus it rested for awhile. i had indeed some anxious thoughts about this impertinent girl, but believed that putting off the voyage would have put an end to it all, so i began to be pretty easy; but i found myself mistaken, for i was brought to the point of destruction by her again, and that in the most unaccountable manner imaginable. my husband, as he and i had agreed, meeting the captain of the ship, took the freedom to tell him that he was afraid he must disappoint him, for that something had fallen out which had obliged him to alter his measures, and that his family could not be ready to go time enough for him. "i know the occasion, sir," says the captain; "i hear your lady has got a daughter more than she expected; i give you joy of it." "what do you mean by that?" says my spouse. "nay, nothing," says the captain, "but what i hear the women tattle over the tea-table. i know nothing, but that you don't go the voyage upon it, which i am sorry for; but you know your own affairs," added the captain, "that's no business of mine." "well, but," says my husband, "i must make you some satisfaction for the disappointment," and so pulls out his money. "no, no," says the captain; and so they fell to straining their compliments one upon another; but, in short, my spouse gave him three or four guineas, and made him take it. and so the first discourse went off again, and they had no more of it. but it did not go off so easily with me, for now, in a word, the clouds began to thicken about me, and i had alarms on every side. my husband told me what the captain had said, but very happily took it that the captain had brought a tale by halves, and having heard it one way, had told it another; and that neither could he understand the captain, neither did the captain understand himself, so he contented himself to tell me, he said, word for word, as the captain delivered it. how i kept my husband from discovering my disorder you shall hear presently; but let it suffice to say just now, that if my husband did not understand the captain, nor the captain understand himself, yet i understood them both very well; and, to tell the truth, it was a worse shock than ever i had yet. invention supplied me, indeed, with a sudden motion to avoid showing my surprise; for as my spouse and i was sitting by a little table near the fire, i reached out my hand, as if i had intended to take a spoon which lay on the other side, and threw one of the candles off of the table; and then snatching it up, started up upon my feet, and stooped to the lap of my gown and took it in my hand. "oh!" says i, "my gown's spoiled; the candle has greased it prodigiously." this furnished me with an excuse to my spouse to break off the discourse for the present, and call amy down; and amy not coming presently, i said to him, "my dear, i must run upstairs and put it off, and let amy clean it a little." so my husband rose up too, and went into a closet where he kept his papers and books, and fetched a book out, and sat down by himself to read. glad i was that i had got away, and up i run to amy, who, as it happened, was alone. "oh, amy!" says i, "we are all utterly undone." and with that i burst out a-crying, and could not speak a word for a great while. i cannot help saying that some very good reflections offered themselves upon this head. it presently occurred, what a glorious testimony it is to the justice of providence, and to the concern providence has in guiding all the affairs of men (even the least as well as the greatest), that the most secret crimes are, by the most unforeseen accidents, brought to light and discovered. another reflection was, how just it is that sin and shame follow one another so constantly at the heels; that they are not like attendants only, but, like cause and consequence, necessarily connected one with another; that the crime going before, the scandal is certain to follow; and that 'tis not in the power of human nature to conceal the first, or avoid the last. "what shall i do, amy?" said i, as soon as i could speak, "and what will become of me?" and then i cried again so vehemently that i could say no more a great while. amy was frighted almost out of her wits, but knew nothing what the matter was; but she begged to know, and persuaded me to compose myself, and not cry so. "why, madam, if my master should come up now," says she, "he will see what a disorder you are in; he will know you have been crying, and then he will want to know the cause of it." with that i broke out again. "oh, he knows it already, amy," says i, "he knows all! 'tis all discovered, and we are undone!" amy was thunderstruck now indeed. "nay," says amy, "if that be true, we are undone indeed; but that can never be; that's impossible, i'm sure." "no, no," says i, "'tis far from impossible, for i tell you 'tis so." and by this time, being a little recovered, i told her what discourse my husband and the captain had had together, and what the captain had said. this put amy into such a hurry that she cried, she raved, she swore and cursed like a mad thing; then she upbraided me that i would not let her kill the girl when she would have done it, and that it was all my own doing, and the like. well, however, i was not for killing the girl yet. i could not bear the thoughts of that neither. we spent half-an-hour in these extravagances, and brought nothing out of them neither; for indeed we could do nothing or say nothing that was to the purpose; for if anything was to come out-of-the-way, there was no hindering it, or help for it; so after thus giving a vent to myself by crying, i began to reflect how i had left my spouse below, and what i had pretended to come up for; so i changed my gown that i pretended the candle fell upon, and put on another, and went down. when i had been down a good while, and found my spouse did not fall into the story again, as i expected, i took heart, and called for it. "my dear," said i, "the fall of the candle put you out of your history, won't you go on with it?" "what history?" says he. "why," says i, "about the captain." "oh," says he, "i had done with it. i know no more than that the captain told a broken piece of news that he had heard by halves, and told more by halves than he heard it,--namely, of your being with child, and that you could not go the voyage." i perceived my husband entered not into the thing at all, but took it for a story, which, being told two or three times over, was puzzled, and come to nothing, and that all that was meant by it was what he knew, or thought he knew already--viz., that i was with child, which he wished might be true. his ignorance was a cordial to my soul, and i cursed them in my thoughts that should ever undeceive him; and as i saw him willing to have the story end there, as not worth being farther mentioned, i closed it too, and said i supposed the captain had it from his wife; she might have found somebody else to make her remarks upon; and so it passed off with my husband well enough, and i was still safe there, where i thought myself in most danger. but i had two uneasinesses still; the first was lest the captain and my spouse should meet again, and enter into farther discourse about it; and the second was lest the busy impertinent girl should come again, and when she came, how to prevent her seeing amy, which was an article as material as any of the rest; for seeing amy would have been as fatal to me as her knowing all the rest. as to the first of these, i knew the captain could not stay in town above a week, but that his ship being already full of goods, and fallen down the river, he must soon follow, so i contrived to carry my husband somewhere out of town for a few days, that they might be sure not to meet. my greatest concern was where we should go. at last i fixed upon north hall; not, i said, that i would drink the waters, but that i thought the air was good, and might be for my advantage. he, who did everything upon the foundation of obliging me, readily came into it, and the coach was appointed to be ready the next morning; but as we were settling matters, he put in an ugly word that thwarted all my design, and that was, that he had rather i would stay till afternoon, for that he should speak to the captain the next morning if he could, to give him some letters, which he could do, and be back again about twelve o'clock. i said, "ay, by all means." but it was but a cheat on him, and my voice and my heart differed; for i resolved, if possible, he should not come near the captain, nor see him, whatever came of it. in the evening, therefore, a little before we went to bed, i pretended to have altered my mind, and that i would not go to north hall, but i had a mind to go another way, but i told him i was afraid his business would not permit him. he wanted to know where it was. i told him, smiling, i would not tell him, lest it should oblige him to hinder his business. he answered with the same temper, but with infinitely more sincerity, that he had no business of so much consequence as to hinder him going with me anywhere that i had a mind to go. "yes," says i, "you want to speak with the captain before he goes away." "why, that's true," says he, "so i do," and paused awhile; and then added, "but i'll write a note to a man that does business for me to go to him; 'tis only to get some bills of loading signed, and he can do it." when i saw i had gained my point, i seemed to hang back a little. "my dear," says i, "don't hinder an hour's business for me; i can put it off for a week or two rather than you shall do yourself any prejudice." "no, no," says he, "you shall not put it off an hour for me, for i can do my business by proxy with anybody but my wife." and then he took me in his arms and kissed me. how did my blood flush up into my face when i reflected how sincerely, how affectionately, this good-humoured gentleman embraced the most cursed piece of hypocrisy that ever came into the arms of an honest man! his was all tenderness, all kindness, and the utmost sincerity; mine all grimace and deceit;--a piece of mere manage and framed conduct to conceal a past life of wickedness, and prevent his discovering that he had in his arms a she-devil, whose whole conversation for twenty-five years had been black as hell, a complication of crime, and for which, had he been let into it, he must have abhorred me and the very mention of my name. but there was no help for me in it; all i had to satisfy myself was that it was my business to be what i was, and conceal what i had been; that all the satisfaction i could make him was to live virtuously for the time to come, not being able to retrieve what had been in time past; and this i resolved upon, though, had the great temptation offered, as it did afterwards, i had reason to question my stability. but of that hereafter. after my husband had kindly thus given up his measures to mine, we resolved to set out in the morning early. i told him that my project, if he liked it, was to go to tunbridge, and he, being entirely passive in the thing, agreed to it with the greatest willingness; but said if i had not named tunbridge, he would have named newmarket, there being a great court there, and abundance of fine things to be seen. i offered him another piece of hypocrisy here, for i pretended to be willing to go thither, as the place of his choice, but indeed i would not have gone for a thousand pounds; for the court being there at that time, i durst not run the hazard of being known at a place where there were so many eyes that had seen me before. so that, after some time, i told my husband that i thought newmarket was so full of people at that time, that we should get no accommodation; that seeing the court and the crowd was no entertainment at all to me, unless as it might be so to him, that if he thought fit, we would rather put it off to another time; and that if, when we went to holland, we should go by harwich, we might take a round by newmarket and bury, and so come down to ipswich, and go from thence to the seaside. he was easily put off from this, as he was from anything else that i did not approve; and so, with all imaginable facility, he appointed to be ready early in the morning to go with me for tunbridge. i had a double design in this, viz., first, to get away my spouse from seeing the captain any more; and secondly, to be out of the way myself, in case this impertinent girl, who was now my plague, should offer to come again, as my friend the quaker believed she would, and as indeed happened within two or three days afterwards. having thus secured my going away the next day, i had nothing to do but to furnish my faithful agent the quaker with some instructions what to say to this tormentor (for such she proved afterwards), and how to manage her, if she made any more visits than ordinary. i had a great mind to leave amy behind too, as an assistant, because she understood so perfectly well what to advise upon any emergence; and amy importuned me to do so. but i know not what secret impulse prevailed over my thoughts against it; i could not do it for fear the wicked jade should make her away, which my very soul abhorred the thoughts of; which, however, amy found means to bring to pass afterwards, as i may in time relate more particularly. it is true i wanted as much to be delivered from her as ever a sick man did from a third-day ague; and had she dropped into the grave by any fair way, as i may call it, i mean, had she died by any ordinary distemper, i should have shed but very few tears for her. but i was not arrived to such a pitch of obstinate wickedness as to commit murder, especially such as to murder my own child, or so much as to harbour a thought so barbarous in my mind. but, as i said, amy effected all afterwards without my knowledge, for which i gave her my hearty curse, though i could do little more; for to have fallen upon amy had been to have murdered myself. but this tragedy requires a longer story than i have room for here. i return to my journey. my dear friend the quaker was kind, and yet honest, and would do anything that was just and upright to serve me, but nothing wicked or dishonourable. that she might be able to say boldly to the creature, if she came, she did not know where i was gone, she desired i would not let her know; and to make her ignorance the more absolutely safe to herself, and likewise to me, i allowed her to say that she heard us talk of going to newmarket, &c. she liked that part, and i left all the rest to her, to act as she thought fit; only charged her, that if the girl entered into the story of the pall mall, she should not entertain much talk about it, but let her understand that we all thought she spoke of it a little too particularly; and that the lady (meaning me) took it a little ill to be so likened to a public mistress, or a stage-player, and the like; and so to bring her, if possible, to say no more of it. however, though i did not tell my friend the quaker how to write to me, or where i was, yet i left a sealed paper with her maid to give her, in which i gave her a direction how to write to amy, and so, in effect, to myself. it was but a few days after i was gone, but the impatient girl came to my lodgings on pretence to see how i did, and to hear if i intended to go the voyage, and the like. my trusty agent was at home, and received her coldly at the door; but told her that the lady, which she supposed she meant, was gone from her house. this was a full stop to all she could say for a good while; but as she stood musing some time at the door, considering what to begin a talk upon, she perceived my friend the quaker looked a little uneasy, as if she wanted to go in and shut the door, which stung her to the quick; and the wary quaker had not so much as asked her to come in; for seeing her alone she expected she would be very impertinent, and concluded that i did not care how coldly she received her. but she was not to be put off so. she said if the lady ---- was not to be spoken with, she desired to speak two or three words with her, meaning my friend the quaker. upon that the quaker civilly but coldly asked her to walk in, which was what she wanted. note.--she did not carry her into her best parlour, as formerly, but into a little outer room, where the servants usually waited. by the first of her discourse she did not stick to insinuate as if she believed i was in the house, but was unwilling to be seen; and pressed earnestly that she might speak but two words with me; to which she added earnest entreaties, and at last tears. "i am sorry," says my good creature the quaker, "thou hast so ill an opinion of me as to think i would tell thee an untruth, and say that the lady ---- was gone from my house if she was not! i assure thee i do not use any such method; nor does the lady ---- desire any such kind of service from me, as i know of. if she had been in the house, i should have told thee so." she said little to that, but said it was business of the utmost importance that she desired to speak with me about, and then cried again very much. "thou seem'st to be sorely afflicted," says the quaker, "i wish i could give thee any relief; but if nothing will comfort thee but seeing the lady ----, it is not in my power." "i hope it is," says she again; "to be sure it is of great consequence to me, so much that i am undone without it." "thou troublest me very much to hear thee say so," says the quaker; "but why, then, didst thou not speak to her apart when thou wast here before?" "i had no opportunity," says she, "to speak to her alone, and i could not do it in company; if i could have spoken but two words to her alone, i would have thrown myself at her foot, and asked her blessing." "i am surprised at thee; i do not understand thee," says the quaker. "oh!" says she, "stand my friend if you have any charity, or if you have any compassion for the miserable; for i am utterly undone!" "thou terrifiest me," says the quaker, "with such passionate expressions, for verily i cannot comprehend thee!" "oh!" says she, "she is my mother! she is my mother! and she does not own me!" "thy mother!" says the quaker, and began to be greatly moved indeed. "i am astonished at thee: what dost thou mean?" "i mean nothing but what i say," says she. "i say again, she is my mother, and will not own me;" and with that she stopped with a flood of tears. "not own thee!" says the quaker; and the tender good creature wept too. "why," says she, "she does not know thee, and never saw thee before." "no," says the girl, "i believe she does not know me, but i know her; and i know that she is my mother." "it's impossible, thou talk'st mystery!" says the quaker; "wilt thou explain thyself a little to me?" "yes, yes," says she, "i can explain it well enough. i am sure she is my mother, and i have broke my heart to search for her; and now to lose her again, when i was so sure i had found her, will break my heart more effectually." "well, but if she be thy mother," says the quaker, "how can it be that she should not know thee?" "alas!" says she, "i have been lost to her ever since i was a child; she has never seen me." "and hast thou never seen her?" says the quaker. "yes," says she, "i have seen her; often enough i saw her; for when she was the lady roxana i was her housemaid, being a servant, but i did not know her then, nor she me; but it has all come out since. has she not a maid named amy?" note.--the honest quaker was--nonplussed, and greatly surprised at that question. "truly," says she, "the lady ---- has several women servants, but i do not know all their names." "but her woman, her favourite," adds the girl; "is not her name amy?" "why, truly," says the quaker, with a very happy turn of wit, "i do not like to be examined; but lest thou shouldest take up any mistakes by reason of my backwardness to speak, i will answer thee for once, that what her woman's name is i know not, but they call her cherry." _n.b._--my husband gave her that name in jest on our wedding-day, and we had called her by it ever after; so that she spoke literally true at that time. the girl replied very modestly that she was sorry if she gave her any offence in asking; that she did not design to be rude to her, or pretend to examine her; but that she was in such an agony at this disaster that she knew not what she did or said; and that she should be very sorry to disoblige her, but begged of her again, as she was a christian and a woman, and had been a mother of children, that she would take pity on her, and, if possible, assist her, so that she might but come to me and speak a few words to me. the tender-hearted quaker told me the girl spoke this with such moving eloquence that it forced tears from her; but she was obliged to say that she neither knew where i was gone or how to write to me; but that if she did ever see me again she would not fail to give me an account of all she had said to her, or that she should yet think fit to say, and to take my answer to it, if i thought fit to give any. then the quaker took the freedom to ask a few particulars about this wonderful story, as she called it; at which the girl, beginning at the first distresses of my life, and indeed of her own, went through all the history of her miserable education, her service under the lady roxana, as she called me, and her relief by mrs. amy, with the reasons she had to believe that as amy owned herself to be the same that lived with her mother, and especially that amy was the lady roxana's maid too, and came out of france with her, she was by those circumstances, and several others in her conversation, as fully convinced that the lady roxana was her mother, as she was that the lady ---- at her house (the quaker's) was the very same roxana that she had been servant to. my good friend the quaker, though terribly shocked at the story, and not well knowing what to say, yet was too much my friend to seem convinced in a thing which she did not know to be true, and which, if it was true, she could see plainly i had a mind should not be known; so she turned her discourse to argue the girl out of it. she insisted upon the slender evidence she had of the fact itself, and the rudeness of claiming so near a relation of one so much above her, and of whose concern in it she had no knowledge, at least no sufficient proof; that as the lady at her house was a person above any disguises, so she could not believe that she would deny her being her daughter, if she was really her mother; that she was able sufficiently to have provided for her if she had not a mind to have her known; and, therefore, seeing she had heard all she had said of the lady roxana, and was so far from owning herself to be the person, so she had censured that sham lady as a cheat and a common woman; and that 'twas certain she could never be brought to own a name and character she had so justly exposed. besides, she told her that her lodger, meaning me, was not a sham lady, but the real wife of a knight-baronet; and that she knew her to be honestly such, and far above such a person as she had described. she then added that she had another reason why it was not very possible to be true. "and that is," says she, "thy age is in the way; for thou acknowledgest that thou art four-and twenty years old, and that thou wast the youngest of three of thy mother's children; so that, by thy account, thy mother must be extremely young, or this lady cannot be thy mother; for thou seest," says she, "and any one may see, she is but a young woman now, and cannot be supposed to be above forty years old, if she is so much; and is now big with child at her going into the country; so that i cannot give any credit to thy notion of her being thy mother; and if i might counsel thee, it should be to give over that thought, as an improbable story that does but serve to disorder thee, and disturb thy head; for," added she, "i perceive thou art much disturbed indeed." but this was all nothing; she could be satisfied with nothing but seeing me; but the quaker defended herself very well, and insisted on it that she could not give her any account of me; and finding her still importunate, she affected at last being a little disgusted that she should not believe her, and added, that indeed, if she had known where i was gone, she would not have given any one an account of it, unless i had given her orders to do so. "but seeing she has not acquainted me," says she, "where she has gone, 'tis an intimation to me she was not desirous it should be publicly known;" and with this she rose up, which was as plain a desiring her to rise up too and begone as could be expressed, except the downright showing her the door. well, the girl rejected all this, and told her she could not indeed expect that she (the quaker) should be affected with the story she had told her, however moving, or that she should take any pity on her. that it was her misfortune, that when she was at the house before, and in the room with me, she did not beg to speak a word with me in private, or throw herself upon the floor at my feet, and claim what the affection of a mother would have done for her; but since she had slipped her opportunity, she would wait for another; that she found by her (the quaker's) talk, that she had not quite left her lodgings, but was gone into the country, she supposed for the air; and she was resolved she would take so much knight-errantry upon her, that she would visit all the airing-places in the nation, and even all the kingdom over, ay, and holland too, but she would find me; for she was satisfied she could so convince me that she was my own child, that i would not deny it; and she was sure i was so tender and compassionate, i would not let her perish after i was convinced that she was my own flesh and blood; and in saying she would visit all the airing-places in england, she reckoned them all up by name, and began with tunbridge, the very place i was gone to; then reckoning up epsom, north hall, barnet, newmarket, bury, and at last, the bath; and with this she took her leave. my faithful agent the quaker failed not to write to me immediately; but as she was a cunning as well as an honest woman, it presently occurred to her that this was a story which, whether true or false, was not very fit to come to my husband's knowledge; that as she did not know what i might have been, or might have been called in former times, and how far there might have been something or nothing in it, so she thought if it was a secret i ought to have the telling it myself; and if it was not, it might as well be public afterwards as now; and that, at least, she ought to leave it where she found it, and not hand it forwards to anybody without my consent. these prudent measures were inexpressibly kind, as well as seasonable; for it had been likely enough that her letter might have come publicly to me, and though my husband would not have opened it, yet it would have looked a little odd that i should conceal its contents from him, when i had pretended so much to communicate all my affairs. in consequence of this wise caution, my good friend only wrote me in few words, that the impertinent young woman had been with her, as she expected she would; and that she thought it would be very convenient that, if i could spare cherry, i would send her up (meaning amy), because she found there might be some occasion for her. as it happened, this letter was enclosed to amy herself, and not sent by the way i had at first ordered; but it came safe to my hands; and though i was alarmed a little at it, yet i was not acquainted with the danger i was in of an immediate visit from this teasing creature till afterwards; and i ran a greater risk, indeed, than ordinary, in that i did not send amy up under thirteen or fourteen days, believing myself as much concealed at tunbridge as if i had been at vienna. but the concern of my faithful spy (for such my quaker was now, upon the mere foot of her own sagacity), i say, her concern for me, was my safety in this exigence, when i was, as it were, keeping no guard for myself; for, finding amy not come up, and that she did not know how soon this wild thing might put her designed ramble in practice, she sent a messenger to the captain's wife's house, where she lodged, to tell her that she wanted to speak with her. she was at the heels of the messenger, and came eager for some news; and hoped, she said, the lady (meaning me) had been come to town. the quaker, with as much caution as she was mistress of, not to tell a downright lie, made her believe she expected to hear of me very quickly; and frequently, by the by, speaking of being abroad to take the air, talked of the country about bury, how pleasant it was, how wholesome, and how fine an air; how the downs about newmarket were exceeding fine, and what a vast deal of company there was, now the court was there; till at last, the girl began to conclude that my ladyship was gone thither; for, she said, she knew i loved to see a great deal of company. "nay," says my friend, "thou takest me wrong; i did not suggest," says she, "that the person thou inquirest after is gone thither, neither do i believe she is, i assure thee." well, the girl smiled, and let her know that she believed it for all that; so, to clench it fast, "verily," says she, with great seriousness, "thou dost not do well, for thou suspectest everything and believest nothing. i speak solemnly to thee that i do not believe they are gone that way; so if thou givest thyself the trouble to go that way, and art disappointed, do not say that i have deceived thee." she knew well enough that if this did abate her suspicion it would not remove it, and that it would do little more than amuse her; but by this she kept her in suspense till amy came up, and that was enough. when amy came up, she was quite confounded to hear the relation which the quaker gave her, and found means to acquaint me of it; only letting me know, to my great satisfaction, that she would not come to tunbridge first, but that she would certainly go to newmarket or bury first. however, it gave me very great uneasiness; for as she resolved to ramble in search after me over the whole country, i was safe nowhere, no, not in holland itself. so indeed i did not know what to do with her; and thus i had a bitter in all my sweet, for i was continually perplexed with this hussy, and thought she haunted me like an evil spirit. in the meantime amy was next door to stark-mad about her; she durst not see her at my lodgings for her life; and she went days without number to spitalfields, where she used to come, and to her former lodging, and could never meet with her. at length she took up a mad resolution that she would go directly to the captain's house in redriff and speak with her. it was a mad step, that's true; but as amy said she was mad, so nothing she could do could be otherwise. for if amy had found her at redriff, she (the girl) would have concluded presently that the quaker had given her notice, and so that we were all of a knot; and that, in short, all she had said was right. but as it happened, things came to hit better than we expected; for that amy going out of a coach to take water at tower wharf, meets the girl just come on shore, having crossed the water from redriff. amy made as if she would have passed by her, though they met so full that she did not pretend she did not see her, for she looked fairly upon her first, but then turning her head away with a slight, offered to go from her; but the girl stopped, and spoke first, and made some manners to her. amy spoke coldly to her, and a little angry; and after some words, standing in the street or passage, the girl saying she seemed to be angry, and would not have spoken to her, "why," says amy, "how can you expect i should have any more to say to you after i had done so much for you, and you have behaved so to me?" the girl seemed to take no notice of that now, but answered, "i was going to wait on you now." "wait on me!" says amy; "what do you mean by that?" "why," says she again, with a kind of familiarity, "i was going to your lodgings." amy was provoked to the last degree at her, and yet she thought it was not her time to resent, because she had a more fatal and wicked design in her head against her; which, indeed, i never knew till after it was executed, nor durst amy ever communicate it to me; for as i had always expressed myself vehemently against hurting a hair of her head, so she was resolved to take her own measures without consulting me any more. in order to this, amy gave her good words, and concealed her resentment as much as she could; and when she talked of going to her lodging, amy smiled and said nothing, but called for a pair of oars to go to greenwich; and asked her, seeing she said she was going to her lodging, to go along with her, for she was going home, and was all alone. amy did this with such a stock of assurance that the girl was confounded, and knew not what to say; but the more she hesitated, the more amy pressed her to go; and talking very kindly to her, told her if she did not go to see her lodgings she might go to keep her company, and she would pay a boat to bring her back again; so, in a word, amy prevailed on her to go into the boat with her, and carried her down to greenwich. 'tis certain that amy had no more business at greenwich than i had, nor was she going thither; but we were all hampered to the last degree with the impertinence of this creature; and, in particular, i was horribly perplexed with it. as they were in the boat, amy began to reproach her with ingratitude in treating her so rudely who had done so much for her, and been so kind to her; and to ask her what she had got by it, or what she expected to get. then came in my share, the lady roxana. amy jested with that, and bantered her a little, and asked her if she had found her yet. but amy was both surprised and enraged when the girl told her roundly that she thanked her for what she had done for her, but that she would not have her think she was so ignorant as not to know that what she (amy) had done was by her mother's order, and who she was beholden to for it. that she could never make instruments pass for principals, and pay the debt to the agent when the obligation was all to the original. that she knew well enough who she was, and who she was employed by. that she knew the lady ---- very well (naming the name that i now went by), which was my husband's true name, and by which she might know whether she had found out her mother or no. amy wished her at the bottom of the thames; and had there been no watermen in the boat, and nobody in sight, she swore to me she would have thrown her into the river. i was horribly disturbed when she told me this story, and began to think this would, at last, all end in my ruin; but when amy spoke of throwing her into the river and drowning her, i was so provoked at her that all my rage turned against amy, and i fell thoroughly out with her. i had now kept amy almost thirty years, and found her on all occasions the faithfullest creature to me that ever woman had--i say, faithful to me; for, however wicked she was, still she was true to me; and even this rage of hers was all upon my account, and for fear any mischief should befall me. but be that how it would, i could not bear the mention of her murdering the poor girl, and it put me so beside myself, that i rose up in a rage, and bade her get out of my sight, and out of my house; told her i had kept her too long, and that i would never see her face more. i had before told her that she was a murderer, and a bloody-minded creature; that she could not but know that i could not bear the thought of it, much less the mention of it; and that it was the impudentest thing that ever was known to make such a proposal to me, when she knew that i was really the mother of this girl, and that she was my own child; that it was wicked enough in her, but that she must conclude i was ten times wickeder than herself if i could come into it; that the girl was in the right, and i had nothing to blame her for; but that it was owing to the wickedness of my life that made it necessary for me to keep her from a discovery; but that i would not murder my child, though i was otherwise to be ruined by it. amy replied, somewhat rough and short, would i not? but she would, she said, if she had an opportunity; and upon these words it was that i bade her get out of my sight and out of my house; and it went so far that amy packed up her alls, and marched off; and was gone for almost good and all. but of that in its order; i must go back to her relation of the voyage which they made to greenwich together. they held on the wrangle all the way by water; the girl insisted upon her knowing that i was her mother, and told her all the history of my life in the pall mall, as well after her being turned away as before, and of my marriage since; and which was worse, not only who my present husband was, but where he had lived, viz., at rouen in france. she knew nothing of paris or of where we was going to live, namely, at nimeguen; but told her in so many words that if she could not find me here, she would go to holland after me. they landed at greenwich, and amy carried her into the park with her, and they walked above two hours there in the farthest and remotest walks; which amy did because, as they talked with great heat, it was apparent they were quarrelling, and the people took notice of it. they walked till they came almost to the wilderness at the south side of the park; but the girl, perceiving amy offered to go in there among the woods and trees, stopped short there, and would go no further; but said she would not go in there. amy smiled, and asked her what was the matter? she replied short, she did not know where she was, nor where she was going to carry her, and she would go no farther; and without any more ceremony, turns back, and walks apace away from her. amy owned she was surprised, and came back too, and called to her, upon which the girl stopped, and amy coming up to her, asked her what she meant? the girl boldly replied she did not know but she might murder her; and that, in short, she would not trust herself with her, and never would come into her company again alone. it was very provoking, but, however, amy kept her temper with much difficulty, and bore it, knowing that much might depend upon it; so she mocked her foolish jealousy, and told her she need not be uneasy for her, she would do her no harm, and would have done her good if she would have let her; but since she was of such a refractory humour, she should not trouble herself, for she should never come into her company again; and that neither she or her brother or sister should ever hear from her or see her any more; and so she should have the satisfaction of being the ruin of her brother and sisters as well as of herself. the girl seemed a little mollified at that, and said that for herself, she knew the worst of it, she could seek her fortune; but it was hard her brother and sister should suffer on her score; and said something that was tender and well enough on that account. but amy told her it was for her to take that into consideration; for she would let her see that it was all her own; that she would have done them all good, but that having been used thus, she would do no more for any of them; and that she should not need to be afraid to come into her company again, for she would never give her occasion for it any more. this, by the way, was false in the girl too; for she did venture into amy's company again after that, once too much, as i shall relate by itself. they grew cooler, however, afterwards, and amy carried her into a house at greenwich, where she was acquainted, and took an occasion to leave the girl in a room awhile, to speak to the people in the house, and so prepare them to own her as a lodger in the house; and then going in to her again told her there she lodged, if she had a mind to find her out, or if anybody else had anything to say to her. and so amy dismissed her, and got rid of her again; and finding an empty hackney-coach in the town, came away by land to london, and the girl, going down to the water-side, came by boat. this conversation did not answer amy's end at all, because it did not secure the girl from pursuing her design of hunting me out; and though my indefatigable friend the quaker amused her three or four days, yet i had such notice of it at last that i thought fit to come away from tunbridge upon it. and where to go i knew not; but, in short, i went to a little village upon epping forest, called woodford, and took lodgings in a private house, where i lived retired about six weeks, till i thought she might be tired of her search, and have given me over. here i received an account from my trusty quaker that the wench had really been at tunbridge, had found out my lodgings, and had told her tale there in a most dismal tone; that she had followed us, as she thought, to london; but the quaker had answered her that she knew nothing of it, which was indeed true; and had admonished her to be easy, and not hunt after people of such fashion as we were, as if we were thieves; that she might be assured, that since i was not willing to see her, i would not be forced to it; and treating me thus would effectually disoblige me. and with such discourses as these she quieted her; and she (the quaker) added that she hoped i should not be troubled much more with her. it was in this time that amy gave me the history of her greenwich voyage, when she spoke of drowning and killing the girl in so serious a manner, and with such an apparent resolution of doing it, that, as i said, put me in a rage with her, so that i effectually turned her away from me, as i have said above, and she was gone; nor did she so much as tell me whither or which way she was gone. on the other hand, when i came to reflect on it that now i had neither assistant or confidant to speak to, or receive the least information from, my friend the quaker excepted, it made me very uneasy. i waited and expected and wondered from day to day, still thinking amy would one time or other think a little and come again, or at least let me hear of her; but for ten days together i heard nothing of her. i was so impatient that i got neither rest by day or sleep by night, and what to do i knew not. i durst not go to town to the quaker's for fear of meeting that vexatious creature, my girl, and i could get no intelligence where i was; so i got my spouse, upon pretence of wanting her company, to take the coach one day and fetch my good quaker to me. when i had her, i durst ask her no questions, nor hardly knew which end of the business to begin to talk of; but of her own accord she told me that the girl had been three or four times haunting her for news from me; and that she had been so troublesome that she had been obliged to show herself a little angry with her; and at last told her plainly that she need give herself no trouble in searching after me by her means, for she (the quaker) would not tell her if she knew; upon which she refrained awhile. but, on the other hand, she told me it was not safe for me to send my own coach for her to come in, for she had some reason to believe that she (my daughter) watched her door night and day; nay, and watched her too every time she went in and out; for she was so bent upon a discovery that she spared no pains, and she believed she had taken a lodging very near their house for that purpose. i could hardly give her a hearing of all this for my eagerness to ask for amy; but i was confounded when she told me she had heard nothing of her. it is impossible to express the anxious thoughts that rolled about in my mind, and continually perplexed me about her; particularly i reproached myself with my rashness in turning away so faithful a creature that for so many years had not only been a servant but an agent; and not only an agent, but a friend, and a faithful friend too. then i considered too that amy knew all the secret history of my life; had been in all the intrigues of it, and been a party in both evil and good; and at best there was no policy in it; that as it was very ungenerous and unkind to run things to such an extremity with her, and for an occasion, too, in which all the fault she was guilty of was owing to her excessive care for my safety, so it must be only her steady kindness to me, and an excess of generous friendship for me, that should keep her from ill-using me in return for it; which ill-using me was enough in her power, and might be my utter undoing. these thoughts perplexed me exceedingly, and what course to take i really did not know. i began, indeed, to give amy quite over, for she had now been gone above a fortnight, and as she had taken away all her clothes, and her money too, which was not a little, and so had no occasion of that kind to come any more, so she had not left any word where she was gone, or to which part of the world i might send to hear of her. and i was troubled on another account too, viz., that my spouse and i too had resolved to do very handsomely for amy, without considering what she might have got another way at all; but we had said nothing of it to her, and so i thought, as she had not known what was likely to fall in her way, she had not the influence of that expectation to make her come back. upon the whole, the perplexity of this girl, who hunted me as if, like a hound, she had had a hot scent, but was now at a fault, i say, that perplexity, and this other part of amy being gone, issued in this--i resolved to be gone, and go over to holland; there, i believed, i should be at rest. so i took occasion one day to tell my spouse that i was afraid he might take it ill that i had amused him thus long, and that at last i doubted i was not with child; and that since it was so, our things being packed up, and all in order for going to holland, i would go away now when he pleased. my spouse, who was perfectly easy whether in going or staying, left it all entirely to me; so i considered of it, and began to prepare again for my voyage. but, alas! i was irresolute to the last degree. i was, for want of amy, destitute; i had lost my right hand; she was my steward, gathered in my rents (i mean my interest money) and kept my accounts, and, in a word, did all my business; and without her, indeed, i knew not how to go away nor how to stay. but an accident thrust itself in here, and that even in amy's conduct too, which frighted me away, and without her too, in the utmost horror and confusion. i have related how my faithful friend the quaker was come to me, and what account she gave me of her being continually haunted by my daughter; and that, as she said, she watched her very door night and day. the truth was, she had set a spy to watch so effectually that she (the quaker) neither went in or out but she had notice of it. this was too evident when, the next morning after she came to me (for i kept her all night), to my unspeakable surprise i saw a hackney-coach stop at the door where i lodged, and saw her (my daughter) in the coach all alone. it was a very good chance, in the middle of a bad one, that my husband had taken out the coach that very morning, and was gone to london. as for me, i had neither life or soul left in me; i was so confounded i knew not what to do or to say. my happy visitor had more presence of mind than i, and asked me if i had made no acquaintance among the neighbours. i told her, yes, there was a lady lodged two doors off that i was very intimate with. "but hast thou no way out backward to go to her?" says she. now it happened there was a back-door in the garden, by which we usually went and came to and from the house, so i told her of it. "well, well," says she, "go out and make a visit then, and leave the rest to me." away i run, told the lady (for i was very free there) that i was a widow to-day, my spouse being gone to london, so i came not to visit her, but to dwell with her that day, because also our landlady had got strangers come from london. so having framed this orderly lie, i pulled some work out of my pocket, and added i did not come to be idle. as i went out one way, my friend the quaker went the other to receive this unwelcome guest. the girl made but little ceremony, but having bid the coachman ring at the gate, gets down out of the coach and comes to the door, a country girl going to the door (belonging to the house), for the quaker forbid any of my maids going. madam asked for my quaker by name, and the girl asked her to walk in. upon this, my quaker, seeing there was no hanging back, goes to her immediately, but put all the gravity upon her countenance that she was mistress of, and that was not a little indeed. when she (the quaker) came into the room (for they had showed my daughter into a little parlour), she kept her grave countenance, but said not a word, nor did my daughter speak a good while; but after some time my girl began and said, "i suppose you know me, madam?" "yes," says the quaker, "i know thee." and so the dialogue went on. _girl._ then you know my business too? _quaker._ no, verily, i do not know any business thou canst have here with me. _girl._ indeed, my business is not chiefly with you. _qu._ why, then, dost thou come after me thus far? _girl._ you know whom i seek. [_and with that she cried._] _qu._ but why shouldst thou follow me for her, since thou know'st that i assured thee more than once that i knew not where she was? _girl._ but i hoped you could. _qu._ then thou must hope that i did not speak the truth, which would be very wicked. _girl._ i doubt not but she is in this house. _qu._ if those be thy thoughts, thou may'st inquire in the house; so thou hast no more business with me. farewell! [_offers to go._] _girl._ i would not be uncivil; i beg you to let me see her. _qu._ i am here to visit some of my friends, and i think thou art not very civil in following me hither. _girl._ i came in hopes of a discovery in my great affair which you know of. _qu._ thou cam'st wildly, indeed; i counsel thee to go back again, and be easy; i shall keep my word with thee, that i would not meddle in it, or give thee any account, if i knew it, unless i had her orders. [illustration: roxana's daughter and the quaker _here the girl importuned her again with the utmost earnestness, and cried bitterly_] _girl._ if you knew my distress you could not be so cruel. _qu._ thou hast told me all thy story, and i think it might be more cruelty to tell thee than not to tell thee; for i understand she is resolved not to see thee, and declares she is not thy mother. will'st thou be owned where thou hast no relation? _girl._ oh, if i could but speak to her, i would prove my relation to her so that she could not deny it any longer. _qu._ well, but thou canst not come to speak with her, it seems. _girl._ i hope you will tell me if she is here. i had a good account that you were come out to see her, and that she sent for you. _qu._ i much wonder how thou couldst have such an account. if i had come out to see her, thou hast happened to miss the house, for i assure thee she is not to be found in this house. here the girl importuned her again with the utmost earnestness, and cried bitterly, insomuch that my poor quaker was softened with it, and began to persuade me to consider of it, and, if it might consist with my affairs, to see her, and hear what she had to say; but this was afterwards. i return to the discourse. the quaker was perplexed with her a long time; she talked of sending back the coach, and lying in the town all night. this, my friend knew, would be very uneasy to me, but she durst not speak a word against it; but on a sudden thought, she offered a bold stroke, which, though dangerous if it had happened wrong, had its desired effect. she told her that, as for dismissing her coach, that was as she pleased, she believed she would not easily get a lodging in the town; but that as she was in a strange place, she would so much befriend her, that she would speak to the people of the house, that if they had room, she might have a lodging there for one night, rather than be forced back to london before she was free to go. this was a cunning, though a dangerous step, and it succeeded accordingly, for it amused the creature entirely, and she presently concluded that really i could not be there then, otherwise she would never have asked her to lie in the house; so she grew cold again presently as to her lodging there, and said, no, since it was so, she would go back that afternoon, but she would come again in two or three days, and search that and all the towns round in an effectual manner, if she stayed a week or two to do it; for, in short, if i was in england or holland she would find me. "in truth," says the quaker, "thou wilt make me very hurtful to thee, then." "why so?" says she, "because wherever i go, thou wilt put thyself to great expense, and the country to a great deal of unnecessary trouble." "not unnecessary," says she. "yes, truly," says the quaker; "it must be unnecessary, because it will be to no purpose. i think i must abide in my own house to save thee that charge and trouble." she said little to that, except that, she said, she would give her as little trouble as possible; but she was afraid she should sometimes be uneasy to her, which she hoped she would excuse. my quaker told her she would much rather excuse her if she would forbear; for that if she would believe her, she would assure her she should never get any intelligence of me by her. that set her into tears again; but after a while, recovering herself, she told her perhaps she might be mistaken; and she (the quaker) should watch herself very narrowly, or she might one time or other get some intelligence from her, whether she would or no; and she was satisfied she had gained some of her by this journey, for that if i was not in the house, i was not far off; and if i did not remove very quickly, she would find me out. "very well," says my quaker; "then if the lady is not willing to see thee, thou givest me notice to tell her, that she may get out of thy way." she flew out in a rage at that, and told my friend that if she did, a curse would follow her, and her children after her, and denounced such horrid things upon her as frighted the poor tender-hearted quaker strangely, and put her more out of temper than ever i saw her before; so that she resolved to go home the next morning, and i, that was ten times more uneasy than she, resolved to follow her, and go to london too; which, however, upon second thoughts, i did not, but took effectual measures not to be seen or owned if she came any more; but i heard no more of her for some time. i stayed there about a fortnight, and in all that time i heard no more of her, or of my quaker about her; but after about two days more, i had a letter from my quaker, intimating that she had something of moment to say, that she could not communicate by letter, but wished i would give myself the trouble to come up, directing me to come with the coach into goodman's fields, and then walk to her back-door on foot, which being left open on purpose, the watchful lady, if she had any spies, could not well see me. my thoughts had for so long time been kept, as it were, waking, that almost everything gave me the alarm, and this especially, so that i was very uneasy; but i could not bring matters to bear to make my coming to london so clear to my husband as i would have done; for he liked the place, and had a mind, he said, to stay a little longer, if it was not against my inclination; so i wrote my friend the quaker word that i could not come to town yet; and that, besides, i could not think of being there under spies, and afraid to look out of doors; and so, in short, i put off going for near a fortnight more. at the end of that time she wrote again, in which she told me that she had not lately seen the impertinent visitor which had been so troublesome; but that she had seen my trusty agent amy, who told her she had cried for six weeks without intermission; that amy had given her an account how troublesome the creature had been, and to what straits and perplexities i was driven by her hunting after and following me from place to place; upon which amy had said, that, notwithstanding i was angry with her, and had used her so hardly for saying something about her of the same kind, yet there was an absolute necessity of securing her, and removing her out of the way; and that, in short, without asking my leave, or anybody's leave, she should take care she should trouble her mistress (meaning me) no more; and that after amy had said so, she had indeed never heard any more of the girl; so that she supposed amy had managed it so well as to put an end to it. the innocent, well-meaning creature, my quaker, who was all kindness and goodness in herself, and particularly to me, saw nothing in this; but she thought amy had found some way to persuade her to be quiet and easy, and to give over teasing and following me, and rejoiced in it for my sake; as she thought nothing of any evil herself, so she suspected none in anybody else, and was exceeding glad of having such good news to write to me; but my thoughts of it run otherwise. i was struck, as with a blast from heaven, at the reading her letter; i fell into a fit of trembling from head to foot, and i ran raving about the room like a mad woman. i had nobody to speak a word to, to give vent to my passion; nor did i speak a word for a good while, till after it had almost overcome me. i threw myself on the bed, and cried out, "lord, be merciful to me, she has murdered my child!" and with that a flood of tears burst out, and i cried vehemently for above an hour. my husband was very happily gone out a-hunting, so that i had the opportunity of being alone, and to give my passions some vent, by which i a little recovered myself. but after my crying was over, then i fell in a new rage at amy; i called her a thousand devils and monsters and hard-hearted tigers; i reproached her with her knowing that i abhorred it, and had let her know it sufficiently, in that i had, at it were, kicked her out of doors, after so many years' friendship and service, only for naming it to me. well, after some time, my spouse came in from his sport, and i put on the best looks i could to deceive him; but he did not take so little notice of me as not to see i had been crying, and that something troubled me, and he pressed me to tell him. i seemed to bring it out with reluctance, but told him my backwardness was more because i was ashamed that such a trifle should have any effect upon me, than for any weight that was in it; so i told him i had been vexing myself about my woman amy's not coming again; that she might have known me better than not to believe i should have been friends with her again, and the like; and that, in short, i had lost the best servant by my rashness that ever woman had. "well, well," says he, "if that be all your grief, i hope you will soon shake it off; i'll warrant you in a little while we shall hear of mrs. amy again." and so it went off for that time. but it did not go off with me; for i was uneasy and terrified to the last degree, and wanted to get some farther account of the thing. so i went away to my sure and certain comforter, the quaker, and there i had the whole story of it; and the good innocent quaker gave me joy of my being rid of such an unsufferable tormentor. "rid of her! ay," says i, "if i was rid of her fairly and honourably; but i don't know what amy may have done. sure, she ha'n't made her away?" "oh fie!" says my quaker; "how canst thou entertain such a notion! no, no. made her away? amy didn't talk like that; i dare say thou may'st be easy in that; amy has nothing of that in her head, i dare say," says she; and so threw it, as it were, out of my thoughts. but it would not do; it run in my head continually; night and day i could think of nothing else; and it fixed such a horror of the fact upon my spirits, and such a detestation of amy, who i looked upon as the murderer, that, as for her, i believe if i could have seen her i should certainly have sent her to newgate, or to a worse place, upon suspicion; indeed, i think i could have killed her with my own hands. as for the poor girl herself, she was ever before my eyes; i saw her by night and by day; she haunted my imagination, if she did not haunt the house; my fancy showed me her in a hundred shapes and postures; sleeping or waking, she was with me. sometimes i thought i saw her with her throat cut; sometimes with her head cut, and her brains knocked out; other times hanged up upon a beam; another time drowned in the great pond at camberwell. and all these appearances were terrifying to the last degree; and that which was still worse, i could really hear nothing of her; i sent to the captain's wife in redriff, and she answered me, she was gone to her relations in spitalfields. i sent thither, and they said she was there about three weeks ago, but that she went out in a coach with the gentlewoman that used to be so kind to her, but whither she was gone they knew not, for she had not been there since. i sent back the messenger for a description of the woman she went out with; and they described her so perfectly, that i knew it to be amy, and none but amy. i sent word again that mrs. amy, who she went out with, left her in two or three hours, and that they should search for her, for i had a reason to fear she was murdered. this frighted them all intolerably. they believed amy had carried her to pay her a sum of money, and that somebody had watched her after her having received it, and had robbed and murdered her. i believed nothing of that part; but i believed, as it was, that whatever was done, amy had done it; and that, in short, amy had made her away; and i believed it the more, because amy came no more near me, but confirmed her guilt by her absence. upon the whole, i mourned thus for her for above a month; but finding amy still come not near me, and that i must put my affairs in a posture that i might go to holland, i opened all my affairs to my dear trusty friend the quaker, and placed her, in matters of trust, in the room of amy; and with a heavy, bleeding heart for my poor girl, i embarked with my spouse, and all our equipage and goods, on board another holland's trader, not a packet-boat, and went over to holland, where i arrived, as i have said. i must put in a caution, however, here, that you must not understand me as if i let my friend the quaker into any part of the secret history of my former life; nor did i commit the grand reserved article of all to her, viz., that i was really the girl's mother, and the lady roxana; there was no need of that part being exposed; and it was always a maxim with me, that secrets should never be opened without evident utility. it could be of no manner of use to me or her to communicate that part to her; besides, she was too honest herself to make it safe to me; for though she loved me very sincerely, and it was plain by many circumstances that she did so, yet she would not lie for me upon occasion, as amy would, and therefore it was not advisable on any terms to communicate that part; for if the girl, or any one else, should have come to her afterwards, and put it home to her, whether she knew that i was the girl's mother or not, or was the same as the lady roxana or not, she either would not have denied it, or would have done it with so ill a grace, such blushing, such hesitations and falterings in her answers, as would have put the matter out of doubt, and betrayed herself and the secret too. for this reason, i say, i did not discover anything of that kind to her; but i placed her, as i have said, in amy's stead in the other affairs of receiving money, interests, rents, and the like, and she was as faithful as amy could be, and as diligent. but there fell out a great difficulty here, which i knew not how to get over; and this was how to convey the usual supply of provision and money to the uncle and the other sister, who depended, especially the sister, upon the said supply for her support; and indeed, though amy had said rashly that she would not take any more notice of the sister, and would leave her to perish, as above, yet it was neither in my nature, or amy's either, much less was it in my design; and therefore i resolved to leave the management of what i had reserved for that work with my faithful quaker, but how to direct her to manage them was the great difficulty. amy had told them in so many words that she was not their mother, but that she was the maid amy, that carried them to their aunt's; that she and their mother went over to the east indies to seek their fortune, and that there good things had befallen them, and that their mother was very rich and happy; that she (amy) had married in the indies, but being now a widow, and resolving to come over to england, their mother had obliged her to inquire them out, and do for them as she had done; and that now she was resolved to go back to the indies again; but that she had orders from their mother to do very handsomely by them; and, in a word, told them she had £ apiece for them, upon condition that they proved sober, and married suitably to themselves, and did not throw themselves away upon scoundrels. the good family in whose care they had been, i had resolved to take more than ordinary notice of; and amy, by my order, had acquainted them with it, and obliged my daughters to promise to submit to their government, as formerly, and to be ruled by the honest man as by a father and counsellor; and engaged him to treat them as his children. and to oblige him effectually to take care of them, and to make his old age comfortable both to him and his wife, who had been so good to the orphans, i had ordered her to settle the other £ , that is to say, the interest of it, which was £ a year, upon them, to be theirs for both their lives, but to come to my two daughters after them. this was so just, and was so prudently managed by amy, that nothing she ever did for me pleased me better. and in this posture, leaving my two daughters with their ancient friend, and so coming away to me (as they thought to the east indies), she had prepared everything in order to her going over with me to holland; and in this posture that matter stood when that unhappy girl, who i have said so much of, broke in upon all our measures, as you have heard, and, by an obstinacy never to be conquered or pacified, either with threats or persuasions, pursued her search after me (her mother) as i have said, till she brought me even to the brink of destruction; and would, in all probability, have traced me out at last, if amy had not, by the violence of her passion, and by a way which i had no knowledge of, and indeed abhorred, put a stop to her, of which i cannot enter into the particulars here. however, notwithstanding this, i could not think of going away and leaving this work so unfinished as amy had threatened to do, and for the folly of one child to leave the other to starve, or to stop my determined bounty to the good family i have mentioned. so, in a word, i committed the finishing it all to my faithful friend the quaker, to whom i communicated as much of the whole story as was needful to empower her to perform what amy had promised, and to make her talk so much to the purpose, as one employed more remotely than amy had been, needed to be. to this purpose she had, first of all, a full possession of the money; and went first to the honest man and his wife, and settled all the matter with them; when she talked of mrs. amy, she talked of her as one that had been empowered by the mother of the girls in the indies, but was obliged to go back to the indies, and had settled all sooner if she had not been hindered by the obstinate humour of the other daughter; that she had left instructions with her for the rest; but that the other had affronted her so much that she was gone away without doing anything for her; and that now, if anything was done, it must be by fresh orders from the east indies. i need not say how punctually my new agent acted; but, which was more, she brought the old man and his wife, and my other daughter, several times to her house, by which i had an opportunity, being there only as a lodger, and a stranger, to see my other girl, which i had never done before, since she was a little child. the day i contrived to see them i was dressed up in a quaker's habit, and looked so like a quaker, that it was impossible for them, who had never seen me before, to suppose i had ever been anything else; also my way of talking was suitable enough to it, for i had learned that long before. i have not time here to take notice what a surprise it was to me to see my child; how it worked upon my affections; with what infinite struggle i mastered a strong inclination that i had to discover myself to her; how the girl was the very counterpart of myself, only much handsomer; and how sweetly and modestly she behaved; how, on that occasion, i resolved to do more for her than i had appointed by amy, and the like. it is enough to mention here, that as the settling this affair made way for my going on board, notwithstanding the absence of my old agent amy, so, however, i left some hints for amy too, for i did not yet despair of my hearing from her; and that if my good quaker should ever see her again, she should let her see them; wherein, particularly, ordering her to leave the affair of spitalfields just as i had done, in the hands of my friend, she should come away to me; upon this condition, nevertheless, that she gave full satisfaction to my friend the quaker that she had not murdered my child; for if she had, i told her i would never see her face more. however, notwithstanding this, she came over afterwards, without giving my friend any of that satisfaction, or any account that she intended to come over. i can say no more now, but that, as above, being arrived in holland, with my spouse and his son, formerly mentioned, i appeared there with all the splendour and equipage suitable to our new prospect, as i have already observed. here, after some few years of flourishing and outwardly happy circumstances, i fell into a dreadful course of calamities, and amy also; the very reverse of our former good days. the blast of heaven seemed to follow the injury done the poor girl by us both, and i was brought so low again, that my repentance seemed to be only the consequence of my misery, as my misery was of my crime. continuation (_from the edition_) in resolving to go to holland with my husband, and take possession of the title of countess as soon as possible, i had a view of deceiving my daughter, were she yet alive, and seeking me out; for it seldom happens that a nobleman, or his lady, are called by their surnames, and as she was a stranger to our noble title, might have inquired at our next door neighbours for mr. ----, the dutch merchant, and not have been one jot the wiser for her inquiry. so one evening, soon after this resolution, as i and my husband were sitting together when supper was over, and talking of several various scenes in life, i told him that, as there was no likelihood of my being with child, as i had some reason to suspect i was some time before, i was ready to go with him to any part of the world, whenever he pleased. i said, that great part of my things were packed up, and what was not would not be long about, and that i had little occasion to buy any more clothes, linen, or jewels, whilst i was in england, having a large quantity of the richest and best of everything by me already. on saying these words, he took me in his arms, and told me that he looked on what i had now spoken with so great an emphasis, to be my settled resolution, and the fault should not lie on his side if it miscarried being put in practice. the next morning he went out to see some merchants, who had received advice of the arrival of some shipping which had been in great danger at sea, and whose insurance had run very high; and it was this interval that gave me an opportunity of my coming to a final resolution. i now told the quaker, as she was sitting at work in her parlour, that we should very speedily leave her, and although she daily expected it, yet she was really sorry to hear that we had come to a full determination; she said abundance of fine things to me on the happiness of the life i did then, and was going to live; believing, i suppose, that a countess could not have a foul conscience; but at that very instant, i would have, had it been in my power, resigned husband, estate, title, and all the blessings she fancied i had in the world, only for her real virtue, and the sweet peace of mind, joined to a loving company of children, which she really possessed. when my husband returned, he asked me at dinner if i persevered in my resolution of leaving england; to which i answered in the affirmative. "well," says he, "as all my affairs will not take up a week's time to settle, i will be ready to go from london with you in ten days' time." we fixed upon no particular place or abode, but in general concluded to go to dover, cross the channel to calais, and proceed from thence by easy journeys to paris, where after staying about a week, we intended to go through part of france, the austrian netherlands, and so on to amsterdam, rotterdam, or the hague, as we were to settle before we went from paris. as my husband did not care to venture all our fortune in one bottom, so our goods, money, and plate were consigned to several merchants, who had been his intimates many years, and he took notes of a prodigious value in his pocket, besides what he gave me to take care of during our journey. the last thing to be considered was, how we should go ourselves, and what equipage we should take with us; my thoughts were wholly taken up about it some time; i knew i was going to be a countess, and did not care to appear anything mean before i came to that honour; but, on the other hand, if i left london in any public way, i might possibly hear of inquiries after me in the road, that i had been acquainted with before. at last i said we would discharge all our servants, except two footmen, who should travel with us to dover, and one maid to wait on me, that had lived with me only since the retreat of amy, and she was to go through, if she was willing; and as to the carriage of us, a coach should be hired for my husband, myself, and maid, and two horses were to be hired for the footmen, who were to return with them to london. when the quaker had heard when and how we intended to go, she begged, as there would be a spare seat in the coach, to accompany us as far as dover, which we both readily consented to; no woman could be a better companion, neither was there any acquaintance that we loved better, or could show more respect to us. the morning before we set out, my husband sent for a master coachman to know the price of a handsome coach, with six able horses, to go to dover. he inquired how many days we intended to be on the journey? my husband said he would go but very easy, and chose to be three days on the road; that they should stay there two days, and be three more returning to london, with a gentlewoman (meaning the quaker) in it. the coachman said it would be an eight days' journey, and he would have ten guineas for it. my husband consented to pay him his demand, and he received orders to be ready at the door by seven of the clock the next morning: i was quite prepared to go, having no person to take leave of but the quaker, and she had desired to see us take the packet-boat at dover, before we parted with her; and the last night of my stay in london was spent very agreeably with the quaker and her family. my husband, who stayed out later than usual, in taking his farewell of several merchants of his acquaintance, came home about eleven o'clock, and drank a glass or two of wine with us before we went to bed. the next morning, the whole family got up about five o'clock, and i, with my husband's consent, made each of the quaker's daughters a present of a diamond ring, valued at £ , and a guinea apiece to all the servants, without exception. we all breakfasted together, and at the hour appointed, the coach and attendants came to the door; this drew several people about it, who were all very inquisitive to know who was going into the country, and what is never forgot on such occasions, all the beggars in the neighbourhood were prepared to give us their benedictions in hopes of an alms. when the coachmen had packed up what boxes were designed for our use, we, namely, my husband, the quaker, myself, and the waiting-maid, all got into the coach, the footmen were mounted on horses behind, and in this manner the coach, after i had given a guinea to one of the quaker's daughters equally to divide among the beggars at the door, drove away from the house, and i took leave of my lodging in the minories, as well as of london. at st. george's church, southwark, we were met by three gentlemen on horseback, who were merchants of my husband's acquaintance, and had come out on purpose, to go half a day's journey with us; and as they kept talking to us at the coach side, we went a good pace, and were very merry together; we stopped at the best house of entertainment on shooter's hill. here we stopped for about an hour, and drank some wine, and my husband, whose chief study was how to please and divert me, caused me to alight out of the coach; which the gentlemen who accompanied us observing, alighted also. the waiter showed us upstairs into a large room, whose window opened to our view a fine prospect of the river thames, which here, they say, forms one of the most beautiful meanders. it was within an hour of high water, and such a number of ships coming in under sail quite astonished as well as delighted me, insomuch that i could not help breaking out into such-like expressions, "my dear, what a fine sight this is; i never saw the like before! pray will they get to london this tide?" at which the good-natured gentleman smiled, and said, "yes, my dear; why, there is london, and as the wind is quite fair for them, some of them will come to an anchor in about half-an-hour, and all within an hour." i was so taken up with looking down the river that, till my husband spoke, i had not once looked up the river; but when i did, and saw london, the monument, the cathedral church of st. paul, and the steeples belonging to the several parish churches, i was transported into an ecstasy, and could not refrain from saying, "sure that cannot be the place we are now just come from, it must be further off, for that looks to be scarce three miles off, and we have been three hours, by my watch, coming from our lodgings in the minories! no, no, it is not london, it is some other place!" upon which one of the gentlemen present offered to convince me that the place i saw was london if i would go up to the top of the house, and view it from the turret. i accepted the offer, and i, my husband, and the three gentlemen were conducted by the master of the house upstairs into the turret. if i was delighted before with my prospect, i was now ravished, for i was elevated above the room i was in before upwards of thirty feet. i seemed a little dizzy, for the turret being a lantern, and giving light all ways, for some time i thought myself suspended in the air; but sitting down, and having eat a mouthful of biscuit and drank a glass of sack, i soon recovered, and then the gentleman who had undertaken to convince me that the place i was shown was really london, thus began, after having drawn aside one of the windows. "you see, my lady," says the gentleman, "the greatest, the finest, the richest, and the most populous city in the world, at least in europe, as i can assure your ladyship, upon my own knowledge, it deserves the character i have given it." "but this, sir, will never convince me that the place you now show me is london, though i have before heard that london deserves the character you have with so much cordiality bestowed upon it. and this i can testify, that london, in every particular you have mentioned, greatly surpasses paris, which is allowed by all historians and travellers to be the second city in europe." here the gentleman, pulling out his pocket-glass, desired me to look through it, which i did; and then he directed me to look full at st. paul's, and to make that the centre of my future observation, and thereupon he promised me conviction. whilst i took my observation, i sat in a high chair, made for that purpose, with a convenience before you to hold the glass. i soon found the cathedral, and then i could not help saying i have been several times up to the stone gallery, but not quite so often up to the iron gallery. then i brought my eye to the monument, and was obliged to confess i knew it to be such. the gentleman then moved the glass and desired me to look, which doing, i said, "i think i see whitehall and st. james's park, and i see also two great buildings like barns, but i do not know what they are." "oh," says the gentleman, "they are the parliament house and westminster abbey." "they may be so," said i; and continuing looking, i perceived the very house at kensington which i had lived in some time; but of that i took no notice, yet i found my colour come, to think what a life of gaiety and wickedness i had lived. the gentleman, perceiving my disorder, said, "i am afraid i have tired your ladyship; i will make but one remove, more easterly, and then i believe you will allow the place we see to be london." he might have saved himself the trouble, for i was thoroughly convinced of my error; but to give myself time to recover, and to hide my confusion, i seemed not yet to be quite convinced. i looked, and the first object that presented itself was aldgate church, which, though i confess to my shame, i seldom saw the inside of it, yet i was well acquainted with the outside, for many times my friend the quaker and i had passed and repassed by it when we used to go in the coach to take an airing. i saw the church, or the steeple of the church, so plain, and knew it so well, that i could not help saying, with some earnestness, "my dear, i see our church; the church, i mean, belonging to our neighbourhood; i am sure it is aldgate church." then i saw the tower, and all the shipping; and, taking my eye from the glass, i thanked the gentleman for the trouble i had given him, and said to him that i was fully convinced that the place i saw was london, and that it was the very place we came from that morning. when we came to sittingbourne, our servant soon brought us word that although we were at the best inn in the town, yet there was nothing in the larder fit for our dinner. the landlord came in after him and began to make excuses for his empty cupboard. he told us, withal, that if we would please to stay, he would kill a calf, a sheep, a hog, or anything we had a fancy to. we ordered him to kill a pig and some pigeons, which, with a dish of fish, a cherry pie, and some pastry, made up a tolerable dinner. we made up two pounds ten shillings, for we caused the landlord, his wife, and two daughters, to dine with us, and help us off with our wine. our landlady and her two daughters, with a glass or two given to the cook, managed two bottles of white wine. this operated so strong upon one of the young wenches that, my spouse being gone out into the yard, her tongue began to run; and, looking at me, she says to her mother, "la! mother, how much like the lady her ladyship is" (speaking of me), "the young woman who lodged here the other night, and stayed here part of the next day, and then set forward for canterbury, described. the lady is the same person, i'm sure." this greatly alarmed me, and made me very uneasy, for i concluded this young woman could be no other than my daughter, who was resolved to find me out, whether i would or no. i desired the girl to describe the young woman she mentioned, which she did, and i was convinced it was my own daughter. i asked in what manner she travelled, and whether she had any company. i was answered that she was on foot, and that she had no company; but that she always travelled from place to place in company; that her method was, when she came into any town, to go to the best inns and inquire for the lady she sought; and then, when she had satisfied herself that the lady, whom she called her mother, was not to be found in that town or neighbourhood, she then begged the favour of the landlady of the inn where she was, to put her into such a company that she knew that she might go safe to the next town; that this was the manner of her proceeding at her house, and she believed she had practised it ever since she set out from london; and she hoped to meet with her mother, as she called her, upon the road. i asked my landlady whether she described our coach and equipage, but she said the young woman did not inquire concerning equipage, but only described a lady "so like your ladyship, that i have often, since i saw your ladyship, took you to be the very person she was looking for." amidst the distractions of my mind, this afforded me some comfort, that my daughter was not in the least acquainted with the manner in which we travelled. my husband and the landlord returned, and that put an end to the discourse. i left this town with a heavy heart, feeling my daughter would infallibly find me out at canterbury; but, as good luck would have it, she had left that city before we came thither, some time. i was very short in one thing, that i had not asked my landlady at sittingbourne how long it was since my daughter was there. but when i came to canterbury i was a very anxious and indefatigable in inquiring after my daughter, and i found that she had been at the inn where we then were, and had inquired for me, as i found by the description the people gave of myself. here i learnt my daughter had left canterbury a week. this pleased me; and i was determined to stay in canterbury one day, to view the cathedral, and see the antiquities of this metropolis. as we had sixteen miles to our journey's end that night, for it was near four o'clock before we got into our coach again, the coachman drove with great speed, and at dusk in the evening we entered the west gate of the city, and put up at an inn in high street (near st. mary bredman's church), which generally was filled with the best of company. the anxiety of my mind, on finding myself pursued by this girl, and the fatigue of my journey, had made me much out of order, my head ached, and i had no stomach. this made my husband (but he knew not the real occasion of my illness) and the quaker very uneasy, and they did all in their power to persuade me to eat anything i could fancy. at length the landlady of the inn, who perceived i was more disturbed in my mind than sick, advised me to eat one poached egg, drink a glass of sack, eat a toast, and go to bed, and she warranted, she said, i should be well by the morning. this was immediately done; and i must acknowledge, that the sack and toast cheered me wonderfully, and i began to take heart again; and my husband would have the coachman in after supper, on purpose to divert me and the honest quaker, who, poor creature, seemed much more concerned at my misfortune than i was myself. i went soon to bed, but for fear i should be worse in the night, two maids of the inn were ordered to sit up in an adjoining chamber; the quaker and my waiting-maid lay in a bed in the same room, and my husband by himself in another apartment. while my maid was gone down on some necessary business, and likewise to get me some burnt wine, which i was to drink going to bed, or rather when i was just got into bed, the quaker and i had the following dialogue: _quaker._ the news thou heardest at sittingbourne has disordered thee. i am glad the young woman has been out of this place a week; she went indeed for dover; and when she comes there and canst not find thee, she may go to deal, and so miss of thee. _roxana._ what i most depend upon is, that as we do not travel by any particular name, but the general one of the baronet and his lady, and the girl hath no notion what sort of equipage we travelled with, it was not easy to make a discovery of me, unless she accidentally, in her travels, light upon you (meaning the quaker), or upon me; either of which must unavoidably blow the secret i had so long laboured to conceal. _quaker._ as thou intendest to stay here to-morrow, to see the things which thou callest antiquities, and which are more properly named the relics of the whore of babylon; suppose thou wert to send thomas, who at thy command followeth after us, to the place called dover, to inquire whether such a young woman has been inquiring for thee. he may go out betimes in the morning, and may return by night, for it is but twelve or fourteen miles at farthest thither. _roxana._ i like thy scheme very well; and i beg the favour of you in the morning, as soon as you are up, to send tom to dover, with such instructions as you shall think proper. after a good night's repose i was well recovered, to the great satisfaction of all that were with me. the good-natured quaker, always studious to serve and oblige me, got up about five o'clock in the morning, and going down into the inn-yard, met with tom, gave him his instructions, and he set out for dover before six o'clock. as we were at the best inn in the city, so we could readily have whatever we pleased, and whatever the season afforded; but my husband, the most indulgent man that ever breathed, having observed how heartily i ate my dinner at rochester two days before, ordered the very same bill of fare, and of which i made a heartier meal than i did before. we were very merry, and after we had dined, we went to see the town-house, but as it was near five o'clock i left the quaker behind me, to receive what intelligence she could get concerning my daughter, from the footman, who was expected to return from dover at six. we came to the inn just as it was dark, and then excusing myself to my husband, i immediately ran up into my chamber, where i had appointed the quaker to be against my return. i ran to her with eagerness, and inquired what news from dover, by tom, the footman. she said, tom had been returned two hours; that he got to dover that morning between seven and eight, and found, at the inn he put up at, there had been an inquisitive young woman to find out a gentleman that was a dutch merchant, and a lady who was her mother; that the young woman perfectly well described his lady; that he found that she had visited every public inn in the town; that she said she would go to deal, and that if she did not find the lady, her mother, there, she would go by the first ship to the hague, and go from thence, to amsterdam and rotterdam, searching all the towns through which she passed in the united provinces. this account pleased me very well, especially when i understood that she had been gone from dover five days. the quaker comforted me, and said it was lucky this busy creature had passed the road before us, otherwise she might easily have found means to have overtaken us, for, as she observed, the wench had such an artful way of telling her story, that she moved everybody to compassion; and she did not doubt but that if we had been before, as we were behind, she would have got those who would have assisted her with a coach, &c., to have pursued us, and they might have come up with us. i was of the honest quaker's sentiments. i grew pretty easy, called tom, and gave him half a guinea for his diligence; then i and the quaker went into the parlour to my husband, and soon after supper came in, and i ate moderately, and we spent the remainder of the evening, for the clock had then tolled nine, very cheerfully; for my quaker was so rejoiced at my good fortune, as she called it, that she was very alert, and exceeding good company; and her wit, and she had no small share of it, i thought was better played off than ever i had heard it before. my husband asked me how i should choose to go on board; i desired him to settle it as he pleased, telling him it was a matter of very great indifference to me, as he was to go with me. "that may be true, my dear," says he, "but i ask you for a reason or two, which i will lay before you, viz., if we hire a vessel for ourselves, we may set sail when we please, have the liberty of every part of the ship to ourselves, and land at what port, either in holland or france, we might make choice of. besides," added he, "another reason i mention it to you is, that i know you do not love much company, which, in going into the packet-boat, it is almost impossible to avoid." "i own, my dear," said i, "your reasons are very good; i have but one thing to say against them, which is, that the packet-boat, by its frequent voyages, must of course be furnished with experienced seamen, who know the seas too well even to run any hazard." (at this juncture the terrible voyage i and amy made from france to harwich came so strong in my mind, that i trembled so as to be taken notice of by my husband.) "besides," added i, "the landlord may send the master of one of them to you, and i think it may be best to hire the state cabin, as they call it, to ourselves, by which method we shall avoid company, without we have an inclination to associate ourselves with such passengers we may happen to like; and the expense will be much cheaper than hiring a vessel to go the voyage with us alone, and every whit as safe." the quaker, who had seriously listened to our discourse, gave it as her opinion that the method i had proposed was by far the safest, quickest, and cheapest. "not," said she, "as i think thou wouldest be against any necessary expense, though i am certain thou wouldest not fling thy money away." soon after, my husband ordered the landlord to send for one of the masters of the packet-boats, of whom he hired the great cabin, and agreed to sail from thence the next day, if the wind and the tide answered. the settling our method of going over sea had taken up the time till the dinner was ready, which we being informed of, came out of a chamber we had been in all the morning, to a handsome parlour, where everything was placed suitable to our rank; there was a large, old-fashioned service of plate, and a sideboard genteelly set off. the dinner was excellent, and well dressed. after dinner, we entered into another discourse, which was the hiring of servants to go with us from dover to paris; a thing frequently done by travellers; and such are to be met with at every stage inn. our footmen set out this morning on their return to london, and the quaker and coach was to go the next day. my new chambermaid, whose name was isabel, was to go through the journey, on condition of doing no other business than waiting on me. in a while we partly concluded to let the hiring of men-servants alone till we came to calais, for they could be of no use to us on board a ship, the sailor's or cabin boy's place being to attend the cabin passengers as well as his master. to divert ourselves, we took a walk after we had dined, round about the town, and coming to the garrison, and being somewhat thirsty, all went into the sutler's for a glass of wine. a pint was called for and brought; but the man of the house came in with it raving like a madman, saying, "don't you think you are a villain, to ask for a pot of ale when i know you have spent all your money, and are ignorant of the means of getting more, without you hear of a place, which i look upon to be very unlikely?" "don't be in such a passion, landlord," said my husband. "pray, what is the matter?" "oh, nothing, sir," says he; "but a young fellow in the sutling room, whom i find to have been a gentleman's servant, wants a place; and having spent all his money, would willingly run up a score with me, knowing i must get him a master if ever i intend to have my money." "pray, sir," said my husband, "send the young fellow to me; if i like him, and can agree with him, it is possible i may take him into my service." the landlord took care we should not speak to him twice, he went and fetched him in himself, and my husband examined him before he spoke, as to his size, mien, and garb. the young man was clean dressed, of a middling stature, a dark complexion, and about twenty-seven years old. "i hear, young man," says he to him, "that you want a place; it may perhaps be in my power to serve you. let me know at once what education you have had, if you have any family belonging to you, or if you are fit for a gentleman's service, can bring any person of reputation to your character, and are willing to go and live in holland with me: we will not differ about your wages." the young fellow made a respectful bow to each of us, and addressed himself to my husband as follows: "sir," said he, "in me you behold the eldest child of misfortune. i am but young, as you may see; i have no comers after me, and having lived with several gentlemen, some of whom are on their travels, others settled in divers parts of the world, besides what are dead, makes me unable to produce a character without a week's notice to write to london, and i should not doubt but by the return of the post to let you see some letters as would satisfy you in any doubts about me. my education," continued he, "is but very middling, being taken from school before i had well learnt to read, write, and cast accounts; and as to my parentage, i cannot well give you any account of them: all that i know is, that my father was a brewer, and by his extravagance ran out a handsome fortune, and afterwards left my poor mother almost penniless, with five small children, of which i was the second, though not above five years old. my mother knew not what to do with us, so she sent a poor girl, our maid, whose name i have forgot this many years, with us all to a relation's, and there left us, and i never saw or heard of or from them any more. indeed, i inquired among the neighbours, and all that i could learn was that my mother's goods were seized, that she was obliged to apply to the parish for relief, and died of grief soon after. for my part," says he, "i was put into the hands of my father's sister, where, by her cruel usage, i was forced to run away at nine years of age; and the numerous scenes of life i have since gone through are more than would fill a small volume. pray, sir," added he, "let it satisfy you that i am thoroughly honest, and should be glad to serve you at any rate; and although i cannot possibly get a good character from anybody at present, yet i defy the whole world to give me an ill one, either in public or private life." if i had had the eyes of argus i should have seen with them all on this occasion. i knew that this was my son, and one that, among all my inquiry, i could never get any account of. the quaker seeing my colour come and go, and also tremble, said, "i verily believe thou art not well; i hope this kentish air, which was always reckoned aguish, does not hurt thee?" "i am taken very sick of a sudden," said i; "so pray let me go to our inn that i may go to my chamber." isabel being called in, she and the quaker attended me there, leaving the young fellow with my spouse. when i was got into my chamber i was seized with such a grief as i had never known before; and flinging myself down upon the bed, burst into a flood of tears, and soon after fainted away. soon after, i came a little to myself, and the quaker begged of me to tell her what was the cause of my sudden indisposition. "nothing at all," says i, "as i know of; but a sudden chilliness seized my blood, and that, joined to a fainting of the spirits, made me ready to sink." presently after my husband came to see how i did, and finding me somewhat better, he told me that he had a mind to hire the young man i had left him with, for he believed he was honest and fit for our service. "my dear," says i, "i did not mind him. i would desire you to be cautious who we pick up on the road; but as i have the satisfaction of hiring my maids, i shall never trouble myself with the men-servants, that is wholly your province. however," added i (for i was very certain he was my son, and was resolved to have him in my service, though it was my interest to keep my husband off, in order to bring him on), "if you like the fellow, i am not averse to your hiring one servant in england. we are not obliged to trust him with much before we see his conduct, and if he does not prove as you may expect, you may turn him off whenever you please." "i believe," said my husband, "he has been ingenuous in his relation to me; and as a man who has seen great variety of life, and may have been the shuttlecock of fortune, the butt of envy, and the mark of malice, i will hire him when he comes to me here anon, as i have ordered him." as i knew he was to be hired, i resolved to be out of the way when he came to my husband; so about five o'clock i proposed to the quaker to take a walk on the pier and see the shipping, while the tea-kettle was boiling. we went, and took isabel with us, and as we were going along i saw my son thomas (as i shall for the future call him) going to our inn; so we stayed out about an hour, and when we returned my husband told me he had hired the man, and that he was to come to him as a servant on the morrow morning. "pray, my dear," said i, "did you ask where he ever lived, or what his name is?" "yes," replied my husband, "he says his name is thomas ----; and as to places, he has mentioned several families of note, and among others, he lived at my lord ----'s, next door to the great french lady's in pall mall, whose name he tells me was roxana." i was now in a sad dilemma, and was fearful i should be known by my own son; and the quaker took notice of it, and afterwards told me she believed fortune had conspired that all the people i became acquainted with, should have known the lady roxana. "i warrant," said she, "this young fellow is somewhat acquainted with the impertinent wench that calls herself thy daughter." i was very uneasy in mind, but had one thing in my favour, which was always to keep myself at a very great distance from my servants; and as the quaker was to part with us the next day or night, he would have nobody to mention the name roxana to, and so of course it would drop. we supped pretty late at night, and were very merry, for my husband said all the pleasant things he could think of, to divert me from the supposed illness he thought i had been troubled with in the day. the quaker kept up the discourse with great spirit, and i was glad to receive the impression, for i wanted the real illness to be drove out of my head. the next morning, after breakfast, thomas came to his new place. he appeared very clean, and brought with him a small bundle, which i supposed to be linen tied up in a handkerchief. my husband sent him to order some porters belonging to the quay to fetch our boxes to the custom-house, where they were searched, for which we paid one shilling; and he had orders to give a crown for head money, as they called it; their demand by custom is but sixpence a head, but we appeared to our circumstances in everything. as soon as our baggage was searched, it was carried from the custom-house on board the packet-boat, and there lodged in the great cabin as we had ordered it. this took up the time till dinner, and when we were sitting together after we had both dined, the captain came to tell us that the wind was very fair, and that he was to sail at high water, which would be about ten o'clock at night. my husband asked him to stay and drink part of a bottle of wine with him, which he did; and their discourse being all in the maritime strain, the quaker and i retired and left them together, for i had something to remind her of in our discourse before we left london. when we got into the garden, which was rather neat than fine, i repeated all my former requests to her about my children, spitalfields, amy, &c., and we sat talking together till thomas was sent to tell us the captain was going, on which we returned; but, by the way, i kissed her and put a large gold medal into her hand, as a token of my sincere love, and desired that she would never neglect the things she had promised to perform, and her repeated promise gave me great satisfaction. the captain, who was going out of the parlour as we returned in, was telling my husband he would send six of his hands to conduct us to the boat, about a quarter of an hour before he sailed, and as the moon was at the full, he did not doubt of a pleasant passage. our next business was to pay off the coachman, to whom my husband gave half a guinea extraordinary, to set the quaker down at the house he took us all up at, which he promised to perform. as it was low water, we went on board to see the cabin that we were to go our voyage in, and the captain would detain us to drink a glass of the best punch, i think, i ever tasted. when we returned to the inn, we ordered supper to be ready by eight o'clock, that we might drink a parting glass to settle it, before we went on board; for my husband, who knew the sea very well, said a full stomach was the forerunner of sea-sickness, which i was willing to avoid. we invited the landlord, his wife, and daughter, to supper with us, and having sat about an hour afterwards, the captain himself, with several sailors, came to fetch us to the vessel. as all was paid, we had nothing to hinder us but taking a final leave of the quaker, who would go to see us safe in the vessel, where tears flowed from both our eyes; and i turned short in the boat, while my husband took his farewell, and he then followed me, and i never saw the quaker or england any more. we were no sooner on board than we hoisted sail; the anchors being up, and the wind fair, we cut the waves at a great rate, till about four o'clock in the morning, when a french boat came to fetch the mail to carry it to the post-house, and the boat cast her anchors, for we were a good distance from the shore, neither could we sail to the town till next tide, the present one being too far advanced in the ebb. we might have gone on shore in the boat that carried the mail, but my husband was sleeping in the cabin when it came to the packet-boat, and i did not care to disturb him; however, we had an opportunity soon after, for my husband awaking, and two other boats coming up with oars to see for passengers, thomas came to let us know we might go on shore, if we pleased. my husband paid the master of the packet-boat for our passage, and thomas, with the sailors' assistance, got our boxes into the wherry, so we sailed for calais; but before our boat came to touch ground, several men, whose bread i suppose it is, rushed into the water, without shoes or stockings, to carry us on shore; so having paid ten shillings for the wherry, we each of us was carried from the boat to the land by two men, and our goods brought after us; here was a crown to be paid, to save ourselves from being wet, by all which a man that is going a travelling may see that it is not the bare expense of the packet-boat that will carry him to calais. it would be needless to inform the reader of all the ceremonies that we passed through at this place before we were suffered to proceed on our journey; however, our boxes having been searched at the custom-house, my husband had them plumbed, as they called it, to hinder any further inquiry about them; and we got them all to the silver lion, a noted inn, and the post-house of this place, where we took a stage-coach for ourselves, and the next morning, having well refreshed ourselves, we all, viz., my husband, self, and chambermaid within the coach, and thomas behind (beside which my husband hired two horsemen well armed, who were pretty expensive, to travel with us), set forward on our journey. we were five days on our journey from calais to paris, which we went through with much satisfaction, for, having fine weather and good attendance, we had nothing to hope for. when we arrived at paris (i began to be sorry i had ever proposed going to it for fear of being known, but as we were to stay there but a few days, i was resolved to keep very retired), we went to a merchant's house of my husband's acquaintance in the rue de la bourle, near the carmelites, in the faubourg de st. jacques. this being a remote part of the city, on the south side, and near several pleasant gardens, i thought it would be proper to be a little indisposed, that my husband might not press me to go with him to see the curiosities; for he could do the most needful business, such as going to the bankers to exchange bills, despatching of letters, settling affairs with merchants, &c., without my assistance; and i had a tolerable plea for my conduct, such as the great fatigue of our journey, being among strangers, &c.; so we stayed at paris eight days without my going to any particular places, except going one day to the gardens of luxembourg, another to the church of notre dame on the isle of paris, a third to the hôtel royale des invalides, a fourth to the gardens of the tuileries, a fifth to the suburbs of st. lawrence, to see the fair which was then holding there; a sixth to the gardens of the louvre, a seventh to the playhouse, and the eighth stayed all day at home to write a letter to the quaker, letting her know where i then was, and how soon we should go forwards in our journey, but did not mention where we intended to settle, as, indeed, we had not yet settled that ourselves. one of the days, viz., that in which i went to the gardens of the tuileries, i asked thomas several questions about his father, mother, and other relations, being resolved, notwithstanding he was my own son, as he did not know it, to turn him off by some stratagem or another, if he had any manner of memory of me, either as his mother, or the lady roxana. i asked him if he had any particular memory of his mother or father; he answered, "no, i scarce remember anything of either of them," said he, "but i have heard from several people that i had one brother and three sisters, though i never saw them all, to know them, notwithstanding i lived with an aunt four years; i often asked after my mother, and some people said she went away with a man, but it was allowed by most people, that best knew her, that she, being brought to the greatest distress, was carried to the workhouse belonging to the parish, where she died soon after with grief." nothing could give me more satisfaction than what thomas had related; so now, i thought i would ask about the lady roxana (for he had been my next-door neighbour when i had that title conferred on me). "pray, thomas," said i, "did not you speak of a great person of quality, whose name i have forgot, that lived next door to my lord ----'s when you was his valet? pray who was she? i suppose a foreigner, by the name you called her." "really, my lady," replied he, "i do not know who she was; all i can say of her is, that she kept the greatest company, and was a beautiful woman, by report, but i never saw her; she was called the lady roxana, was a very good mistress, but her character was not so good as to private life as it ought to be. though i once had an opportunity," continued he, "of seeing a fine outlandish dress she danced in before the king, which i took as a great favour, for the cook took me up when the lady was out, and she desired my lady's woman to show it to me." all this answered right, and i had nothing to do but to keep my turkish dress out of the way, to be myself unknown to my child, for as he had never seen roxana, so he knew nothing of me. in the interval, my husband had hired a stage-coach to carry us to the city of menin, where he intended to go by water down the river lys to ghent, and there take coach to isabella fort, opposite the city of anvers, and cross the river to that place, and go from thence by land to breda; and as he had agreed and settled this patrol, i was satisfied, and we set out next day. we went through several handsome towns and villages before we took water, but by water we went round part of the city of courtrai, and several fortified towns. at anvers we hired a coach to breda, where we stayed two days to refresh ourselves, for we had been very much fatigued; as willemstadt was situated so as to be convenient for our taking water for rotterdam, we went there, and being shipped, had a safe and speedy voyage to that city. as we had resolved in our journey to settle at the hague, we did not intend to stay any longer at rotterdam, than while my husband had all our wealth delivered to him from the several merchants he had consigned it to. this business took up a month, during which time we lived in ready-furnished lodgings on the great quay, where all the respect was shown us as was due to our quality. here my husband hired two more men-servants, and i took two maids, and turned isabel, who was a well-bred, agreeable girl, into my companion; but that i might not be too much fatigued, my husband went to the hague first, and left me, with three maids and thomas, at rotterdam, while he took a house, furnished it, and had everything ready for my reception, which was done with great expedition. one of his footmen came with a letter to me one morning, to let me know his master would come by the scow next day to take me home, in which he desired that i would prepare for my departure. i soon got everything ready, and the next morning, on the arrival of the scow, i saw my husband; and we both, with all the servants, left the city of rotterdam, and safely got to the hague the afternoon following. it was now the servants had notice given them to call me by the name of "my lady," as the honour of baronetage had entitled me, and with which title i was pretty well satisfied, but should have been more so had not i yet the higher title of countess in view. i now lived in a place where i knew nobody, neither was i known, on which i was pretty careful whom i became acquainted with; our circumstances were very good, my husband loving, to the greatest degree, my servants respectful; and, in short, i lived the happiest life woman could enjoy, had my former crimes never crept into my guilty conscience. i was in this happy state of life when i wrote a letter to the quaker, in which i gave her a direction where she might send to me. and about a fortnight after, as i was one afternoon stepping into my coach in order to take an airing, the postman came to our door with letters, one of which was directed to me, and as soon as i saw it was the quaker's hand, i bid the coachman put up again, and went into my closet to read the contents, which were as follows: "dear friend,--i have had occasion to write to thee several times since we saw each other, but as this is my first letter, so it shall contain all the business thou wouldst know. i got safe to london, by thy careful ordering of the coach, and the attendants were not at all wanting in their duty. when i had been at home a few days, thy woman, mrs. amy, came to see me, so i took her to task as thou ordered me, about murdering thy pretended daughter; she declared her innocence, but said she had procured a false evidence to swear a large debt against her, and by that means had put her into a prison, and fee'd the keepers to hinder her from sending any letter or message out of the prison to any person whatever. this, i suppose, was the reason thou thought she was murdered, because thou wert relieved from her by this base usage. however, when i heard of it, i checked amy very much, but was well satisfied to hear she was alive. after this i did not hear from amy for above a month, and in the interim (as i knew thou wast safe), i sent a friend of mine to pay the debt, and release the prisoner, which he did, but was so indiscreet as to let her know who was the benefactress. my next care was to manage thy spitalfields business, which i did with much exactness. and the day that i received thy last letter, amy came to me again, and i read as much of it to her as she was concerned in: nay, i entreated her to drink tea with me, and after it one glass of citron, in which she drank towards thy good health, and she told me she would come to see thee as soon as possible. just as she was gone, i was reading thy letter again in the little parlour, and that turbulent creature (thy pretended daughter) came to me, as she said, to return thanks for the favour i had done her, so i accidentally laid thy letter down in the window, while i went to fetch her a glass of cordial, for she looked sadly; and before i returned i heard the street door shut, on which i went back without the liquor, not knowing who might have come in, but missing her, i thought she might be gone to stand at the door, and the wind had blown it to; but i was never the nearer, she was sought for in vain. so when i believed her to be quite gone, i looked to see if i missed anything, which i did not; but at last, to my great surprise, i missed your letter, which she certainly took and made off with. i was so terrified at this unhappy chance that i fainted away, and had not one of my maidens come in at that juncture, it might have been attended with fatal consequences. i would advise thee to prepare thyself to see her, for i verily believe she will come to thee. i dread your knowing of this, but hope the best. before i went to fetch the unhappy cordial, she told me, as she had often done before, that she was the eldest daughter, that the captain's wife was your second daughter, and her sister, and that the youngest sister was dead. she also said there were two brothers, the eldest of whom had never been seen by any of them since he run away from an uncle's at nine years of age, and that the youngest had been taken care of by an old lady that kept her coach, whom he took to be his godmother. she gave me a long history in what manner she was arrested and flung into whitechapel jail, how hardly she fared there; and at length the keeper's wife, to whom she told her pitiful story, took compassion of her, and recommended her to the bounty of a certain lady who lived in that neighbourhood, that redeemed prisoners for small sums, and who lay for their fees, every return of the day of her nativity; that she was one of the six the lady had discharged; that the lady prompted her to seek after her mother; that she thereupon did seek thee in all the towns and villages between london and dover; that not finding thee at dover she went to deal; and that at length, she being tired of seeking thee, she returned by shipping to london, where she was no sooner arrived but she was immediately arrested and flung into the marshalsea prison, where she lived in a miserable condition, without the use of pen, ink, and paper, and without the liberty of having any one of her friends come near her. 'in this condition i was,' continued she, 'when you sent and paid my debt for me, and discharged me.' when she had related all this she fell into such a fit of crying, sighing, and sobbing, from which, when she was a little recovered, she broke out into loud exclamations against the wickedness of the people in england, that they could be so unchristian as to arrest her twice, when she said it was as true as the gospel that she never did owe to any one person the sum of one shilling in all her life; that she could not think who it was that should owe her so much ill-will, for that she was not conscious to herself that she had any ways offended any person in the whole universal world, except mrs. amy, in the case of her mother, which, she affirmed, she was acquitted of by all men, and hoped she should be so by her maker; and that if she (mrs. amy) had any hand in her sufferings, god would forgive her, as she heartily did. 'but then,' she added, 'i will not stay in england, i will go all over the world, i will go to france, to paris; i know my mother did once live there, and if i do not find her there, i will go through holland, to amsterdam, to rotterdam; in short, i will go till i find my mother out, if i should die in the pursuit.' i should be glad to hear of thine and thy spouse's welfare, and remain with much sincerity, your sincere friend, "m.p. "the ninth of the month called october. "p.s.--if thou hast any business to transact in this city, pray let me know; i shall use my best endeavours to oblige thee; my daughters all join with me in willing thee a hearty farewell." i concealed my surprise for a few minutes, only till i could get into the summer-house, at the bottom of our large garden; but when i was shut in, no living soul can describe the agony i was in, i raved, tore, fainted away, swore, prayed, wished, cried, and promised, but all availed nothing, i was now stuck in to see the worst of it, let what would happen. at last i came to the following resolution, which was to write a letter to the quaker, and in it enclose a fifty pound bank-bill, and tell the quaker to give that to the young woman if she called again, and also to let her know a fifty pound bill should be sent her every year, so long as she made no inquiry after me, and kept herself retired in england. although this opened myself too full to the quaker, yet i thought i had better venture my character abroad, than destroy my peace at home. soon after, my husband came home, and he perceived i had been crying, and asked what was the reason. i told him that i had shed tears both for joy and sorrow: "for," said i, "i have received one of the tenderest letters from amy, as it was possible for any person, and she tells me in it," added i, "that she will soon come to see me; which so overjoyed me, that i cried, and after it, i went to read the letter a second time, as i was looking out of the summer-house window over the canal; and in unfolding it, i accidentally let it fall in, by which mischance it is lost, for which i am very sorry, as i intended you should see it." "pray, my dear," said he, "do not let that give you any uneasiness; if amy comes, and you approve of it, you have my consent to take her into the house, in what capacity you please. i am very glad," continued he, "that you have nothing of more consequence to be uneasy at, i fancy you would make but an indifferent helpmate if you had." oh! thought i to myself, if you but knew half the things that lie on my conscience, i believe you would think that i bear them out past all example. about ten days afterwards, as we were sitting at dinner with two gentlemen, one of the footmen came to the door, and said, "my lady, here is a gentlewoman at the door who desires to speak with you: she says her name is mrs. amy." i no sooner heard her name, but i was ready to swoon away, but i ordered the footman to call isabel, and ask the gentlewoman to walk up with her into my dressing-room; which he immediately did, and there i went to have my first interview with her. she kissed me for joy when she saw me, and i sent isabel downstairs, for i was in pain till i had some private conversation with my old confidante. there was not much ceremony between us, before i told her all the material circumstances that had happened in her absence, especially about the girl's imprisonments which she had contrived, and how she had got my letter at the quaker's, the very day she had been there. "well," says amy, when i had told her all, "i find nothing is to ensue, if she lives, but your ruin; you would not agree to her death, so i will not make myself uneasy about her life; it might have been rectified, but you were angry with me for giving you the best of counsel, viz., when i proposed to murder her." "hussy," said i, in the greatest passion imaginable, "how dare you mention the word murder? you wretch you, i could find in my heart, if my husband and the company were gone, to kick you out of my house. have you not done enough to kill her, in throwing her into one of the worst jails in england, where, you see, that providence in a peculiar manner appeared to her assistance. away! thou art a wicked wretch; thou art a murderer in the sight of god." "i will say no more," says amy, "but if i could have found her, after thy friend the quaker had discharged her out of the marshalsea prison, i had laid a scheme to have her taken up for a theft, and by that means got her transported for fourteen years. she will be with you soon, i am sure; i believe she is now in holland." while we were in this discourse, i found the gentlemen who dined with us were going, so we came downstairs, and i went into the parlour to take leave of them before their departure. when they were gone, my husband told me he had been talking with them about taking upon him the title of count or earl of ----, as he had told me of, and as an opportunity now offered, he was going to put it in execution. i told him i was so well settled, as not to want anything this world could afford me, except the continuance of his life and love (though the very thing he had mentioned, joined with the death of my daughter, in the natural way, would have been much more to my satisfaction). "well, my dear," says he, "the expense will be but small, and as i promised you the title, it shall not be long before the honour shall be brought home to your toilette." he was as good as his word, for that day week he brought the patent home to me, in a small box covered with crimson velvet and two gold hinges. "there, my lady countess," says he, "long may you live to bear the title, for i am certain you are a credit to it." in a few days after, i had the pleasure to see our equipage, as coach, chariot, &c., all new painted, and a coronet fixed at the proper place, and, in short, everything was proportioned to our quality, so that our house vied with most of the other nobility. it was at this juncture that i was at the pinnacle of all my worldly felicity, notwithstanding my soul was black with the foulest crimes. and, at the same time, i may begin to reckon the beginning of my misfortunes, which were in embryo, but were very soon brought forth, and hurried me on to the greatest distress. as i was sitting one day talking to amy in our parlour, and the street door being left open by one of the servants, i saw my daughter pass by the window, and without any ceremony she came to the parlour door, and opening of it, came boldly in. i was terribly amazed, and asked her who she wanted, as if i had not known her, but amy's courage was quite lost, and she swooned away. "your servant, my lady," says she; "i thought i should never have had the happiness to see you _tête-à-tête_, till your agent, the quaker, in haydon yard, in the minories, carelessly left a direction for me in her own window; however, she is a good woman, for she released me out of a jail in which, i believe, that base wretch" (pointing to amy, who was coming to herself) "caused me to be confined." as soon as amy recovered, she flew at her like a devil, and between them there was so much noise as alarmed the servants, who all came to see what was the matter. amy had pulled down one of my husband's swords, drawn it, and was just going to run her through the body, as the servants came in, who not knowing anything of the matter, some of them secured amy, others held the girl, and the rest were busy about me, to prevent my fainting away, which was more than they could do, for i fell into strong fits, and in the interim they turned the girl out of the house, who was fully bent on revenge. my lord, as i now called him, was gone out a-hunting. i was satisfied he knew nothing of it, as yet, and when amy and i were thoroughly come to ourselves, we thought it most advisable to find the girl out, and give her a handsome sum of money to keep her quiet. so amy went out, but in all her searching could hear nothing of her; this made me very uneasy. i guessed she would contrive to see my lord before he came home, and so it proved, as you shall presently hear. when night came on, that i expected his return, i wondered i did not see him. amy sat up in my chamber with me, and was as much concerned as was possible. well, he did not come in all that night, but the next morning, about ten o'clock, he rapped at the door, with the girl along with him. when it was opened, he went into the great parlour, and bid thomas go call down his lady. this was the crisis. i now summoned up all my resolution, and took amy down with me, to see if we could not baffle the girl, who, to an inch, was her mother's own child. it will be necessary here to give a short account of our debate, because on it all my future misery depended, and it made me lose my husband's love, and own my daughter; who would not rest there, but told my lord how many brothers and sisters she had. when we entered the room, my lord was walking very gravely about it, but with his brows knit, and a wild confusion in his face, as if all the malice and revenge of a dutchman had joined to put me out of countenance before i spoke a word. "pray, madam," says he, "do you know this young woman? i expect a speedy and positive answer, without the least equivocation." "really, my lord," replied i, "to give you an answer as quick as you desire, i declare i do not." "do not!" said he, "what do you mean by that? she tells me that you are her mother, and that her father ran away from you, and left two sons, and two daughters besides herself, who were all sent to their relations for provision, after which you ran away with a jeweller to paris. do you know anything of this? answer me quickly." "my lord," said the girl, "there is mrs. amy, who was my mother's servant at the time (as she told me herself about three months ago), knows very well i am the person i pretend to be, and caused me to be thrown into jail for debts i knew nothing of, because i should not find out my mother to make myself known to her before she left england." after this she told my lord everything she knew of me, even in the character of roxana, and described my dress so well, that he knew it to be mine. [illustration: roxana is confronted with her daughter "_pray, madam," says he, "do you know this young woman?_"] when she had quite gone through her long relation, "well, madam," says he, "now let me see if i cannot tell how far she has told the truth in relation to you. when i first became acquainted with you, it was on the sale of those jewels, in which i stood so much your friend, at a time that you were in the greatest distress, your substance being in the hands of the jew; you then passed for a jeweller's widow; this agrees with her saying you ran away with a jeweller. in the next place, you would not consent to marry me about twelve years ago; i suppose then your real husband was living, for nothing else could tally with your condescension to me in everything except marriage. since that time, your refusing to come to holland in the vessel i had provided for you, under a distant prospect of your being with child, though in reality it was your having a child too much, as the captain told me of, when i, being ignorant of the case, did not understand him. now," continued he, "she says that you are the identical lady roxana which made so much noise in the world, and has even described the robe and head-dress you wore on that occasion, and in that i know she is right; for, to my own knowledge, you have that very dress by you now; i having seen you dressed in it at our lodging at the quaker's. from all these circumstances," says he, "i may be assured that you have imposed grossly upon me, and instead of being a woman of honour as i took you for, i find that you have been an abandoned wretch, and had nothing to recommend you but a sum of money and a fair countenance, joined to a false unrelenting heart." these words of my lord's struck such a damp upon my spirits, as made me unable to speak in my turn. but at last, i spoke as follows: "my lord, i have most patiently stood to hear all it was possible for you to allege against me, which has no other proof than imagination. that i was the wife of a brewer, i have no reason now to deny, neither had i any occasion before to acknowledge it. i brought him a handsome fortune, which, joined to his, made us appear in a light far superior to our neighbours. i had also five children by him, two sons and three daughters, and had my husband been as wise as rich, we might have lived happily together now. but it was not so, for he minded nothing but sporting, in almost every branch; and closely following of it soon run out all his substance, and then left me in an unhappy, helpless condition. i did not send my children to my relations till the greatest necessity drove me, and after that, hearing my husband was dead, i married the jeweller, who was afterwards murdered. if i had owned how many children i had, the jeweller would not have married me, and the way of life i was in would not keep my family, so i was forced to deny them in order to get them bread. neither can i say that i have either heard or known anything of my children since, excepting that i heard they were all taken care of; and this was the very reason i would not marry you, when you offered it some years since, for these children lay seriously at my heart, and as i did not want money, my inclination was to come to england, and not entail five children upon you the day of marriage." "pray, madam," said my lord, interrupting me, "i do not find that you kept up to your resolutions when you got there; you were so far from doing your duty as a parent, that you even neglected the civility of acquaintances, for they would have asked after them, but your whole scheme has been to conceal yourself as much as possible, and even when you were found out, denied yourself, as witness the case of your daughter here. as to the character of lady roxana, which you so nicely managed," said he, "did that become a woman that had five children, whose necessity had obliged you to leave them, to live in a continual scene of pageantry and riot, i could almost say debauchery? look into your conduct, and see if you deserve to have the title or the estate you now so happily enjoy." after this speech, he walked about the room in a confused manner for some minutes, and then addressed himself to amy. "pray, mrs. amy," says he, "give me your judgment in this case, for although i know you are as much as possible in your lady's interest, yet i cannot think you have so little charity as to think she acted like a woman of worth and discretion. do you really think, as you knew all of them from infants, that this young woman is your lady's daughter?" amy, who always had spirits enough about her, said at once she believed the girl was my daughter. "and truly," says she, "i think your man thomas is her eldest son, for the tale he tells of his birth and education suits exactly with our then circumstances." "why, indeed," said my lord, "i believe so too, for i now recollect that when we first took him into our service at dover, he told me he was the son of a brewer in london; that his father had run away from his mother, and left her in a distressed condition with five children, of which he was second child, or eldest son." thomas was then called into the parlour, and asked what he knew of his family; he repeated all as above, concerning his father's running away and leaving me; but said that he had often asked and inquired after them, but without any success, and concluded, that he believed his brothers and sisters were distributed in several places, and that his mother died in the greatest distress, and was buried by the parish. "indeed," said my lord, "it is my opinion that thomas is one of your sons; do not you think the same?" addressing himself to me. "from the circumstances that have been related, my lord," said i, "i now believe that these are both my children; but you would have thought me a mad woman to have countenanced and taken this young woman in as my child, without a thorough assurance of it; for that would have been running myself to a certain expense and trouble, without the least glimpse of real satisfaction." "pray," said my lord to my daughter, "let me know what is become of your brothers and sisters; give me the best account of them that you can." "my lord," replied she, "agreeably to your commands, i will inform you to the best of my knowledge; and to begin with myself, who am the eldest of the five. i was put to a sister of my father's with my youngest brother, who, by mere dint of industry, gave us maintenance and education, suitable to her circumstances; and she, with my uncle's consent, let me go to service when i was advanced in years; and among the variety of places i lived at, lady roxana's was one." "yes," said thomas, "i knew her there, when i was a valet at my lord d----'s, the next door; it was there i became acquainted with her; and she, by the consent of the gentlewoman," pointing to amy, "let me see the lady roxana's fine vestment, which she danced in at the grand ball." "well," continued my daughter, "after i left this place, i was at several others before i became acquainted with mrs. amy a second time (i knew her before as roxana's woman), who told me one day some things relating to my mother, and from thence i concluded if she was not my mother herself (as i at first thought she was), she must be employed by her; for no stranger could profess so much friendship, where there was no likelihood of any return, after being so many years asunder. "after this, i made it my business to find your lady out if possible, and was twice in her company, once on board the ship you were to have come to holland in, and once at the quaker's house in the minories, london; but as i gave her broad hints of whom i took her for, and my lady did not think proper to own me, i began to think i was mistaken, till your voyage to holland was put off. soon after, i was flung into whitechapel jail for a false debt, but, through the recommendation of the jailer's wife to the annual charity of the good lady roberts, of mile end, i was discharged. whereupon i posted away, seeking my mother all down the kent road as far as dover and deal, at which last place not finding her, i came in a coaster to london, and landing in southwark, was immediately arrested, and confined in the marshalsea prison, where i remained some time, deprived of every means to let any person without the prison know my deplorable state and condition, till my chum, a young woman, my bedfellow, who was also confined for debt, was, by a gentleman, discharged. this young woman of her own free will, went, my lord, to your lodgings in the minories, and acquainted your landlady, the quaker, where i was, and for what sum i was confined, who immediately sent and paid the pretended debt, and so i was a second time discharged. upon which, going to the quaker's to return her my thanks soon after a letter from your lady to her, with a direction in it where to find you, falling into my hands, i set out the next morning for the hague; and i humbly hope your pardon, my lord, for the liberty i have taken; and you may be assured, that whatever circumstances of life i happen to be in, i will be no disgrace to your lordship or family." "well," said my husband, "what can you say of your mother's second child, who, i hear, was a son?" "my lord," said i, "it is in my power to tell you, that thomas there is the son you mention; their circumstances are the same, with this difference, that she was brought up under the care of a good aunt, and the boy forced to run away from a bad one, and shift for his bread ever since; so if she is my daughter, he is my son, and to oblige you, my lord, i own her, and to please myself i will own him, and they two are brother and sister." i had no sooner done speaking, than thomas fell down before me, and asked my blessing, after which, he addressed himself to my lord as follows: "my lord," said he, "out of your abundant goodness you took me into your service at dover. i told you then the circumstances i was in, which will save your lordship much time by preventing a repetition; but, if your lordship pleases, it shall be carefully penned down, for such a variety of incidents has happened to me in england, wales, scotland, ireland, holland, france, and the isle of man, in which i have travelled for about eighteen years past, as may prove an agreeable amusement to you, when you are cloyed with better company; for as i have never been anything above a common servant, so my stories shall only consist of facts, and such as are seldom to be met with, as they are all in low life." "well, thomas," said my lord, "take your own time to do it, and i will reward you for your trouble." "now, madam," said my lord to my daughter, "if you please to proceed." "my lord," continued she, "my mother's third child, which was a daughter, lived with the relation i did, and got a place to wait upon a young lady whose father and mother were going to settle at boulogne, in france; she went with them, and having stayed at this gentleman's (who was a french merchant) two years, was married to a man with the consent of the family she lived in; and her master, by way of fortune, got him to be master of a french and holland coaster, and this was the very person whose ship you hired to come to holland in; the captain's wife was my own sister, consequently my lady's second daughter; as to my youngest sister, she lived with the uncle and aunt thomas ran away from, and died of the smallpox soon after. my youngest brother was put out apprentice to a carpenter, where he improved in his business, till a gentlewoman came to his master and mistress (which i take by the description they gave me, to be mrs. amy), who had him put out to an education fit for a merchant, and then sent him to the indies, where he is now settled, and in a fair way to get a large estate. this, my lord, is the whole account i can at present give of them, and although it may seem very strange, i assure you, it is all the just truth." when she had finished her discourse, my lord turned to me, and said, that since i that was her mother had neglected doing my duty, though sought so much after, he would take it upon himself to see both the girl and thomas provided for, without any advising or letting me know anything about them; and added, with a malicious sneer, "i must take care of the child i have had by you too, or it will have but an indifferent parent to trust to in case of my decease." this finished the discourse, and my lord withdrew into his study, in a humour that i am unable to describe, and left me, amy, thomas, and my daughter susanna, as i must now call her, in the parlour together. we sat staring at each other some time, till at last amy said, "i suppose, my lady, you have no farther business with your new daughter; she has told her story, and may now dispose of herself to the best advantage she can." "no," said i, "i have nothing to say to her, only that she shall never be admitted into my presence again." the poor girl burst out into tears, and said, "pray, my lady, excuse me, for i am certain that were you in my circumstances, you would have done the very action i have, and would expect a pardon for committing the offence." after this, i said to thomas, "keep what has been said to yourself, and i shall speak to you by-and-by;" and then i withdrew, and went upstairs to my closet, leaving amy with susanna, who soon dismissed her, and followed me. when amy came to me, "now, my lady," says she, "what do you think of this morning's work? i believe my lord is not so angry as we were fearful of." "you are mistaken in your lord, amy," said i, "and are not so well acquainted with the deep and premeditated revenge of dutchmen as i am, and although it may not be my husband's temper, yet i dread it as much, but shall see more at dinner time." soon after this, my husband called thomas, and bid him order the cloth for his dinner to be laid in his study, and bid him tell his mother that he would dine by himself. when i heard this, i was more shocked than i had been yet. "now his anger begins to work, amy," said i, "how must i act?" "i do not know," answered she, "but i will go into the study, and try what can be done, and, as a faithful mediator, will try to bring you together." she was not long before she returned, and bursting into tears, "i know not what to do," says she, "for your husband is in a deep study, and when i told him you desired him to dine with you in the parlour as usual, he only said, 'mrs. amy, go to your lady, tell her to dine when and where she pleases, and pray obey her as your lady; but let her know from me that she has lost the tenderness i had for her as a wife, by the little thought she had of her children.'" nothing could have shocked me more than the delivery of this message by amy. i, almost bathed in tears, went to him myself; found him in a melancholy posture reading in milton's "paradise regained." he looked at me very sternly when i entered his study, told me he had nothing to say to me at that time, and if i had a mind not to disturb him, i must leave him for the present. "my lord," said i, "supposing all that has been said by this girl was truth, what reason have you to be in this unforgiving humour? what have i done to you to deserve this usage? have you found any fault with me since i had the happiness of being married to you? did you ever find me in any company that you did not approve of? have you any reason to think that i have wasted any of your substance? if you have none of these things to allege against me, for heaven's sake do not let us now make our lives unhappy, for my having had legitimate children by a lawful husband, at a time that you think it no crime to have had a natural son by me, which i had the most reason to repent of." i spoke the latter part of these words with a small air of authority, that he might think me the less guilty; but, i believe, he only looked on what i had said as a piece of heroism; for he soon after delivered himself in the following speech: "madam, do you not think that you have used me in a very deceitful manner? if you think that i have not had that usage, i will, in a few words, prove the contrary. when first i knew you, soon after the jeweller's death at paris, you never mentioned, in all that intricate affair i was engaged in for you, so much as your having any children; that, as your circumstances then were, could have done you no harm, but, on the contrary, it would have moved the compassion of your bitter enemy the jew, if he had any. afterwards, when i first saw you in london, and began to treat with you about marriage, your children, which, to all prudent women, are the first things provided for, were so far neglected as not to be spoken of, though mine were mentioned to you; and as our fortunes were very considerable, yours might very well have been put into the opposite scale with them. another great piece of your injustice was when i offered to settle your own fortune upon yourself, you would not consent to it; i do not look on that piece of condescension out of love to me, but a thorough hatred you had to your own flesh and blood; and lastly, your not owning your daughter, though she strongly hinted who she was to you when she was twice in your company, and even followed you from place to place while you were in england. now, if you can reconcile this piece of inhumanity with yourself, pray try what you can say to me about your never telling me the life you led in pall mall, in the character of roxana? you scrupled to be happily married to me, and soon after came to england, and was a reputed whore to any nobleman that would come up to your price, and lived with one a considerable time, and was taken by several people to be his lawful wife. if any gentleman should ask me what i have taken to my bed, what must i answer? i must say an inhuman false-hearted whore, one that had not tenderness enough to own her own children, and has too little virtue, in my mind, to make a good wife. "i own i would," says he, "have settled your own estate upon you with great satisfaction, but i will not do it now; you may retire to your chamber, and when i have any occasion to speak with you, i will send a messenger to you; so, my undeserving lady countess, you may walk out of the room." i was going to reply to all this, but instead of hearing me, he began to speak against the quaker, who, he supposed, knew all the intrigues of my life; but i cleared her innocence, by solemnly declaring it was a thorough reformation of my past life that carried me to live at the quaker's house, who knew nothing of me before i went to live with her, and that she was, i believed, a virtuous woman. i went away prodigiously chagrined. i knew not what course to take; i found expostulation signified nothing, and all my hopes depended on what i might say to him after we were gone to bed at night. i sent in for amy, and having told her our discourse, she said she knew not what to think of him, but hoped it would, by great submission, wear off by degrees. i could eat but little dinner, and amy was more sorrowful than hungry, and after we had dined, we walked by ourselves in the garden, to know what we had best pursue. as we were walking about, thomas came to us, and told us that the young woman who had caused all the words, had been at the door, and delivered a letter to my lord's footman, who had carried it upstairs, and that she was ordered to go to his lordship in his study, which struck me with a fresh and sensible grief. i told thomas, as he was to be her brother, to learn what my lord had said to her, if he could, as she came down; on which he went into the house to obey his order. he was not gone in above a quarter of an hour before he came to me again, and told me she was gone, and that my lord had given her a purse of twenty guineas, with orders to live retired, let nobody know who or what she was, and come to him again in about a month's time. i was very much satisfied to hear this, and was in hopes of its proving a happy omen; and i was better pleased about two hours after, when thomas came to me to let me know that my lord had given him thirty guineas, and bid him take off his livery, and new clothe himself, for he intended to make him his first clerk, and put him in the way of making his fortune. i now thought it was impossible for me to be poor, and was inwardly rejoiced that my children (meaning thomas and susanna) were in the high road to grow rich. as amy and i had dined by ourselves, my lord kept his study all the day, and at night, after supper, isabel came and told me that my lord's man had received orders to make his bed in the crimson room, which name it received from the colour of the bed and furniture, and was reserved against the coming of strangers, or sickness. when she had delivered her message she withdrew, and i told amy it would be to no purpose to go to him again, but i would have her lie in a small bed, which i ordered immediately to be carried into my chamber. before we went to bed, i went to his lordship to know why he would make us both look so little among our own servants, as to part, bed and board, so suddenly. he only said, "my lady roxana knows the airs of quality too well to be informed that a scandal among nobility does not consist in parting of beds; if you cannot lie by yourself, you may send a letter to my lord ----, whom you lived with as a mistress in london; perhaps he may want a bedfellow as well as you, and come to you at once; you are too well acquainted with him to stand upon ceremony." i left him, with my heart full of malice, grief, shame, and revenge. i did not want a good will to do any mischief; but i wanted an unlimited power to put all my wicked thoughts in execution. amy and i lay in our chamber, and the next morning at breakfast we were talking of what the servants (for there were thirteen of them in all, viz., two coachmen, four footmen, a groom, and postillion, two women cooks, two housemaids, and a laundry-maid, besides isabel, who was my waiting-maid, and amy, who acted as housekeeper) could say of the disturbance that was in the family. "pho!" said amy, "never trouble your head about that, for family quarrels are so common in noblemen's houses, both here and in england, that there are more families parted, both in bed and board, than live lovingly together. it can be no surprise to the servants, and if your neighbours should hear it, they will only think you are imitating the air of nobility, and have more of that blood in you than you appeared to have when you and your lord lived happily together." the time, i own, went very sluggishly on. i had no company but amy and isabel, and it was given out among the servants of noblemen and gentry that i was very much indisposed, for i thought it a very improper time either to receive or pay visits. in this manner i lived till the month was up that my daughter was to come again to my lord, for although i went morning, noon, and night, into his apartment to see him, i seldom had a quarter of an hour's discourse with him, and oftentimes one of his valets would be sent to tell me his lord was busy, a little before the time i usually went, which i found was to prevent my going in to him, but this was only when he was in an ill humour, as his man called it. whether my lord used to make himself uneasy for want of mine or other company, i cannot tell, but the servants complained every day, as i heard by amy, that his lordship ate little or nothing, and would sometimes shed tears when he sat down by himself to breakfast, dinner, or supper; and, indeed, i began to think that he looked very thin, his countenance grew pale, and that he had every other sign of a grieved or broken heart. my daughter came to him one monday morning, and stayed with him in his study near two hours. i wondered at the reason of it, but could guess at nothing certain; and at last she went away, but i fixed myself so as to see her as she passed by me, and she appeared to have a countenance full of satisfaction. in the evening, when i went in as usual, he spoke to me in a freer style than he had done since our breach. "well, madam" (for he had not used the words "my lady" at any time after my daughter's coming to our house), said he, "i think i have provided for your daughter." "as how, my lord, pray will you let me know?" said i. "yes," replied he, "as i have reason to think you will be sorry to hear of her welfare in any shape, i will tell you. a gentleman who is going factor for the dutch east india company, on the coast of malabar, i have recommended her to; and he, on my character and promise of a good fortune, will marry her very soon, for the company's ships sail in about twelve days; so, in a fortnight, like a great many mothers as there are nowadays, you may rejoice at having got rid of one of your children, though you neither know where, how, or to whom." although i was very glad my lord spoke to me at all, and more especially so at my daughter's going to be married, and settling in the indies, yet his words left so sharp a sting behind them as was exceeding troublesome to me to wear off. i did not dare venture to make any further inquiries, but was very glad of what i heard, and soon bidding my lord goodnight, went and found amy, who was reading a play in the chamber. i waited with the greatest impatience for this marriage; and when i found the day was fixed, i made bold to ask my lord if i should not be present in his chamber when the ceremony was performed. this favor was also denied me. i then asked my lord's chaplain to speak to him on that head, but he was deaf to his importunities, and bade him tell me that i very well knew his mind. the wedding was performed on a wednesday evening, in my lord's presence, and he permitted nobody to be there but a sister of the bridegroom's, and thomas (now my lord's secretary or chief clerk), who was brother to the bride, and who gave her away. they all supped together after the ceremony was over in the great dining-room, where the fortune was paid, which was £ (as i heard from thomas afterwards), and the bonds for the performance of the marriage were redelivered. next morning my lord asked me if i was willing to see my daughter before she sailed to the indies. "my lord," said i, "as the seeing of her was the occasion of this great breach that has happened between us, so if your lordship will let me have a sight of her and a reconciliation with you at the same time, there is nothing can be more desirable to me, or would more contribute to my happiness during the rest of my life." "no, madam," says he, "i would have you see your daughter, to be reconciled to her, and give her your blessing (if a blessing can proceed from you) at parting; but our reconciliation will never be completed till one of us comes near the verge of life, if then; for i am a man that am never reconciled without ample amends, which is a thing that is not in your power to give, without you can alter the course of nature and recall time." on hearing him declare himself so open, i told him that my curse instead of my blessing would pursue my daughter for being the author of all the mischiefs that had happened between us. "no, madam," said he, "if you had looked upon her as a daughter heretofore, i should have had no occasion to have had any breach with you. the whole fault lies at your own door; for whatever your griefs may inwardly be, i would have you recollect they were of your own choosing." i found i was going to give way to a very violent passion, which would perhaps be the worse for me, so i left the room and went up to my own chamber, not without venting bitter reproaches both against my daughter and her unknown husband. however, the day she was to go on shipboard, she breakfasted with my lord, and as soon as it was over, and my lord was gone into his study to fetch something out, i followed him there, and asked him if he would give me leave to present a gold repeating watch to my daughter before she went away. i thought he seemed somewhat pleased with this piece of condescension in me, though it was done more to gain his goodwill than to express any value i had for her. he told me that he did not know who i could better make such a present to, and i might give it to her if i pleased. accordingly i went and got it out of my cabinet in a moment, and bringing it to my lord, desired he would give it her from me. he asked me if i would not give it her myself. i told him no; i wished her very well, but had nothing to say to her till i was restored to his lordship's bed and board. about two hours after all this, the coach was ordered to the door, and my daughter and her new husband, the husband's sister, and my son thomas, all went into it, in order to go to the house of a rich uncle of the bridegroom's, where they were to dine before they went on board, and my lord went there in a sedan about an hour after. and having eaten their dinner, which on this occasion was the most elegant, they all went on board the indiaman, where my lord and my son thomas stayed till the ship's crew was hauling in their anchors to sail, and then came home together in the coach, and it being late in the evening, he told thomas he should sup with him that night, after which they went to bed in their several apartments. next morning when i went to see my lord as usual, he told me that as he had handsomely provided for my daughter, and sent her to the indies with a man of merit and fortune, he sincerely wished her great prosperity. "and," he added, "to let you see, madam, that i should never have parted from my first engagements of love to you, had you not laid yourself so open to censure for your misconduct, my next care shall be to provide for your son thomas in a handsome manner, before i concern myself with my son by you." this was the subject of our discourse, with which i was very well pleased. i only wished my daughter had been married and sent to the indies before i had married myself; but i began to hope that the worst would be over when thomas was provided for too, and the son my lord had by me, who was now at the university, was at home; which i would have brought to pass could my will be obeyed, but i was not to enjoy that happiness. my lord and i lived with a secret discontent of each other for near a twelvemonth before i saw any provision made for my son thomas, and then i found my lord bought him a very large plantation in virginia, and was furnishing him to go there in a handsome manner; he also gave him four quarter parts in four large trading west india vessels, in which he boarded a great quantity of merchandise to traffic with when he came to the end of his journey, so that he was a very rich man before he (what we call) came into the world. the last article that was to be managed, was to engage my son to a wife before he left holland; and it happened that the gentleman who was the seller of the plantation my husband bought, had been a virginia planter in that colony a great many years; but his life growing on the decline, and his health very dubious, he had come to holland with an intent to sell his plantation, and then had resolved to send for his wife, son, and daughter, to come to him with the return of the next ships. this gentleman had brought over with him the pictures of all his family, which he was showing to my lord at the same time he was paying for the effects; and on seeing the daughter's picture, which appeared to him very beautiful, my lord inquired if she was married. "no, my lord," says the planter, "but i believe i shall dispose of her soon after she comes to me." "how old is your daughter?" said my lord. "why, my lord," replied the planter, "she is twenty-two years of age." then my lord asked my son if he should like that young lady for a wife. "nothing, my lord," said thomas, "could lay a greater obligation upon me than your lordship's providing me with a wife." "now, sir," said my lord to the planter, "what do you say to a match between this young gentleman and your daughter? their ages are agreeable, and if you can, or will, give her more fortune than he has, his shall be augmented. you partly know his substance, by the money i have now paid you." this generous proposal of my lord's pleased the planter to a great degree, and he declared to my lord that he thought nothing could be a greater favour done him, for two reasons; one of which was, that he was certain the young gentleman was as good as he appeared, because he had taken for his plantation so large a sum of money as none but a gentleman could pay. the next reason was, that this marriage, to be performed as soon as my son arrived there, would be a great satisfaction to his wife, whose favourite the daughter was. "for," added he, "my wife will not only have the pleasure of seeing her daughter settled on what was our own hereditary estate, but also see her married to a man of substance, without the danger of crossing the seas to be matched to a person equal to herself." "pray, sir," said my lord, "let me hear what fortune you are willing to give with your daughter; you have but two children, and i know you must be rich." "why, my lord," replied the planter, "there is no denying that; but you must remember i have a son as well as a daughter to provide for, and he i intend to turn into the mercantile way as soon as he arrives safe from virginia. i have, my lord," continued he, "a very large stock-in-trade there, as warehouses of tobacco, &c., lodged in the custom-houses of the ports, to the value of £ , to which i will add £ in money, and i hope you will look upon that as a very competent estate; and when the young gentleman's fortune is joined to that, i believe he will be the richest man in the whole american colonies of his age." it was then considered between my lord and thomas, that no woman with a quarter of that fortune would venture herself over to the west indies with a man that had ten times as much; so it being hinted to the planter that my lord had agreed to the proposals, they promised to meet the next morning to settle the affair. in the evening, my lord, with thomas in his company, hinted the above discourse to me. i was frightened almost out of my wits to think what a large sum of money had been laid out for my son, but kept what i thought to myself. it was agreed that my son was to marry the old planter's daughter, and a lawyer was sent for, with instructions to draw up all the writings for the marriage-settlement, &c., and the next morning a messenger came from the planter with a note to my lord, letting him know, if it was not inconvenient, he would wait on his lordship to breakfast. he came soon after with a dutch merchant of great estate, who was our neighbour at the hague, where they settled every point in question, and the articles were all drawn up and signed by the several parties the next day before dinner. there was nothing now remaining but my son's departure to his new plantation in virginia. great despatch was made that he might be ready to sail in one of his own ships, and take the advantage of an english convoy, which was almost ready to sail. my lord sent several valuable presents to my son's lady, as did her father; and as i was at liberty in this case to do as i would, and knowing my lord had a very great value for my son, i thought that the richer my presents were, the more he would esteem me (but there was nothing in it, the enmity he took against me had taken root in his heart); so i sent her a curious set of china, the very best i could buy, with a silver tea-kettle and lamp, tea-pot, sugar-dish, cream-pot, teaspoons, &c., and as my lord had sent a golden repeater, i added to it a golden equipage, with my lord's picture hanging to it, finely painted; (this was another thing i did purposely to please him, but it would not do.) a few days after, he came to take his leave of me, by my lord's order, and at my parting with him i shed abundance of tears, to think i was then in an almost strange place, no child that could then come near me, and under so severe a displeasure of my lord, that i had very little hopes of ever being friends with him again. my life did not mend after my son was gone; all i could do would not persuade my lord to have any free conversation with me. and at this juncture it was that the foolish jade amy, who was now advanced in years, was catched in a conversation with one of my lord's men, which was not to her credit; for, it coming to his ears, she was turned out of the house by my lord's orders, and was never suffered to come into it again during his lifetime, and i did not dare to speak a word in her favour for fear he should retort upon me, "like mistress, like maid." i could hear nothing of amy for the first three months after she had left me, till one day, as i was looking out of a dining-room window, i saw her pass by, but i did not dare ask her to come in, for fear my lord should hear of her being there, which would have been adding fuel to the fire; however, she, looking up at the house, saw me. i made a motion to her to stay a little about the door, and in the meantime i wrote a note, and dropped it out of the window, in which i told her how i had lived in her absence, and desired her to write me a letter, and carry it the next day to my sempstress's house, who would take care to deliver it to me herself. i told isabel that she should let me know when the milliner came again, for i had some complaints to her about getting up my best suit of brussels lace nightclothes. on the saturday following, just after i had dined, isabel came into my apartment. "my lady," says she, "the milliner is in the parlour; will you be pleased to have her sent upstairs, or will your ladyship be pleased to go down to her?" "why, send her up, isabel," said i, "she is as able to come to me as i am to go to her; i will see her here." when the milliner came into my chamber, i sent isabel to my dressing-room to fetch a small parcel of fine linen which lay there, and in the interim she gave me amy's letter, which i put into my pocket, and, having pretended to be angry about my linen, i gave her the small bundle isabel brought, and bid her be sure to do them better for the future. she promised me she would, and went about her business; and when she was gone, i opened amy's letter, and having read it, found it was to the following purpose, viz., that she had opened a coffee-house, and furnished the upper part of it to let out in lodgings; that she kept two maids and a man, but that the trade of it did not answer as she had reason to expect; she was willing to leave it off, and retire into the country to settle for the rest of her life, but was continually harassed by such disturbance in her conscience as made her unfit to resolve upon anything, and wished there was a possibility for her to see me, that she might open her mind with the same freedom as formerly, and have my advice upon some particular affairs; and such-like discourse. it was a pretty while before i heard from amy again, and when i did, the letter was in much the same strain as the former, excepting that things were coming more to a crisis; for she told me in it that her money was so out, that is, lent as ready money to traders, and trusted for liquors in her house, that if she did not go away this quarter, she should be obliged to run away the next. i very much lamented her unfortunate case, but that could be no assistance to her, as i had it not now in my power to see her when i would, or give her what i pleased, as it had always used to be; so all i could do was to wish her well, and leave her to take care of herself. about this time it was that i perceived my lord began to look very pale and meagre, and i had a notion he was going into a consumption, but did not dare tell him so, for fear he should say i was daily looking for his death, and was now overjoyed that i saw a shadow of it; nevertheless, he soon after began to find himself in a very bad state of health, for he said to me one morning, that my care would not last long, for he believed he was seized by a distemper it was impossible for him to get over. "my lord," said i, "you do not do me justice in imagining anything concerning me that does not tend to your own happiness, for if your body is out of order, my mind suffers for it." indeed, had he died then, without making a will, it might have been well for me; but he was not so near death as that; and, what was worse, the distemper, which proved a consumption (which was occasioned chiefly by much study, watchings, melancholy thoughts, wilful and obstinate neglect of taking care of his body, and such like things), held him nine weeks and three days after this, before it carried him off. he now took country lodgings, most delightfully situated both for air and prospect, and had a maid and man to attend him. i begged on my knees to go with him, but could not get that favour granted; for, if i could, it might have been the means of restoring me to his favour, but our breach was too wide to be thoroughly reconciled, though i used all the endearing ways i had ever had occasion for to creep into his favour. before he went out of town he locked and sealed up every room in the house, excepting my bedchamber, dressing-room, one parlour, and all the offices and rooms belonging to the servants; and, as he had now all my substance in his power, i was in a very poor state for a countess, and began to wish, with great sincerity, that i had never seen him, after i had lived so happy a life as i did at the quaker's. for notwithstanding our estates joined together, when we were first married, amounted to £ per annum, and near £ , ready money, besides jewels, plate, goods, &c., of a considerable value, yet we had lived in a very high manner since our taking the title of earl and countess upon us; setting up a great house, and had a number of servants; our equipage, such as coach, chariot, horses, and their attendants; a handsome fortune my lord had given to my daughter, and a very noble one to my son, whom he loved very well, not for his being my son, but for the courteous behaviour of him in never aspiring to anything above a valet after he knew who he was, till my lord made him his secretary or clerk. besides all these expenses, my lord, having flung himself into the trade to the indies, both east and west, had sustained many great and uncommon losses, occasioned by his merchandise being mostly shipped in english bottoms; and that nation having declared war against the crown of spain, he was one of the first and greatest sufferers by that power; so that, on the whole, our estate, which was as above, dwindled to about £ per annum, and our home stock, viz., about £ , , was entirely gone. this, i believe, was another great mortification to his lordship, and one of the main things that did help to hasten his end; for he was observed, both by me and all his servants, to be more cast down at hearing of his losses, that were almost daily sent to him, than he was at what had happened between him and me. nothing could give more uneasiness than the damage our estate sustained by this traffic. he looked upon it as a mere misfortune that no person could avoid; but i, besides that, thought it was a judgment upon me, to punish me in the loss of all my ill-got gain. but when i found that his own fortune began to dwindle as well as mine, i was almost ready to think it was possible his lordship might have been as wicked a liver as i had, and the same vengeance as had been poured upon me for my repeated crimes might also be a punishment for him. as his lordship was in a bad state of health, and had removed to a country lodging, his study and counting-house, as well as his other rooms, were locked and sealed up; all business was laid aside, excepting such letters as came to him were carried to his lordship to be opened, read, and answered. i also went to see him morning and evening, but he would not suffer me to stay with him a single night. i might have had another room in the same house, but was not willing the people who kept it should know that there was a misunderstanding between us; so i contented myself to be a constant visitor, but could not persuade him to forgive me the denying of my daughter, and acting the part of roxana, because i had kept those two things an inviolable secret from him and everybody else but amy, and it was carelessness in her conduct at last that was the foundation of all my future misery. as my lord's weakness increased, so his ill temper, rather than diminish, increased also. i could do nothing to please him, and began to think that he was only pettish because he found it was his turn to go out of the world first. a gentleman that lived near him, as well as his chaplain, persuaded him to have a physician, to know in what state his health was; and by all i could learn, the doctor told him to settle his worldly affairs as soon as he conveniently could. "for," says he, "although your death is not certain, still your life is very precarious." the first thing he did after this was to send for the son he had by me from the university. he came the week afterwards, and the tutor with him, to take care of his pupil. the next day after my lord came home, and sending for six eminent men that lived at the hague he made his will, and signed it in the presence of them all; and they, with the chaplain, were appointed the executors of it, and guardians of my son. as i was in a great concern at his making his will unknown to me, and before we were friends, i thought of it in too serious a manner not to speak about it. i did not know where to apply first, but after mature consideration sent for the chaplain, and he coming to me, i desired he would give me the best intelligence he could about it. "my lady," said he, "you cannot be so unacquainted with the duty of my function, and the trust my lord has reposed in me, but you must know i shall go beyond my trust in relating anything of that nature to you; all that i can say on that head is, that i would have you make friends with my lord as soon as you possibly can, and get him to make another will, or else take the best care of yourself as lies in your power; for, i assure you, if his lordship dies, you are but poorly provided for." these last words of the chaplain's most terribly alarmed me. i knew not what to do; and, at last, as if i was to be guided by nothing but the furies, i went to his chamber, and after inquiring how he did, and hearing that he was far from well, i told him i had heard he had made his will. "yes," said he, "i have; and what then?" "why, my lord," replied i, "i thought it would not have been derogatory to both our honours for you to have mentioned it to me before you did it, and have let me known in what manner you intended to settle your estate. this would have been but acting like a man to his wife, even if you had married me without a fortune; but as you received so handsomely with me, you ought to have considered it as my substance, as well as your own, that you were going to dispose of." my lord looked somewhat staggered at what i had said, and pausing a little while, answered, that he thought, and also looked upon it as a granted opinion, that after a man married a woman, all that she was in possession of was his, excepting he had made a prior writing or settlement to her of any part or all she was then possessed of. "besides, my lady," added he, "i have married both your children, and given them very noble fortunes, especially your son. i have also had great losses in trade, both by sea and land, since you delivered your fortune to me, and even at this time, notwithstanding the appearance we make in the world, i am not worth a third of what i was when we came to settle in holland; and then, here is our own son shall be provided for in a handsome manner by me; for i am thoroughly convinced there will be but little care taken of him if i leave anything in your power for that purpose: witness thomas and susanna." "my lord," said i, "i am not come into your chamber to know what care you have taken of our child. i do not doubt but you have acted like a father by it. what i would be informed in is, what i am to depend upon in case of your decease; which i, however, hope may be a great many years off yet." "you need not concern yourself about that," said he; "your son will take care that you shall not want; but yet, i will tell you, too," said he, "that it may prevent your wishing for my death. i have, in my will, left all i am possessed of in the world to my son, excepting £ ; out of that there is £ for you, £ among my executors, and the other £ is to bury me, pay my funeral expenses, and what is overplus i have ordered to be equally divided among my servants." when i had heard him pronounce these words, i stared like one that was frightened out of his senses. "five hundred pounds for me!" says i; "pray, what do you mean? what! am i, that brought you so handsome a fortune, to be under the curb of my son, and ask him for every penny i want? no, sir," said i, "i will not accept it. i expect to be left in full possession of one-half of your fortune, that i may live the remainder of my life like your wife." "madam," replied my lord, "you may expect what you please. if you can make it appear since i found you out to be a jilt that i have looked upon you as my wife, everything shall be altered and settled just as you desire, which might then be called your will; but as the case now stands, the will is mine, and so it shall remain." i thought i should have sunk when i had heard him make this solemn and premeditated declaration. i raved like a mad woman, and, at the end of my discourse, told him that i did not value what could happen to me, even if i was forced to beg my bread, for i would stand the test of my own character; and as i could get nothing by being an honest woman, so i should not scruple to declare that "the son you have left what you have to is a bastard you had by me several years before we were married." "oh," says he, "madam, do you think you can frighten me? no, not in the least; for if you ever mention anything of it, the title, as well as all the estate, will go to another branch of my family, and you will then be left to starve in good earnest, without having the least glimpse of hope to better your fortune; for," added he, "it is not very probable that you will be courted for a wife by any man of substance at these years; so if you have a mind to make yourself easy in your present circumstances, you must rest contented with what i have left you, and not prove yourself a whore to ruin your child, in whose power it will be to provide for you in a handsome manner, provided you behave yourself with that respect to him and me as you ought to do; for if any words arise about what i have done, i shall make a fresh will, and, as the laws of this nation will give me liberty, cut you off with a shilling." my own unhappiness, and his strong and lasting resentment, had kept me at high words, and flowing in tears, for some time; and as i was unwilling anybody should see me in that unhappy condition, i stayed coolly talking to him, till our son, who had been to several gentlemen's houses about my lord's business, came home to tell his father the success he had met with abroad. he brought in with him bank-notes to the amount of £ , , which he had received of some merchants he held a correspondence with; at which my lord was well pleased, for he was pretty near out of money at this juncture. after our son had delivered the accounts and bills, and had withdrawn, i asked my lord, in a calm tone, to give me the satisfaction of knowing in what manner the losses he had complained to have suffered consisted. "you must consider, my lord," said i, "that according to what you have been pleased to inform me of, we are upwards of £ per annum, besides about £ , ready money, poorer than we were when we first came to settle in holland." "you talk," replied my lord, "in a very odd manner. do not you know that i had children of my own by a former wife? and of these i have taken so much care as to provide with very handsome fortunes, which are settled irrevocably upon them. i have, providence be thanked, given each of them £ , and that is laid in east india stock, sufficient to keep them genteelly, above the frowns of fortune, and free from the fear of want. this, joined to the money i mentioned to you before, as losses at sea, deaths, and bankruptcies, your children's fortunes, which are larger than my own children's, the buying the estate we live on, and several other things, which my receipts and notes will account for, as you may see after my decease. i have, to oblige you on this head, almost descended to particulars, which i never thought to have done; but as i have, rest yourself contented, and be well assured that i have not wilfully thrown any of your substance away." i could not tell what he meant by saying he had not wilfully thrown any of my substance away. these words puzzled me, for i found by his discourse i was to have but £ of all i had brought him, at his decease, which i looked upon to be near at hand. i had but one thing that was any satisfaction to me, which was this: i was assured by him that he had not bestowed above the £ , he mentioned to me, on his children by his former wife; and, on an exact calculation, he made it appear that he had bestowed on my son thomas alone near £ , in buying the plantation, shares in vessels, and merchandise, besides several valuable presents sent to his wife, both by him and me; and as for my daughter susanna, she was very well married to a factor, with a fortune of £ (which was a great sum of money for a woman to have who was immediately to go to the east indies), besides some handsome presents given to her both by him and me. in fact, her fortune was, in proportion, as large as her brother's, for there is but very few women in england or holland with £ fortune that would venture to the coast of malabar, even to have married an indian king, much more to have gone over with a person that no one could tell what reception he might meet with, or might be recalled at the pleasure of the company upon the least distaste taken by the merchants against him. neither would i, though her own mother, hinder her voyage, for she had been the author of all the misfortunes that happened to me; and if my speaking a word would have saved her from the greatest torment, i believe i should have been quite silent. and i had but one reason to allege for the girl's going so hazardous a voyage, which is, she knew that the match was proposed by my lord, and if he had not thought it would have been advantageous for her, he would never have given £ to her husband as a fortune; and again, as my lord was the only friend she had in our family, she was cunning enough to know that the bare disobliging of him would have been her ruin for ever after; to which i may add, that it is possible, as she had made so much mischief about me, she was glad to get what she could and go out of the way, for fear my lord and i should be friends; which, if that had happened, she would have been told never to come to our house any more. as my lord's death began to be daily the discourse of the family, i thought that he might be more reconciled if i entered into the arguments again, pro and con, which we had together before. i did so, but all i could say was no satisfaction, till i importuned him on my knees, with a flood of tears. "madam," said he, "what would you have me do?" "do, my lord," said i, "only be so tender to my years and circumstances as to alter your will, or, at least, add a codicil to it; i desire nothing more, for i declare i had rather be a beggar, than live under my child's jurisdiction." to this he agreed with some reluctance, and he added a codicil to his will. this pleased me greatly, and gave me comfort, for i dreaded nothing so much, after all my high living, as being under any person, relation or stranger, and whether they exercised any power over me or not. i saw the lawyer come out of the chamber first, but was above asking him any questions; the next were the executors and chaplain. i asked the last how they came to have words. he did not answer me directly, but begged to know whose pleasure it was to have the codicil annexed. "it was mine, sir," replied i; "and it made me very uneasy before i could have the favour granted." he only replied by saying, "ah! poor lady, the favour, as you are pleased to term it, is not calculated for any benefit to you; think the worst you can of it." i was terribly uneasy at what the chaplain had said, but i imagined to myself that i could not be worse off than i thought i should be before the codicil was annexed; and as he withdrew without saying any more, i was fain to rest satisfied with what i had heard, and that amounted to nothing. the next day after this the physicians that attended my lord told him it was time for him to settle his worldly affairs, and prepare himself for a hereafter. i now found all was over, and i had no other hopes of his life than the physicians' declaration of his being near his death. for it often happens that the gentlemen of the faculty give out that a man is near his death, to make the cure appear to be the effect of their great skill in distempers and medicine; as others, when they cannot find out the real disease, give out that a man's end is near, rather than discover their want of judgment; and this i thought might be the case with our doctors of physic. our son was still kept from the university, and lodged at the house of one of his future guardians; but when he heard that his father was so near his end, he was very little out of his presence, for he dearly loved him. my lord sent the day before his death to lock and seal up all the doors in his dwelling house at the hague; and the steward had orders, in case of my lord's decease, not to let anybody come in, not even his lady (who had for some time lodged in the same house with her lord), without an order from the executors. the keys of the doors were carried to him, and as he saw his death approach, he prepared for it, and, in fact, resigned up the keys of everything to the executors, and having bid them all a farewell, they were dismissed. the physicians waited; but as the verge of life approached, and it was out of their power to do him any service, he gave them a bill of £ for the care they had taken of him, and dismissed them. i now went into the chamber, and kneeling by his bedside, kissed him with great earnestness, and begged of him, if ever i had disobliged him in any respect, to forgive me. he sighed, and said he most freely forgave me everything that i had reason to think i had offended him in; but he added, "if you had been so open in your conversation to me before our marriage as to discover your family and way of life, i know not but that i should have married you as i did. i might now have been in a good state of health, and you many years have lived with all the honours due to the countess de wintselsheim." these words drew tears from my eyes, and they being the last of any consequence he said, they had the greater impression upon me. he faintly bid me a long farewell, and said, as he had but a few moments to live, he hoped i would retire, and leave him with our son and chaplain. i withdrew into my own chamber, almost drowned in tears, and my son soon followed me out, leaving the chaplain with his father, offering up his prayers to heaven for the receiving of his soul into the blessed mansions of eternal bliss. a few minutes after our son went into the chamber with me again, and received his father's last blessing. the chaplain now saw him departing, and was reading the prayer ordered by the church for that occasion; and while he was doing it, my lord laid his head gently on the pillow, and turning on his left side, departed this life with all the calmness of a composed mind, without so much as a groan, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. as soon as he was dead an undertaker was sent for, by order of the executors, who met together immediately to open his will, and take care of all my son's effects. i was present when it was opened and read; but how terribly i was frightened at hearing the codicil repeated any person may imagine by the substance of it, which was to this effect; that if i had given me any more after his decease than the £ he had left me, the £ left to his executors, and the £ of my son's estate (which was now a year's interest), was to be given to such poor families at the hague as were judged to be in the greatest want of it; not to be divided into equal sums, but every family to have according to their merit and necessity. but this was not all. my son was tied down much harder; for if it was known that he gave me any relief, let my condition be ever so bad, either by himself, by his order, or in any manner of way, device, or contrivance that he could think of, one-half of his estate, which was particularly mentioned, was to devolve to the executors for ever; and if they granted me ever so small a favour, that sum was to be equally divided among the several parishes where they lived, for the benefit of the poor. any person would have been surprised to have seen how we all sat staring at each other; for though it was signed by all the executors, yet they did not know the substance of it till it was publicly read, excepting the chaplain; and he, as i mentioned before, had told me the codicil had better never have been added. i was now in a fine dilemma; had the title of a countess, with £ , and nothing else to subsist on but a very good wardrobe of clothes, which were not looked upon by my son and the executors to be my late lord's property, and which were worth, indeed, more than treble the sum i had left me. i immediately removed from the lodgings, and left them to bury the body when they thought proper, and retired to a lodging at a private gentleman's house, about a mile from the hague. i was now resolved to find out amy, being, as it were, at liberty; and accordingly went to the house where she had lived, and finding that empty, inquired for her among the neighbours, who gave various accounts of what had become of her; but one of them had a direction left at his house where she might be found. i went to the place and found the house shut up, and all the windows broken, the sign taken down, and the rails and benches pulled from before the door. i was quite ashamed to ask for her there, for it was a very scandalous neighbourhood, and i concluded that amy had been brought to low circumstances, and had kept a house of ill-fame, and was either run away herself, or was forced to it by the officers of justice. however, as nobody knew me here, i went into a shop to buy some trifles, and asked who had lived in the opposite house (meaning amy's). "really, madam," says the woman, "i do not well know; but it was a woman who kept girls for gentlemen; she went on in that wickedness for some time, till a gentleman was robbed there of his watch and a diamond ring, on which the women were all taken up, and committed to the house of correction; but the young ones are now at liberty, and keep about the town." "pray," said i, "what may have become of the old beast that could be the ruin of those young creatures?" "why, i do not well know," says she; "but i have heard that, as all her goods were seized upon, she was sent to the poorhouse; but it soon after appearing that she had the french disease to a violent degree, was removed to a hospital to be taken care of, but i believe she will never live to come out; and if she should be so fortunate, the gentleman that was robbed, finding that she was the guilty person, intends to prosecute her to the utmost rigour of the law." i was sadly surprised to hear this character of amy; for i thought whatever house she might keep, that the heyday of her blood had been over. but i found that she had not been willing to be taken for an old woman, though near sixty years of age; and my not seeing or hearing from her for some time past was a confirmation of what had been told me. i went home sadly dejected, considering how i might hear of her. i had known her for a faithful servant to me, in all my bad and good fortune, and was sorry that at the last such a miserable end should overtake her, though she, as well as i, deserved it several years before. a few days after i went pretty near the place i had heard she was, and hired a poor woman to go and inquire how amy ---- did, and whether she was likely to do well. the woman returned, and told me that the matron, or mistress, said, the person i inquired after died in a salivation two days before, and was buried the last night in the cemetery belonging to the hospital. i was very sorry to hear of amy's unhappy and miserable death; for when she came first into my service she was really a sober girl, very witty and brisk, but never impudent, and her notions in general were good, till my forcing her, as it were, to have an intrigue with the jeweller. she had also lived with me between thirty and forty years, in the several stages of life as i had passed through; and as i had done nothing but what she was privy to, so she was the best person in the universal world to consult with and take advice from, as my circumstances now were. i returned to my lodgings much chagrined, and very disconsolate; for as i had for several years lived at the pinnacle of splendour and satisfaction, it was a prodigious heart-break to me now to fall from upwards of £ per annum to a poor £ principal. a few days after this i went to see my son, the earl of wintselsheim. he received me in a very courteous (though far from a dutiful) manner. we talked together near an hour upon general things, but had no particular discourse about my late lord's effects, as i wanted to have. among other things he told me that his guardians had advised him to go to the university for four years longer, when he would come of age, and his estate would be somewhat repaired; to which he said he had agreed; and for that purpose all the household goods and equipages were to be disposed of the next week, and the servants dismissed. i immediately asked if it would be looked upon as an encroachment upon his father's will if i took isabel (who had been my waiting-maid ever since i came from england) to live with me. "no, my lady," very readily replied he; "as she will be dismissed from me, she is certainly at liberty and full freedom to do for herself as soon and in the best manner she possibly can." after this i stayed about a quarter of an hour with him, and then i sent for isabel, to know if she would come and live with me on her dismission from her lord's. the girl readily consented, for i had always been a good mistress to her; and then i went to my own lodgings in my son's coach, which he had ordered to be got ready to carry me home. isabel came, according to appointment, about ten days after, and told me the house was quite cleared both of men and movables, but said her lord (meaning my son) was not gone to the university as yet, but was at one of his guardians' houses, where he would stay about a month, and that he intended to make a visit before his departure, which he did, attended by my late chaplain; and i, being in handsome lodgings, received them with all the complaisance and love as was possible, telling them that time and circumstances having greatly varied with me, whatever they saw amiss i hoped they would be so good as to look over it at that time, by considering the unhappy situation of my affairs. after this visit was over, and i had myself and isabel to provide for, handsome lodgings to keep (which were as expensive as they were fine), and nothing but my principal money to live on (i mean what i happened to have in my pocket at my lord's death, for i had not been paid my £ as yet), i could not manage for a genteel maintenance as i had done some years before. i thought of divers things to lay my small sums out to advantage, but could fix on nothing; for it always happens that when people have but a trifle, they are very dubious in the disposal of it. having been long resolving in my mind, i at last fixed on merchandise as the most genteel and profitable of anything else. accordingly i went to a merchant who was intimate with my late lord, and letting him know how my circumstances were, he heartily condoled with me, and told me he could help me to a share in two ships--one was going a trading voyage to the coast of africa, and the other a-privateering. i was now in a dilemma, and was willing to have a share in the trader, but was dubious of being concerned in the privateer; for i had heard strange stories told of the gentlemen concerned in that way of business. nay, i had been told, but with what certainty i cannot aver, that there was a set of men who took upon them to issue ships, and as they always knew to what port they are bound, notice was sent to their correspondent abroad to order out their privateers on the coast the other sailed, and they knowing the loading, and the numbers of hands and guns were on board, soon made prizes of the vessels, and the profits were equally divided, after paying what was paid for their insurance, among them all. however, i at last resolved, by the merchant's advice, to have a share in the trader, and the next day he over-persuaded me to have a share in the privateer also. but that i may not lay out my money before i have it, it may not be amiss to observe that i went to the executors and received my £ at an hour's notice, and then went to the merchant's to know what the shares would come to, and being told £ , i was resolved to raise the money; so i went home, and, with my maid isabel, in two days' time disposed of as many of my clothes as fetched me near £ , which, joined to the above sum, i carried to the merchant's, where the writings were drawn, signed, sealed, and delivered to me in the presence of two witnesses, who went with me for that purpose. the ships were near ready for sailing; the trader was so well manned and armed, as well as the privateer, that the partners would not consent to insure them, and out they both sailed, though from different ports, and i depended on getting a good estate between them. when i was about this last ship a letter came from the count, my son, full of tender expressions of his duty to me, in which i was informed that he was going again to the university at paris, where he should remain four years; after that he intended to make the tour of europe, and then come and settle at the hague. i returned him thanks in a letter for his compliment, wished him all happiness, and a safe return to holland, and desired that he would write to me from time to time that i might hear of his welfare, which was all i could now expect of him. but this was the last time i heard from him, or he from me. in about a month's time the news came that the privateer (which sailed under british colours, and was divided into eight shares) had taken a ship, and was bringing it into the texel, but that it accidentally foundered, and being chained to the privateer, had, in sinking, like to have lost that too. two or three of the hands got on shore, and came to the hague; but how terribly i was alarmed any one may judge, when i heard the ship the privateer had was the newfoundland merchantman, as i had bought two shares in out of four. about two months after news was current about the hague of a privateer or merchantman, one of them of the town, though not known which, having an engagement in the mediterranean, in which action both the privateer and trader was lost. soon after their names were publicly known, and, in the end, my partners heard that they were our ships, and unhappily sailing under false colours (a thing often practised in the time of war), and never having seen each other, had, at meeting, a very smart engagement, each fighting for life and honour, till two unfortunate shots; one of them, viz., the privateer, was sunk by a shot between wind and water, and the trader unhappily blown up by a ball falling in the powder-room. there were only two hands of the trader, and three of the privateer, that escaped, and they all fortunately met at one of the partners' houses, where they confirmed the truth of this melancholy story, and to me a fatal loss. what was to be done now? i had no money, and but few clothes left; there, was no hope of subsistence from my son or his guardians; they were tied down to be spectators of my misfortunes, without affording me any redress, even if they would. isabel, though i was now reduced to the last penny, would live with me still, and, as i observed before and may now repeat, i was in a pretty situation to begin the world--upwards of sixty years of age, friendless, scanty of clothes, and but very little money. i proposed to isabel to remove from lodgings and retire to amsterdam, where i was not known, and might turn myself into some little way of business, and work for that bread now which had been too often squandered away upon very trifles. and upon consideration i found myself in a worse condition than i thought, for i had nothing to recommend me to heaven, either in works or thoughts; had even banished from my mind all the cardinal and moral virtues, and had much more reason to hide myself from the sight of god, if possible, than i had to leave the hague, that i might not be known of my fellow-creatures. and farther to hasten our removing to amsterdam, i recollected i was involved in debt for money to purchase a share in the newfoundland trader, which was lost, and my creditors daily threatened me with an arrest to make me pay them. i soon discharged my lodgings and went with isabel to amsterdam, where i thought, as i was advanced in years, to give up all i could raise in the world, and on the sale of everything i had to go into one of the proveniers' houses, where i should be settled for life. but as i could not produce enough money for it, i turned it into a coffee-house near the stadt-house, where i might have done well; but as soon as i was settled one of my hague creditors arrested me for a debt of £ , and i not having a friend in the world of whom to raise the money, was, in a shameful condition, carried to the common jail, where poor isabel followed me with showers of tears, and left me inconsolable for my great misfortunes. here, without some very unforeseen accident, i shall never go out of it until i am carried to my grave, for which my much-offended god prepare me as soon as possible. _the continuation of the life of roxana, by isabel johnson, who had been her waiting-maid, from the time she was thrown into jail to the time of her death._ after my lady, as it was my duty to call her, was thrown into jail for a debt she was unable to pay, she gave her mind wholly up to devotion. whether it was from a thorough sense of her wretched state, or any other reason, i could never learn; but this i may say, that she was a sincere penitent, and in every action had all the behaviour of a christian. by degrees all the things she had in the world were sold, and she began to find an inward decay upon her spirits. in this interval she repeated all the passages of her ill-spent life to me, and thoroughly repented of every bad action, especially the little value she had for her children, which were honestly born and bred. and having, as she believed, made her peace with god, she died with mere grief on the nd of july , in the sixty-fifth year of her age, and was decently buried by me in the churchyard belonging to the lutherans, in the city of amsterdam. the end. mistress nell the illustrations shown in this edition are reproductions of scenes from the photo-play of "mistress nell," produced and copyrighted by the famous players film company, adolf zukor, president, to whom the publishers desire to express their thanks and appreciation for permission to use the pictures. [illustration: nell gwyn the king's favorite.] mistress nell a merry tale of a merry time (t'wixt fact and fancy) by george c. hazelton, jr. author of the play "let not poor nelly starve." illustrated with scenes from the photo-play produced and copyrighted by the famous players film company, adolph zukor, president. new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, , by charles scribner's sons all rights reserved a word it is the vogue to dramatize successful novels. the author of the present nell gwyn story has pursued the contrary course. his "merry" play of the same name was written and produced before he undertook to compose this tale, suggested by the same historic sources. a word of tribute is gratefully given to the _comédienne_, miss crosman, whose courage and exquisite art introduced the "mistress nell" of the play to the public. contents chapter i "and once nell gwyn, a frail young sprite, looked kindly when i met her; i shook my head perhaps--but quite forgot to quite forget her." chapter ii it's near your cue, mistress nell! chapter iii he took them from castlemaine's hand yo throw to you. chapter iv flowers and music feed naught but love. chapter v it was never treason to steal a king's kisses. chapter vi softly on tiptoe; here nell doth lie. chapter vii come down! come up! chapter viii "and the man that is drunk is as great as a king." chapter ix three chickens! chapter x arrest him yourself! chapter xi in the field, men; at court, women! chapter xii beau adair is my name. chapter xiii for the glory of england? chapter xiv he loves me! he loves me! chapter xv i come, my love; i come. chapter xvi ods-pitikins, my own reflection! chapter xvii the day will be so happy; for i've seen you at the dawn. mistress nell a merry tale of a merry time mistress nell "and once nell gwyn, a frail young sprite, look'd kindly when i met her; i shook my head perhaps--but quite forgot to quite forget her." it was a merry time in merry old england; for king charles ii. was on the throne. not that the wines were better or the ladies fairer in his day, but the renaissance of carelessness and good-living had set in. true roundheads again sought quiet abodes in which to worship in their gray and sombre way. cromwell, their uncrowned king, was dead; and there was no place for his followers at court or in tavern. even the austere and catholic smile of brother james of york, one day to be the ruler of the land, could not cast a gloom over the assemblies at whitehall. there were those to laugh merrily at the king's wit, and at the players' wit. there were those in abundance to enjoy to-day--to-day only,--to drink to the glorious joys of to-day, with no care for the morrow. it was, indeed, merry old england; for, when the king has no cares, and assumes no cares, the people likewise have no cares. the state may be rent, the court a nest of intrigue, king and parliament at odds, the treasury bankrupt: but what care they; for the king cares not. is not the day prosperous? are not the taverns in remotest london filled with roistering spirits who drink and sing to their hearts' content of their deeds in the wars just done? can they not steal when hungry and demand when dry? aye, the worldly ones are cavaliers now--for a cavalier is king--e'en though the sword once followed cromwell and the gay cloak and the big flying plume do not quite hide the not-yet-discarded cuirass of an ironside. cockpits and theatres! it is the restoration! the maypole is up again at maypole lane, and the milk-maids bedecked with garlands dance to the tunes of the fiddle. boys no longer serve for heroines at the play, as was the misfortune in shakespeare's day. the air is full of hilarity and joy. let us too for a little hour forget responsibility and fall in with the spirit of the times; while we tipple and toast, and vainly boast: "the king! long live the king!" old drury lane was alive as the sun was setting, on the day of our visit to london town, with loungers and loafers; busy-bodies and hawkers; traffickers of sweets and other petty wares; swaggering soldiers, roistering by, stopping forsooth to throw kisses to inviting eyes at the windows above. as we turn into little russell street from the lane, passing many chairs richly made, awaiting their fair occupants, we come upon the main entrance to the king's house. not an imposing or spacious structure to be sure, it nevertheless was suited to the managerial purposes of the day, which were, as now, to spend as little and get as much as may be. the pit was barely protected from the weather by a glazed cupola; so that the audience could not always hear the sweetest song to a finish without a drenching, or dwell upon the shapeliness of the prettiest ankle, that revealed itself in the dance by means of candles set on cressets, which in those days sadly served the purposes of foot-lights. it was dryden's night. his play was on--"the conquest of granada." the best of london were there; for a first night then was as attractive as a first night now. in the balcony were draped boxes, in which lovely gowns were seen--lovely hair and lovely gems; but the fair faces were often masked. the king sat listless in the royal box, watching the people and the play or passing pretty compliments with the fair favourites by his side, diverted, perchance, by the ill-begotten quarrel of some fellow with a saucy orange-wench over the cost of her golden wares. the true gallants preferred being robbed to haggling--for the shame of it. a knowing one in the crowd was heard to say: "'tis castlemaine to the king's left." "no, 'tis madame carwell; curse her," snarled a more vulgar companion. "madame querouaille, knave, duchess of portsmouth," irritably exclaimed a handsome gallant, himself stumbling somewhat over the french name, though making a bold play for it, as he passed toward his box, pushing the fellow aside. he added a moment later, but so that no one heard: "portsmouth is far from here." it was the duke of buckingham--the great duke of buckingham, in the pit of the king's house! truly, we see strange things in these strange times! indeed, william penn himself did not hesitate to gossip with the orange-wenches, unless pepys lied--and pepys never lied. "what said he?" asked a stander-by, a butcher, who, with apron on and sleeves to elbow, had hastily left his stall at one of the afternoon and still stood with mouth agape and fingers widespread waiting for the play. before, however, his sooty companion could answer, they were jostled far apart. the crowd struggled for places in eager expectation, amid banter none too virtuous, whistlings and jostlings. the time for the play had arrived. "nell! nell! nell!" was on every lip. and who was "nell"? from amidst the players, lords and coxcombs crowded on the stage stepped forth nell gwyn--the prettiest rogue in merry england. a cheer went up from every throat; for the little vixen who stood before them had long reigned in the hearts of drury lane and the habitués of the king's house. yea, all eyes were upon the pretty, witty nell; the one-time orange-girl; now queen of the theatre, and the idol of the lane. her curls were flowing and her big eyes dancing beneath a huge hat--more, indeed, a canopy than a hat--so large that the audience screamed with delight at the incongruity of it and the pretty face beneath. this pace in foolery had been set at the duke's house, but nell out-did them, with her broad-brimmed hat as large as a cart-wheel and her quaint waist-belt; for was not her hat larger by half than that at the rival house and her waist-belt quainter? as she came forward to speak the prologue, her laugh too was merrier and more roguish: _"this jest was first of the other house's making, and, five times tried, has never fail'd of taking;_ * * * * * _this is that hat, whose very sight did win ye to laugh and clap as though the devil were in ye,_ * * * * * _i'll write a play, says one, for i have got a broad-brimm'd hat, and waist-belt, towards a plot. says the other, i have one more large than that, thus they out-write each other with a hat! the brims still grew with every play they writ; and grew so large, they cover'd all the wit. hat was the play; 't was language, wit, and tale: like them that find meat, drink, and cloth in ale."_ the king leaned well out over the box-rail, his dark eyes intent upon nell's face. a fair hand, however, was placed impatiently upon his shoulder and drew him gently back. "lest you fall, my liege." "thanks, castlemaine," he replied, kindly but knowingly. "you are always thoughtful." the play went on. the actors came and went. hart appeared in oriental robes as almanzor--a dress which mayhap had served its purposes for othello, and mayhap had not; for cast-off court-dresses, without regard to fitness, were the players' favourite costumes in those days, the richness more than the style mattering. with mighty force, he read from the centre of the stage, with elocution true and syllable precise, dryden's ponderous lines. the king nodded approvingly to the poet. the poet glowed with pride at the patronage of the king. the old-time audience were enchanted. dryden sat with a triumphant smile as he dwelt upon his poetic lines and heard the cherished syllables receive rounds of applause from the londoners. was it the thought, dear dryden; or was it nell's pretty ways that bewitched the most of it? nell's laugh still echoes in the world; but where are your plays, dear dryden? chapter ii _it's near your cue, mistress nell!_ the greenroom of the king's house was scarcely a prepossessing place or inviting. a door led to the stage; another to the street. on the remaining doors might have been deciphered from the old english of a scene-artist's daub "mistress gwyn" and "mr. hart." these doors led respectively to the tiring-room of the sweet sprite who had but now set the pit wild with a hat over a sparkling eye and to that of the actor-manager of the house. a rough table, a few chairs, a mirror which had evidently seen better days in some grand mansion and a large throne-chair which might equally well have satisfied the royalty of macbeth or christopher sly--its royalty, forsooth, being in its size, for thus only could it lord-it over its mates--stood in the corner. old armour hung upon the wall, grim in the light of candles fixed in braziers. rushes were strewn about the floor. ah! pepys, pepys, was it here that you recalled "specially kissing of nell"? mayhap; for we read in your book: "i kissed her, and so did my wife, and a mighty pretty soul she is." be that as it may, however, you must have found nell's lips very agreeable; for a great wit has suggested that it was well that mrs. pepys was present on the occasion. on great play-nights, however, this most unroyal room assumed the proportions of royalty. gallants and even lords sought entrance here and elbowed their way about; and none dared say them nay. they forced a way even upon the stage during the play, though not so commonly as before the restoration, yet still too much; and the players played as best they could, and where best they could. _billets-doux_ passed, sweet words were said,--all in this dilapidated, unpretentious, candle-lighted room. at the moment of which we speak, the greenroom was deserted save for a lad of twelve or fourteen years, who stood before the mirror, posing to his personal satisfaction and occasionally delivering bits from "hamlet." he was none other than "dick," the call-boy of the king's house. the lad struck a final attitude, his brow clouded. he assumed what seemed to him the proper pose for the royal dane. his meditations and his pose, however, were broken in upon by the sudden entrance of manager hart, flushed and in an unusual state of excitement. "where is my dagger, dick?" he exclaimed, pacing the room. the boy came to himself but slowly. "what are you doing? get my dagger, boy," wildly reiterated the irate manager. "don't you see there will be a stage-wait?" he cast an anxious glance in the direction of the door which led to the stage. "where did you leave it, sir?" asked the lad, finally realizing that it would be wise not to trifle at such a time. "never mind where i left it. get it, get it; do you hear! nell's on the stage already." hart rushed to the door and looked off in an increasing state of excitement. "why, you've got your dagger on, sir," hesitatingly suggested the lad, as he caught the gleam of a small scimiter among the folds of almanzor's tunic. hart's face flushed. "devil take you, boy," he exclaimed; "you are too stupid ever to make an actor!" with this speech, the manager strode out of the greenroom toward the stage. poor dick sank back in an attitude of resignation. "how long, o rome, must i endure this bondage?" he said, sadly. he again observed his boyish figure in the mirror, and the pretty face brightened as he realized that there might still be hope in life, despite manager hart's assertion that he would never be able to act. his features slowly sank into a set expression of tremendous gloom, such as he thought should characterize his conception of himself as hamlet when in days to come the mantles of burbage and of betterton should be his and manager hart must bow to him. he stood transfixed before the glass in a day-dream, forgetful of his ills. his pretty lips moved, and one close by might have heard again, "to be or not to be" in well-modulated phrase. "ah, boy; here!" dick started. it was a richly dressed gallant, in old-rose with royal orders, who had entered the room quietly but authoritatively from the street--the same lordly personage we observed in the pit. his manner was that of one accustomed to be obeyed and quickly too. the lad knew him and bowed low. "tell mistress nell, buckingham would speak with her. lively, lad; lively," he said. "she is on the stage, my lord," replied dick, respectfully. "gad, i thought otherwise and stepped about from my box. here; put these flowers in her tiring-room." the boy took the beautiful bouquet of white roses. "yes, my lord," he replied, and turned to do the bidding. "flowers strewn in ladies' ways oft' lead to princely favours," muttered his lordship, thoughtfully, as he removed his gloves and vainly adjusted his hat and sword. "portsmouth at dover told me that." it was apparent from his face that much passed before his mind, in that little second, of days when, at dover castle not long since, he had been a part--and no small part--of the intrigue well planned by louis of france, and well executed by the duchess of orléans assisted by the fair louise, now duchess of portsmouth, in which his own purse and power had waxed mightily. whatever his lordship thought, however, it was gone like the panorama before a drowning brain. he stopped the lad as he was entering nell's tiring-room, with an exclamation. the boy returned. "you gave mistress nell my note bidding her to supper?" he asked, questioningly. "i did, my lord," answered dick. "'sheart, a madrigal worthy of bacchus! she smiled delightedly?" continued his lordship, in a jocular mood. "no, my lord; quite serious." his lordship's face changed slightly. "read it eagerly?" he ventured, where he might have commanded, further to draw out the lad. "yes, my lord," added dick, respectfully, "after a time." the boy's lids dropped to avoid revealing his amused recollection of the incident; and his lordship's quick eye noted it. "good!" he exclaimed, with an assumed triumphant air. "she folded it carefully and placed it in her bosom next her heart?" "she threw it on the floor, my lord!" meekly answered dick, hiding his face in the flowers to avoid revealing disrespect. "my _billet-doux_ upon the floor!" angrily exclaimed his lordship. "plague on't, she said something, made some answer, boy?" the diplomat was growing earnest despite himself, as diplomats often do in the cause of women. dick trembled. "she said your dinners made amends for your company, my lord," he said, meekly. buckingham's eyes snapped; but he was too clever to reveal his feelings further to a call-boy, whom he dismissed with a wave of the hand. he then swaggered to the table and complacently exclaimed: "the rogue! nelly, nelly, your lips shall pay tribute for that. rosy impudence! buckingham's dinners make amends for his company? minx!" he threw himself into a chair, filled with deep reflections of supper and wine, wit and beauty, rather than state-craft. thus lost in selfish reflection, he did not observe, or, if he did, cared not for, the frail figure and sweet face of one who cautiously tiptoed into the greenroom. it was orange moll, whose sad countenance and tattered garments betokened a sadder story. her place was in the pit, with her back to the stage, vending her oranges to artisans, girls with vizards or foolish gallants. she had no right behind the scenes. "i am 'most afraid to enter here without nell," she thought, faint-heartedly, as she glanced about the room and her eyes fell upon the great lord buckingham. "oranges? will you have my oranges? only sixpence, my lord," she ventured at length, then hesitatingly advanced and offered her wares; but his lordship's thoughts were far away. "what shall we have for supper?" was his sole concern. "i think nelly would like spiced tongue." instantly his hands and eyes were raised in mock invocation of the intervention of the powers that be, and so suddenly that moll drew back. "ye gods," he exclaimed aloud, "she has enough of that already! ah, the vintage of----" it was more habit than courage which brought to moll's trembling lips the familiar orange-cry, which again interrupted him: "oranges; only sixpence. here is one picked for you, my lord." buckingham's eyes flashed with anger; he was not wont to have his way, much less his pleasure, disturbed by the lowly. "oh, hang you, you disturb me. i am thinking; don't you perceive i am thinking? begone!" "only sixpence, my lord; i have not sold one to-night," pleaded the girl, sadly. his lordship rose irritably. "i have no pauper's pence," he exclaimed. "out of my way! ragbag!" he pushed the girl roughly aside and crossed the room. at the same instant, there was confusion at the stage-door, the climax of which was the re-entrance of hart into the greenroom. "how can a man play when he trembles for his life lest he step upon a lord?" cried the angry manager. "they should be horsewhipped off the stage, and"--his eyes falling upon buckingham--"out of the greenroom." "ah, hart," began his lordship, with a patronizing air, "why is nelly so long? i desire to see her." hart's lips trembled, but he controlled his passion. "indeed? his majesty and the good folk in front would doubtless gladly await your interview with mistress eleanor gwyn. shall i announce your will, my lord, unto his majesty and stop the play?" "you grow ironical, friend hart," replied his lordship. "not so," said the actor, bowing low; "i am your lordship's most obedient servant." buckingham's lip curled and his eyes revealed that he would have said more, but the room was meantime filling with players from the stage, some exchanging compliments, some strutting before the glass, and he would not so degrade his dignity before them. dick, foil in hand even in the manager's room, was testing the steel's strength to his utmost, in boyish fashion. this confusion lent moll courage, and forth came again the cry: "oranges? will you have my oranges? only sixpence, sir." she boldly offered her wares to almanzor, but started and paled when the hero turned and revealed manager hart. "what are you doing here, you little imp? back to the pit, where you belong." the manager's voice was full of meaning. "nell told me i might come here, sir," said the girl, faintly excusing herself. hart's temper got the better of him. to admit before all that nell ruled the theatre was an affront to his managerial dignity which he could not brook. "oh, nell did, did she?" he almost shrieked, as he angrily paced the room like some caged beast, gesticulating wildly. the actors gathered in groups and looked askant. "gadso," he continued, "who is manager, i should like to know! nell would introduce her whole trade here if she could. every orange-peddler in london will set up a stand in the greenroom at the king's, next we know. out with you! this is a temple of art, not a marketplace. out with you!" he seized moll roughly in his anger and almost hurled her out at the door. he would have done so, indeed, had not nell entered at this moment from the stage. her eye caught the situation at a glance. "oh, blood, iago, blood!" she exclaimed, mock-heroically, then burst into the merriest laugh that one could care to hear. "how now, a tragedy in the greenroom! what lamb is being sacrificed?" hart stood confused; the players whispered in expectation; and an amused smile played upon the features of my lord buckingham at the manager's discomfiture. finally hart found his tongue. "an old comrade of yours at orange-vending before you lost the art of acting," he suggested, with a glance at moll. [illustration: "enemies to the king--beware!"] "by association with you, jack?" replied the witch of the theatre in a way which bespoke more answers that wisdom best not bring forth. nell's whole heart went out to the subject of the controversy. poor little tattered orange moll! she was carried back in an instant to her own bitter life and bitter struggles when an orange-girl. throwing an arm about the child, she kissed away the tears with, "what is the matter, dear moll?" "they are all mocking me, and sent me back to the pit," replied the girl, hysterically. "shame on you all," said nell; and the eyes that were so full of comedy revealed tragic fire. "fy, fy," pleaded hart; "i'll be charitable to-morrow, nell, after this strain is off--but a first night--" "you need charity yourself?" suggested nell; and she burst into a merry laugh, in which many joined. buckingham instantly took up the gauntlet for a bold play, for a _coup d'état_ in flattery. "pshaw!" he cried, waving aside the players in a princely fashion. "when nell plays, we have no time to munch oranges. let the wench bawl in the street." poor moll's tears flowed again with each harsh word. nell was not so easily affected. "odso, my lord! it is a pity your lordship is not a player. then the orange-trade would flourish," she said. buckingham bowed, amused and curious. "say you so, i' faith! pray, why, mad minx?" "your lordship would make such a good mark for the peel," retorted nell, tossing a bit of orange-peel in his face, to the infinite delight of hart and his fellow-players. "devil!" angrily exclaimed his lordship as he realized the insult. "i would kill a man for this; a woman, i can only love." his hand left his sword-hilt; and he bowed low to the vixen of the theatre, picked from the floor the bit of peel which had fallen, kissed it, tossed it over his shoulder and turned away. nell was not done, however; her revenge was incomplete. "there! dry your eyes, moll," she exclaimed. "give me your basket, child. you shall be avenged still further." the greenroom had now filled from the stage and the tiring-rooms; and all gathered gleefully about to see what next the impish nell would do, for avenged she would be they all knew, though the course of her vengeance none could guess. the manager, catching at the probable outcome when nell seized from moll's trembling arm the basket heaped with golden fruit, gave the first warning: "great heavens! flee for your lives! i'faith, here comes the veteran robber at such traffic." there was a sudden rush for the stage, but nell cried: "guard the door, moll; don't let a rascal out. i'll do the rest." it was not moll's strength, however, which kept the greenroom filled, but expectation of nell. all gathered about with the suspense of a drama; for nell herself was a whole play as she stood in the centre of that little group of lords and players, dressed for almahyde, dryden's heroine, with a basket of oranges on her dimpled arm. what a pretty picture she was too--prettier here even than on the stage! the nearer, the prettier! a band of roses, one end of which formed a garland falling to the floor, circled and bound in her curls. what a figure in her oriental garb, hiding and revealing. indeed, the greenroom seemed bewitched by her cry: "oranges, will you have my oranges?" she lifted the basket high and offered the fruit in her enchanting old-time way, a way which had won for her the place of first actress in england. could it not now dispose of moll's wares and make the child happy? almahyde's royal train was caught up most unroyally, revealing two dainty ankles; and she laughed and danced and disposed of her wares all in a breath. listen and love: _sweet as love-lips, dearest mine, picked by spanish maids divine, black-eyed beauties, who, like eve, with golden fruit their loves deceive! buy oranges; buy oranges!_ _close your eyes, when these you taste; think your arm about her waist: thus with sixpence may you win happiness unstained with sin. buy oranges; buy oranges!_ _as the luscious fruit you sip, you will wager 'tis her lip; nothing sweeter since the rise of wickedness in paradise. buy oranges; buy oranges!_ there were cries of "brava!" "another jig!" and "hurrah for nelly!" it was one of those bits of acting behind the scenes which are so rare and exquisite and which the audience never see. "marry, gallants, deny me after that, if you dare"; and nell's little foot came down firmly in the last step of a triumphant jig, indicating a determination that moll's oranges should be sold and quickly too. "last act! all ready for the last act," rang out in dick's familiar voice from the stage-door as she ended. it was well some one thought of the play and of the audience in waiting. many of the players hastily departed to take up their cues; but not so nell. her eyes were upon the lordly buckingham, who was endeavouring to effect a crafty exit. "not so fast, my lord," she said as she caught his handsome cloak and drew him back into the room. "i want you with me." she looked coyly into his lordship's face as though he were the one man in all the world she loved, and her curls and cheek almost nestled against his rich cloak. "a dozen, did you say? what a heart you have, my lord. a bountiful heart!" buckingham was dazed; his eyes sought nell, then looked aghast at the oranges she would force upon him. the impudence of it! "a dozen!" he exclaimed in awe. "'slife, nelly; what would i do with a dozen oranges?" "pay for them, in sooth," promptly replied the vixen. "i never give a lord credit." the player-folk gathered closer to watch the scene; for there was evidently more fun brewing, and that too at the expense of a very royal gentleman. "a player talk of credit!" replied his lordship, quite ironically, as he straightened up proudly for a wit-encounter. "what would become of the mummers, if the lords did not fill their empty pockets?" he said, crushingly. "what would become of the lords, if the players' brains did not try to fill their empty skulls with wits?" quickly retorted nell. "if you were a man, sweet nelly, i should answer: 'the lords first had fools at court; then supplanted them with players!'" "and, being a woman, i do answer," replied the irrepressible nell, "'--and played the fools themselves, my lord!'" the players tried to smother their feelings; but the retort was too apt, and the greenroom rang with laughter. buckingham turned fiercely upon them; but their faces were instantly mummified. "gad, i would sooner face the dutch fleet, nelly. up go my hands, fair robber," he said. he had decided to succumb for the present. in his finger-tips glistened a golden guinea. nell eyed the coin dubiously. "nay, keep this and your wares too," added his lordship, in hope of peace, as he placed it in her hand. "do you think me a beggar?" replied nell, indignantly. "take your possessions, every one--every orange." she filled his hands and arms to overflowing with her golden wares. his lordship winced, but stood subdued. "what am i to do with them?" he asked, falteringly. "eat them; eat them," promptly and forcefully retorted the quondam orange-vender. "all?" asked his lordship. "all!" replied her ladyship. "damme, i cannot hold a dozen," he exclaimed, aghast. "a chair! a chair!" cried nell. "would your lordship stand at the feast of gold?" before buckingham had time to reflect upon the outrage to his dignity, nell forced him into a chair, to the great glee of the by-standers, especially of manager hart, who chuckled to an actor by his side: "she'll pluck his fine feathers; curse his arrogance." "your knees together, my lord! what, have they never united in prayer?" gleefully laughed nell as she further humbled his lordship by forcing his knees together to form a lap upon which to pile more oranges. buckingham did not relish the scene; but he was clever enough to humour the vixen, both from fear of her tongue and from hope of favours as well as words from her rosy lips. "they'll unite to hold _thee_, wench," he suggested, with a sickly laugh, as he observed his knees well laden with oranges. "i trow not," retorted nell; "they can scarce hold their own. there!" and she roguishly capped the pyramid which burdened his lordship's knees with the largest in her basket. "i'll barter these back for my change, sweet nell," he pleaded. "what change?" quickly cried the merry imp of satan. "i gave you a golden guinea," answered his lordship, woefully. "i gave you a golden dozen, my lord!" replied nell, gleefully. "oranges, who will have my oranges?" she was done with buckingham and had turned about for other prey. hart could not allow the opportunity to escape without a shot at his hated lordship. "fleeced," he whispered grimly over his lordship's shoulder, with a merry chuckle. buckingham rose angrily. "a plague on the wench and her dealings," he said. his oranges rolled far and wide over the floor of the greenroom. "you should be proud, my lord, to be robbed by so fair a hand," continued hart, consolingly. "'tis an honour, i assure you; we all envy you." buckingham did not relish the consolation. "'tis an old saw, master hart," he replied: "'he laughs best who laughs last.'" as he spoke, nell's orange-cry rang out again above the confusion and the fun. she was still at it. moll was finding vengeance and money, indeed, though she dwelt upon her accumulating possessions through eyelashes dim with tears. "it's near your cue, mistress nell," cried out the watchful dick at the stage-door. "six oranges left; see me sell them, moll," cried the unheeding vender. "it's near your cue, mistress nell!" again shouted the call-boy, in anxious tones. "marry, my cue will await my coming, pretty one," laughed nell. the boy was not so sure of that. "oh, don't be late, mistress nell," he pleaded. "i'll buy the oranges rather than have you make a stage-wait." "dear heart," replied nell, touched by the lad's solicitude. "keep your pennies, dick, and you and i will have a lark with them some fine day. six oranges, left; going--going--" she sprang into the throne-chair, placed one of the smallest feet in england impudently on one of its arms and proceeded to vend her remaining wares from on high, to the huge satisfaction of her admirers. the situation was growing serious. nell was not to be trifled with. the actors stood breathless. hart grew wild as he realized the difficulty and the fact that she was uncontrollable. king and parliament, he well knew, could not move her from her whimsical purpose, much less the manager of the king's. "what are you doing, nell?" he pleaded, wildly. "you will ruin the first night. his majesty in front, too! dryden will never forgive us if 'granada' goes wrong through our fault." "heyday! what care i for 'granada'?" and nell swung the basket of oranges high in air and calmly awaited bids. "not a step on the stage till the basket is empty." it was buckingham's turn now. "here's music for our manager," he chuckled. "our deepest sympathy, friend hart." this was more than hart could bear. the manager of the king's house was forced into profanity. "damn your sympathy," exclaimed he; and few would criticise him for it. he apologized as quickly, however, and turned to nell. "there goes your scene, nell. i'll buy your oranges, when you come off," he continued to plead, in desperation, scarcely less fearful of offending her than of offending the great lord buckingham. "now or never," calmly replied the vender from her chair-top. "the devil take the women," muttered hart, frantically, as he rushed headlong into his tiring-room. "marry, heaven defend," laughed nell; "for he's got the men already." she sprang lightly from the chair to the floor. hart was back on the instant, well out of breath but purse in hand. "here, here," he exclaimed. "never mind the oranges, wench. the audience will be waiting." "faith and troth, and is not nell worth waiting for?" she cried, her eyes shining radiantly. indeed, the audience would have gladly waited, could they have but seen her pretty, winsome way! "these are yours--all--all!" she continued, as she gleefully emptied the basket of its remaining fruit over prince almanzor's head. hart protested vainly. then rushing back to moll, nell threw both arms about the girl triumphantly. "there, moll," she said, "is your basket and all the trophies"; and she gave moll the basket with the glittering coins jangling in it. "your cue--your cue is spoken, mistress nell," shrieked dick from the stage-door. nell heeded not. her eyes happening upon an orange which had fallen near the throne-chair, she caught it up eagerly and hurled it at manager hart. "forsooth, here's another orange, master manager." he succeeded in catching it despite his excitement. "your cue--your cue--mistress nell!" came from every throat as one. nell tossed back her head indifferently. "let them wait; let them wait," she said, defiantly. the stage-beauty crossed leisurely to the glass and carelessly arranged her drapery and the band of roses encircling her hair. then the hoyden was gone. in an instant, nell was transformed into the princess, almahyde. the room had been filled with breathless suspense; but what seemed to the players an endless period of time was but a minute. nell turned to the manager, and with all the suavity of a princess of tragedy kissed her hand tantalizingly to him and said: "now, jack, i'll teach you how to act." she passed out, and, in a moment, rounds of applause from the amphitheatre filled the room. she was right; the audience would wait for her. a moment later, the greenroom was deserted except for manager hart and lord buckingham. hart had thrown the call-boy almost bodily through the door that led to the stage, thus venting his anger upon the unoffending lad, who had been unfortunate enough to happen in his way ill betimes. he now stood vainly contemplating himself before the glass and awaiting his cue. buckingham leaned upon a chair-top, uncertain as to his course. "damme! she shall rue this work," he muttered at length. "a man might as well make love to a wind-mill. i forgot to tell her how her gown becomes her. that is a careless thing to forget." the reflection forthwith determined his course. "nelly, nelly, nelly," he called as he quickly crossed the room after the departed nell, "you are divine to-night. your gown is simply--" the manager's voice stayed him at the stage-door. "my lord, come back; my lord--" buckingham's hand had gone so far, indeed, as to push open the door. he stood entranced as he looked out upon the object of his adoration upon the stage. "perfection!" he exclaimed. "your eyes--" "my lord, my lord, you forget--" buckingham turned indignantly at the voice which dared to interrupt him in the midst of his rhapsody. "you forget--your oranges, my lord," mildly suggested hart, as he pointed to the fruit scattered upon the floor. buckingham's face crimsoned. "plague on't! they are sour, master hart." with a glance of contempt, he turned on his heel and left the room. a triumphant smile played upon the manager's face. he felt that he had annoyed his lordship without his intention being apparent. "a good exit, on my honour," he muttered, as he stood contemplating the door through which buckingham had passed; "but, by heaven, he shall better it unless he takes his eyes from nell. great men believe themselves resistless with the fair; more often, the fair are resistless with great men." he took a final look at himself in the glass, adjusted his scimiter; and, well satisfied with himself and the conceit of his epigram unheard save by himself, he also departed, to take up his cue. chapter iii _he took them from castlemaine's hand to throw to you._ the greenroom seemed like some old forest rent by a storm. its furniture, which was none too regular at best, either in carving or arrangement, had the irregularity which comes only with a tempest, human or divine. the table, it is true, still stood on its four oaken legs; but even it was well awry. the chairs were scattered here and there, some resting upon their backs. to add to all this, oranges in confusion were strewn broadcast upon the floor. a storm in fact had visited the greenroom. the storm was nell. in the midst of the confusion, a jolly old face peeped cautiously in at the door which led to the street. at the sound of manager hart's thunderous tones coming from the stage, however, it as promptly disappeared, only to return when the apparent danger ceased. it was a rare old figure and a rare old dress and a rare old man. yet, not an old man either. his face was red; for he was a tavern spirit, well known and well beloved,--a lover of good ale! across his back hung a fiddle which too had the appearance of being the worse for wear, if fiddles can ever be said to be the worse for wear. the intruder took off his dilapidated hat, hugged his fiddle closely under his arm and looked about the room, more cautiously than respectfully. "oons, here is a scattering of props; a warfare of the orange-wenches!" he exclaimed. "a wise head comes into battle after the last shot is fired." he proceeded forthwith to fill his pockets, of which there seemed to be an abundance of infinite depth, with oranges. this done, he calmly made a hole in the next orange which came to his hand and began to suck it loudly and persistently, boy-fashion, meanwhile smacking his lips. his face was one wreath of unctuous smiles. "there is but one way to eat an orange," he chuckled; "that's through a hole." at this moment, hart's voice was heard again upon the stage, and the new-comer to the greenroom liked to have dropped his orange. "odsbud, that's one of master hart's love-tones," he thought. "i must see nell before he sees me, or it will be farewell strings." he hastened to nell's tiring-room and rapped lightly on the door. "mistress nell! mistress nell!" he called. the door opened, but it was not nell. her maid pointed toward the stage. strings--for strings was his name, or at least none knew him by a better--accordingly hobbled across the room--for the wars too had left their mark on him--and peeped off in the direction indicated. "gad," he exclaimed, gleefully clapping his hands, "there she goes on the stage as a moorish princess." there was a storm of applause without. "bravo, nelly, bravo!" he continued. "she's caught the lads in the pit. they worship nell out there." the old fellow straightened up as if he felt a personal pride in the audience for evincing such good taste. "oons! jack hart struts about like a young game-cock at his first fight," he observed. he broke into an infectious laugh, which would have been a fine basso for nell's laugh. from the manager, his eye turned toward the place which he himself had once occupied among the musicians. he began to dance up and down with both feet, his knees well bent, boy-fashion, and to clap his hands wildly. "look ye, little tompkins got my old place with the fiddle. whack, de-doodle-de-do! whack, de-doodle, de-doodle-de-do!" he cried, giving grotesque imitations to his own great glee of his successor as leader of the orchestra. then, shaking his head, confident of his own superiority with the bow, he turned back into the greenroom and, with his mouth half full of orange, uttered the droll dictum: "it will take more than catgut and horse-hair to make you a fiddler, tommy, my boy." thus strings stood blandly sucking his orange with personal satisfaction in the centre of the room, when dick entered from the stage. the call-boy paused as if he could not believe his eyes. he looked and looked again. "heigh-ho!" he exclaimed at last, and then rushed across the room to greet the old fiddler. "why, strings, i thought we would never see you again; how fares it with you?" strings placed the orange which he had been eating and which he knew full well was none of his own well behind him; and, assuming an unconcerned and serious air, he replied: "odd! a little the worse for wear, dickey, me and the old fiddle, but still smiling with the world." there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye as he spoke. dick, ever mindful of the welfare and appearance of the theatre, unhooked from the wall a huge shield, which mayhap had served some favourite knight of yore, and, using it as a tray, proceeded to gather the scattered fruit. "have an orange?" he inquired of strings, who still stood in a reflective mood in the centre of the room, as he rested in his labours by him. "how; do they belong to you?" demanded strings. "oh, no," admitted dick, "but--" the fiddler instantly assumed an air of injured innocence. "how dare you," he cried, "offer me what don't belong to you?" he turned upon the boy almost ferociously at the bare thought. "honesty is the best policy," he continued, seriously. "i have tried both, lad"; and, in his eagerness to impress upon the boy the seriousness of taking that which does not belong to you, he gestured inadvertently with the hand which till now had held the stolen orange well behind him. [illustration: a friend even unto her worst enemy.] dick's eye fell upon it, and so did strings's. there was a moment's awkwardness, and then both burst into a peal of joyous laughter. "oh, well, egad,--i _will_ join you, dick," said strings, with more patronage still than apology. he seated himself upon the table and began anew to suck his orange in philosophic fashion. "but, mind you, lad; never again offer that which is not your own, for there you are twice cursed," he discoursed pompously. "you make him who receives guilty of your larceny. oons, my old wound." he winced from pain. "he becomes an accomplice in your crime. so says the king's law. hush, lad, i am devouring the evidence of your guilt." the boy by this time had placed the shield of oranges in the corner of the room and had returned to listen to strings's discourse. "you speak with the learning of a solicitor," he said, as he looked respectfully into the old fiddler's face. strings met the glance with due dignity. "marry, i've often been in the presence of a judge," he replied, with great solemnity. his face reflected the ups and downs in his career as he made the confession. "is that where you have been, strings, all these long days?" asked dick, innocently. "heaven forbid!" exclaimed strings, with sadly retrospective countenance. "travelling, lad--contemplating the world, from the king's highways. take note, my boy,--a prosperous man! i came into the world without a rag that i could call my own, and now i have an abundance. saith the philosopher: some men are born to rags, some achieve rags and some have rags thrust upon them." "i wish you were back with us, strings," said the boy, sympathetically, as he put a hand upon strings's broad shoulder and looked admiringly up into his face. "i wish so myself," replied the fiddler. "thrice a day, i grow lonesome here." a weather-beaten hand indicated the spot where good dinners should be. "they haven't all forgot you, strings," continued his companion, consolingly. "right, lad!" said strings, musingly, as he lifted the old viol close against his cheek and tenderly picked it. "the old fiddle is true to me yet, though there is but one string left to its dear old neck." there was a sob in his voice as he spoke. "i tell you, a fiddle's human, dick! it laughs at my jokes alone now; it weeps at my sorrows." he sighed deeply and the tears glistened in his eyes. "the fiddle is the only friend left me and the little ones at home now, my lad." "--and dick!" the boy suggested, somewhat hurt. he too was weeping. "it's a shame; that's what it is!" he broke out, indignantly. "tompkins can't play the music like you used to, strings." "oons!" exclaimed the fiddler, the humour in his nature bubbling again to the surface. "it's only now and then the lord has time to make a fiddler, dickey, my boy." as he spoke, the greenroom shook with the rounds of applause from the pit and galleries without. "hurrah!" he shouted, following dick to the stage-door--his own sorrows melting before the sunshine of his joy at the success of his favourite. "nell has caught them with the epilogue." he danced gleefully about, entering heartily into the applause and totally forgetful of the fact that he was on dangerous ground. dick was more watchful. "manager hart's coming!" he exclaimed in startled voice, fearful for the welfare of his friend. strings collapsed. "oh, lord, let me be gone," he said, as he remembered the bitter quarrel he had had with the manager of the king's house, which ended in the employment of tompkins. he did not yearn for another interview; for hart had forbidden him the theatre on pain of whipping. "where can you hide?" whispered dick, woefully, as the manager's voice indicated that he was approaching the greenroom, and that too in far from the best of humour. "behind richard's throne-chair! it has held sinners before now," added the fiddler as he glided well out of sight. dick was more cautious. in a twinkling, he was out of the door which led to the street. the greenroom walls looked grim in the sputtering candle-light, but they had naught to say. the door from the stage opened, and in came nell. there was something sadly beautiful and pathetic in her face. she had enjoyed but now one of the grandest triumphs known to the theatre, and yet she seemed oblivious to the applause and bravas, to the lights and to the royalty. a large bouquet of flowers was in her arms--a bouquet of red roses. her lips touched them reverently. her eyes, however, were far away in a dream of the past. "from the hand of the king of england!" she mused softly to herself. "the king? how like his face to the youthful cavalier, who weary and worn reined in his steed a summer's day, now long ago, and took a gourd of water from my hand. could he have been the king? pooh, pooh! i dream again." she turned away, as from herself, with a heart-heavy laugh. the manager entered from the stage. "see, jack, my flowers," she said, again in an ecstasy of happiness. "are they not exquisite?" "he took them from castlemaine's hand to throw to you," snarled hart, jealously. "the sweeter, then!" and nell broke into a tantalizing laugh. "mayhap he was teaching the player-king to do likewise, jack," she added, roguishly, as she arranged the flowers in a vase. "i am in no mood for wit-thrusts," replied hart as he fretfully paced the room. "you played that scene like an icicle." "in sooth, your acting froze me," slyly retorted nell, kindly but pointedly. she took the sweetest roses from the bunch, kissed them and arranged them in her bosom. this did not improve hart's temper. strings seized the opportunity to escape from his hiding-place to the stage. "i say, you completely ruined my work," said hart. "the audience were rightly displeased." "with you, perhaps," suggested nell. "i did not observe the feeling." hart could no longer control himself. "you vilely read those glorious lines: _"see how the gazing people crowd the place; all gaping to be fill'd with my disgrace. that shout, like the hoarse peals of vultures rings, when, over fighting fields they beat their wings."_ "and how should i read them, dear master?" she asked demurely of her vainglorious preceptor. "like i read them, in sooth," replied he, well convinced that his reading could not be bettered. "like you read them, in sooth," replied nell, meekly. she took the floor and repeated the lines with the precise action and trick of voice which hart had used. every "r" was well trilled; "gaping" was pronounced with an anaconda-look, as though she were about to swallow the theatre, audience and all; and, as she spoke the line, "when, over fighting fields they beat their wings," she raised her arms and shoulders in imitation of some barn-yard fowl vainly essaying flight and swept across the room, the picture of grace in ungracefulness. "'tis monstrous!" exclaimed hart, bitterly, as he realized the travesty. "you cannot act and never could. i was a fool to engage you." nell was back by the vase, toying with the flowers. "london applauds my acting," she suggested, indifferently. "london applauds the face and figure; not the art," replied hart. "london is wise; for the art is in the face and figure, master jack. you told me so yourself," she added, sharply, pointing her finger at her adversary in quick condemnation. she turned away triumphant. "i was a fool like the rest," replied hart, visibly irritated that he could not get the better of the argument. "come, don't be angry," said nell. her manner had changed; for her heart had made her fearful lest her tongue had been unkind. "mayhap almahyde is the last part nell will ever play." she looked thoughtfully into the bunch of roses. did she see a prophecy there? he approached the table where she stood. "your head is turned by the flowers," he said, bitterly. "an honest motive, no doubt, prompted the royal gift." nell turned sharply upon him. her lips trembled, but one word only came to them--"jack!" hart's eyes fell under the rebuke; for he knew that only anger prompted what he had said. he would have struck another for the same words. "pardon, nell," he said, softly. "my heart rebukes my tongue. i love you!" nell stepped back to the mirror, contemplating herself, bedecked as she was with the flowers. in an instant she forgot all, and replied playfully to hart's confession of love: "of course, you do. how could you help it? so do others." "i love you better than the rest," he added, vehemently, "better than my life." he tried to put his arms about her. nell, however, was by him like a flash. "not so fast, dear sir," she said, coyly; and she tiptoed across the room and ensconced herself high in the throne-chair. hart followed and knelt below her, adoring. "admit that i can act--a little--just a little--dear hart, or tell me no more of love." she spoke with the half-amused, half-indifferent air of a beautiful princess to some servant-suitor; and she was, indeed, most lovable as she leaned back in the great throne-chair. she seemed a queen and the theatre her realm. her beautiful arms shone white in the flickering candle-light. her sceptre was a rose which the king of england had given her. hart stepped back and looked upon the picture. "by heaven, nell," he cried, "i spoke in anger. you are the most marvellous actress in the world. nature, art and genius crown your work." nell smiled at his vehemence. "i begin to think that you have taste most excellent," she said. hart sprang to her side, filled with hope. as the stage-lover he ne'er spoke in tenderer tones. "sweet nell, when i found you in the pit, a ragged orange-girl, i saw the sparkle in your eye, the bright intelligence, the magic genius, which artists love. i claimed you for my art, which is the art of arts--for it embraces all. i had the theatre. i gave it you. you captured the lane--then london. you captured my soul as well, and held it slave." "did i do all that, dear jack?" she asked, wistfully. "and more," said hart, rapturously. "you captured my years to come, my hope, ambition, love--all. all centred in your heart and eyes, sweet nell, from the hour i first beheld you." nell's look was far away. "is love so beautiful?" she murmured softly. her eye fell upon her sceptre-rose. "yea, i begin to think it is." she mused a moment, until the silence seemed to awaken her. she looked into hart's eyes again, sadly but firmly, then spoke as with an effort: "you paint the picture well, dear jack. paint on." her hand waved commandingly. "i could not paint ill with such a model," said he, his voice full of adoration. "well said," she replied; "and by my troth, i have relented like you, dear jack. i admit you too can act--and marvellously well." she took his trembling hand and descended from the throne. he tried once again to embrace her, but she avoided him as before. "is't true?" he asked, eagerly, without observing the hidden meaning in her voice. "'tis true, indeed--with proper emphasis and proper art and proper intonation." she crossed the room, hart following her. "i scarce can live for joy," he breathed. nell leaned back upon the table and looked knowingly and deeply into hart's eyes. her voice grew very low, but clear and full of meaning. "in faith," she said, "i trow and sadly speak but true; for i am sad at times--yea--very sad--when i observe, with all my woman's wiles and arts, i cannot act the hypocrite like men." "what mean you, darling cynic?" asked he, jocosely. "darling!" she cried, repeating the word, with a peculiar look. "to tell two girls within the hour you love each to the death would be in me hypocrisy, i admit, beyond my art; but you men can do such things with conscience clear." hart turned away his face. "she's found me out," he thought. "nell, i never loved the spanish dancing-girl. you know i love but you." "oh, ho!" laughed nell. "then why did you tell her so?--to break her heart or mine?" the manager stood confused. he scarce knew what to say. "you are cruel, nell," he pleaded, fretfully. "you never loved me, never." "did i ever say i did?" hart shook his head sadly. "come, don't pout, jack. an armistice in this, my friend, for you were my friend in the old days when i needed one, and i love you for that." she placed her hands kindly on the manager's shoulders, then turned and began to arrange anew the gift-flowers in the vase. "i'll win your life's love, nell, in spite of you," he said, determinedly. she turned her honest eyes upon him. "nay, do not try; believe me, do not try," she said softly. "nell, you do not mean--?" his voice faltered. "you must not love me," she said, firmly; "believe me, you must not." "i must not love you!" his voice scarcely breathed the words. "there, there; we are growing sentimental, jack,--and at our age," she replied. she laughed gaily and started for her tiring-room. he followed her. "sup with me, nell," he pleaded. "no word of this, i promise you." "heyday, i'll see how good you are, jack," she answered, cordially. "my second bid to sup to-night," she thought. "who sets the better feast?" the tiring-room door was open; and the little candles danced gleefully about the make-up mirror, for even candles seemed happy when nell came near. the maid stood ready to assist her to a gown and wrap, that she might leave the theatre. nell turned. hart still stood waiting. the spirit of kindness o'er-mastered her. "your hand, friend, your hand," she said, taking the manager's hand. "when next you try to win a woman's love, don't throw away her confidence; for you will never get it back again entire." hart bowed his head under the rebuke; and she entered her room. chapter iv _flowers and music feed naught but love._ the manager stood a moment looking through the half-closed door at nell. there was a strange mingling of contending forces at work in his nature. to be sure, he had trifled with the affections of the spanish dancing-girl, a new arrival from madrid and one of the latest attractions of the king's house; but it was his pride, when he discovered that nell's sharp eyes had found him out, that suffered, not his conscience. was he not the fascinating actor-manager of the house? could he prevent the ladies loving him? must he be accused of not loving nell, simply because his charms had edified the shapely new-comer? nell's rebuke had depressed him, but there was a smouldering fire within. "'slife!" he muttered. "if i do not steal my way into nell's heart, i'll abandon the rouge-box and till the soil." as he approached his tiring-room, he bethought him that it would be well first to have an oversight of the theatre. he turned accordingly and pulled open the door that led to the stage. as he did so, a figure fell into the greenroom, grasping devotedly a violin, lest his fall might injure it. strings had been biding his time, waiting an opportunity to see nell, and had fallen asleep behind the door. "how now, dog!" exclaimed the manager when he saw who the intruder was. strings hastened to his feet and hobbled across the room. "i told you not to set foot here again," shouted hart, following him virulently. strings bowed meekly. "i thought the king's house in need of a player; so i came back, sir," said he. hart was instantly beside himself. "zounds!" he stormed. "i have had enough impudence to contend with to-night. begone; or up you go for a vagrant." "i called on mistress gwyn, sir," explained strings. "mistress gwyn does not receive drunkards," fiercely retorted hart; and he started hastily to the stage-door and called loudly for his force of men to put the fiddler out. nell's door was still ajar. she had removed the roses from her hair and dress. she caught at once her name. indeed, there was little that went on which nell did not see or hear, even though walls intervened. "who takes my name in vain?" she called. her head popped through the opening left by the door, and she scanned the room. as her eye fell upon the old fiddler, who had often played songs and dances for her in days gone by, a cry of joy came from her lips. she rushed into the greenroom and threw both arms about strings's neck. "my old comrade, as i live," she cried, dancing about him. "i am joyed to see you, strings!" turning, she saw the manager eying them with fiery glances. she knew the situation and the feeling. "jack, is it not good to have strings back?" she asked, sweetly. hart's face grew livid with anger. he could see the merry devil dancing in her eye and on her tongue. he knew the hoyden well. "gad, i will resign management." he turned on his heel, entered his tiring-room and closed the door, none too gently. he feared to tarry longer, lest he might say too much. nell broke into a merry laugh; and the fiddler chuckled. "you desert me these days, strings," she said, as she leaned against the table and fondly eyed the wayfarer of the tattered garments and convivial spirits. "i don't love your lackey-in-waiting, mistress nell," said he, with a wink in the direction of the departed manager. "poor jack. never mind him," she said, with a roguish laugh, though with no touch of malice in it, for there was devil without malice in nell's soul. as she again sought the eyes of the fiddler, her face grew thoughtful. she spoke--hesitated--and then spoke again, as if the thought gave her pain. "have you kept your word to me, strings, and stopped--drinking?" she asked. the last word fell faintly, tremblingly, from her lips--almost inaudibly. "mistress nell, i--i--" strings's eyes fell quickly. nell's arm was lovingly about him in an instant. "there, there; don't tell me, strings. try again, and come and see me often." there was a delicacy in her voice and way more beautiful than the finest acting. the words had hurt her more than him. she changed her manner in an instant. not so with strings. the tears were in his eyes. "mistress nell, you are so good to me," he said; "and i am such a wretch." "so you are, strings," and she laughed merrily. "i have taught my little ones at home who it is that keeps the wolf from our door," he continued. "not a word of that!" she exclaimed, reprovingly. "poor old fellow!" her eyes grew big and bright as she reflected on the days she had visited the fiddler's home and on the happiness her gifts had brought his children. for her, giving was better than receiving. the feeling sprang from the fulness of her own joy at seeing those about her happy, and not from the teachings of priests or prelates. dame nature was her sole preceptor in this. "i'll bring the babes another sugar plum to-morrow. i haven't a farthing to-night. moll ran away with the earnings, and there is no one left to rob," she said. "heyday," and she ran lightly to the vase and caught up the flowers. "take the flowers to the bright eyes, to make them brighter." they would at least add cheerfulness to the room where strings lived until she could bring something better. as she looked at the roses, she began to realize how dear they were becoming to herself, for they were the king's gift; and her heart beat quickly and she touched the great red petals lovingly with her lips. strings took the flowers awkwardly; and, as he did so, something fell upon the floor. he knelt and picked it up, in his eagerness letting the roses fall. "a ring among the flowers, mistress nell," he cried. "a ring!" she exclaimed, taking the jewel quickly. her lips pressed the setting. "bless his heart! a ring from his finger," she continued half aloud. "is it not handsome, strings?" her eyes sparkled brightly and there was a triumphant smile upon her lips. the fiddler's face, however, was grave; his eyes were on the floor. "how many have rings like that, while others starve," he mused, seriously. nell held the jewel at arm's length and watched its varying brightness in the candle-light. "we can moralize, now we have the ring," she said, by way of rejoinder, then broke into a ringing laugh at her own way-of-the-world philosophizing. "bless the giver!" she added, in a mood of rhapsody. she turned, only again to observe the sad countenance of strings. "alack-a-day! why do you not take the nosegay?" she asked, wonderingly; for she herself was so very happy that she could not see why strings too should not be so. "it will not feed my little ones, mistress nell," he answered, sadly. nell's heart was touched in an instant. "too true!" she said, sympathetically, falling on her knee and lovingly gathering up the roses. "flowers and music feed naught but love, and often then love goes hungry--very hungry." her voice was so sweet and tender that it seemed as though the old viol had caught the notes. "last night, mistress nell," said strings, "the old fiddle played its sweetest melody for them, but they cried as if their tiny hearts would break. they were starving, and i had nothing but music for them." "starving!" nell listened to the word as though at first she did not realize its meaning. "what can i send?" she cried, looking about in vain and into her tiring-room. her eyes fell suddenly upon the rich jewel upon her finger. "no, no; i cannot think of that," she thought. then the word "starving" came back to her again with all its force. "starving!" her imagination pictured all its horrors. "starving" seemed written on every wall and on the ceiling. it pierced her heart and brain. "yes, i will," she exclaimed, wildly. "here, strings, old fellow, take the ring to the babes, to cut their teeth on." strings stood aghast. "no, mistress nell; it is a present. you must not," he protested. "there are others where that came from," generously laughed nell. "you must not; you are too kind," he continued, firmly. [illustration: nell prevents a quarrel.] "pooh, pooh! i insist," said nell as she forced the jewel upon him. "it will make a pretty mouthful; and, besides, i do not want my jewels to outshine me." strings would have followed her and insisted upon her taking back the beautiful gift, but nell was gone in an instant and her door closed. "to cut their teeth on!" he repeated as he placed the jewelled ring wonderingly upon his bow-finger and watched it sparkle and laugh in the light as he pretended to play a tune. "she is always joking like that; heaven reward her." he stood lost in the realization of sudden affluence. buckingham entered the room from the stage-door. his eyes were full of excitement. "the audience are wild over nell, simply wild," he exclaimed in his enthusiasm, unconscious of the fact that he had an auditor, who was equally oblivious of his lordship's presence. "gad," he continued, rapturously, half aloud, half to himself, "when they are stumbling home through london fog, the great _comédienne_ will be playing o'er the love-scenes with buckingham in a cosy corner of an inn. she will not dare deny my bid to supper, with all her impudence. _un petit souper!_" he broke into a laugh. "tis well old rowley was too engaged to look twice at nelly's eyes," he thought. "his majesty shall never meet the wench at arm's length, an i can help it." he observed or rather became aware for the first time that there was another occupant of the room. "ah, sirrah," he called, without noting the character of his companion, "inform mistress nell, buckingham is waiting." strings looked up. he seemed to have grown a foot in contemplation of his sudden wealth. indeed, each particular tatter on his back seemed to have assumed an independent air. "inform her yourself!" he declared; and his manner might well have become the dress of buckingham. "lord strings is not your lackey this season." buckingham gazed at him in astonishment, followed by amusement. "lord strings!" he observed. "lord rags!" strings approached his lordship with a familiar, princely air. "how does that look on my bow-finger, my lord?" and he flourished his hand wearing the ring where buckingham could well observe it. his lordship started. "the king's ring!" he would have exclaimed, had not the diplomat in his nature restrained him. "a fine stone!" he said merely. "how came you by it?" "nell gave it to me," strings answered. buckingham nearly revealed himself in his astonishment. "nell!" he muttered; and his face grew black as he wondered if his majesty had out-generalled him. "damme," he observed aloud, inspecting the ring closely, "i have taken a fancy to this gem." "so have i," ejaculated strings, as he avoided his lordship and strutted across the room. "i'll give you fifty guineas for it," said buckingham, following him more eagerly than the driver of a good bargain is wont. strings stood nonplussed. "fifty guineas!" he exclaimed, aghast. this was more money than the fiddler had ever thought existed. "now?" he asked, wonderingly. "now," replied his lordship, who proceeded at once to produce the glittering coins and toss them temptingly before the fiddler's eyes. "oons, nell surely meant me to sell it," he cried as he eagerly seized the gold and fed his eyes upon it. "odsbud, i always did love yellow." he tossed some of the coins in the air and caught them with the dexterity of a juggler. buckingham grew impatient. he desired a delivery. "give me the ring," he demanded. strings looked once more at the glittering gold; and visions of the plenty which it insured to his little home, to say nothing of a flagon or two of good brown ale which could be had by himself and his boon comrades without disparagement to the dinners of the little ones, came before him. if he had ever possessed moral courage, it was gone upon the instant. "done!" he exclaimed. "oons, fifty guineas!" and he handed the ring to buckingham. the fiddler was still absorbed in his possessions, whispering again and again to the round bits of yellow: "my little bright-eyes will not go to bed hungry to-night!" when manager hart entered proudly from his tiring-room, dressed to leave the theatre. buckingham nodded significantly. "not a word of this," he said, indicating the ring, which he had quickly transferred to his own finger, turning the jewel so that it could not be observed. "'sdeath, you still here?" said hart, sharply, as his eyes fell upon the fiddler. strings straightened up and puffed with the pomposity and pride of a landed proprietor. he shook his newly acquired possessions until the clinking of the gold was plainly audible to the manager. "still here, master hart, negotiating. when you are pressed for coin, call on me, master hart. i run the exchequer," he said, patronizingly. it was humorous to see his air of sweeping condescension toward the tall and dignified manager of the theatre who easily overtopped him by a head. "gold!" exclaimed hart, as he observed the glitter of the guineas in the candle-light. his eyes turned quickly and suspiciously upon the lordly buckingham. there was nothing, however, in his lordship's face to indicate that he was aware even of the existence of the fiddler or of his gold. he sat by the table, leaning carelessly upon it, his face filled with an expression of supreme satisfaction. he had the attitude of one who was waiting for somebody or something and confidently expected not to be disappointed. "sup with me, hart," continued strings, with the air of a boon comrade. "sup with me--venison, capons, and--epsom water." "thank you, i am engaged to supper," replied hart, contemptuously, brushing his cloak where it had been touched by the fiddler, as if his fingers had contaminated it. the insult clearly observable in the manager's tone, however, had no effect whatever upon strings. he tossed his head proudly and said indifferently: "oh, very well. strings will sup with strings. my coach, my coach, i say. drive me to my bonnie babes!" he pushed open the door with a lordly air and passed out; and, for some seconds, they heard a mingling of repeated demands for the coach and a strain of music which sounded like "away dull care; prythee away from me." buckingham had observed the fiddler's tilt with the manager and the royal exit of the ragged fellow with much amusement. "a merry wag! who is that?" he asked, as strings's voice grew faint in the entry-way. hart was strutting actor-fashion before the mirror, arranging his curls to hang gracefully over his forehead and tilting now and again the big plumed hat. "a knave of fortune, it seems," he answered coolly and still suspiciously. "family?" asked buckingham, indifferently. "twins, i warrant," replied hart, in an irritated tone. buckingham chuckled softly. "no wonder he's tattered and gray," he declared, humorously philosophizing upon hart's reply, though it was evident that hart himself was too much chafed by the presence of his lordship in the greenroom after the play to know what he really had said. an ominous coolness now pervaded the atmosphere. buckingham sat by the table, impatiently tapping the floor with his boot, his eyes growing dark at the delay. hart still plumed himself before the mirror. his dress was rich; his sword was well balanced, a damascus blade; his cloak hung gracefully; his big black hat and plumes were jaunty. he had, too, vigour in his step. with it all, however, he was a social outcast, and he felt it, while his companion, whose faults of nature were none the less glaring than his own, was almost the equal of a king. there was a tap at nell's door. it was the call-boy, who had slipped unobserved into the room. "what is it, dick?" asked nell, sweetly, as she opened the door slightly to inspect her visitor. "a message,--very important," whispered dick, softly, as he passed a note within. "thank you," replied the actress; and the door closed again. dick was about to depart, when the alert buckingham, rising hastily from his seat, called him. "that was nell's voice?" he asked. "yes, my lord. she's dressing," answered dick. "good night, master hart," he added, as he saw the manager. hart, however, was not in a good humour and turned sharply upon him. dick vanished. "she will be out shortly, my lord," the manager observed to buckingham, somewhat coldly. "but it will do you little good," he thought, as he reflected upon his conversation with nell. buckingham leaned lazily over the back of a chair and replied confidently, knowing that his speech would be no balm to the irate manager: "nell always keeps her engagements religiously with me. we are to sup together to-night, hart." "odso!" retorted the other, drawing himself up to his full height. "you will be disappointed, methinks." "i trow not," buckingham observed, with a smile which made hart wince. "pepys's wife has him mewed up at home when nelly plays, and the king is tied to other apron-strings." his lordship chuckled as he bethought him how cleverly he had managed that his majesty be under the proper influence. "what danger else?" he inquired, cuttingly. though the words were mild, the feelings of the two men were at white-heat. "your lordship's hours are too valuable to waste," politely suggested the manager. "i happen to know mistress gwyn sups with another to-night." "another?" sneered his lordship. "another!" hotly repeated the actor. "we shall see, friend hart," said buckingham, in a tone no less agreeable, with difficulty restraining his feelings. he threw himself impatiently into a big arm-chair, which he had swung around angrily, so that its back was to the manager. the insult was more than hart could bear. he also seized a chair, and vented his vengeance upon it. almost hurled from its place, it fell back to back with buckingham's. "we shall see, my lord," he said as he likewise angrily took his seat and folded his arms. it was like "the schism" of vibert. it is difficult to tell what would have been the result, had the place been different. each knew that nell was just beyond her door; each hesitated; and each, with bitterness in his heart, held on to himself. they sat like sphinxes. suddenly, nell's door slightly opened. she was dressed to leave the theatre. in her hand she held a note. "a fair message, on my honour! worth reading twice or even thrice," she roguishly exclaimed unto her maid as she directed her to hold a candle nearer that she might once again spell out its words. "'to england's idol, the divine eleanor gwyn.' a holy apt beginning, by the mass! 'my coach awaits you at the stage-door. we will toast you to-night at whitehall.'" nell's eyes seemed to drink in the words, and it was her heart which said: "long live his majesty." she took the king's roses in her arms; the duke's roses, she tossed upon the floor. the manager awoke as from a trance. "you will not believe me," he said to buckingham, confidently. "here comes the arbiter of your woes, my lord." he arose quickly. "it will not be hard, methinks, sir, to decide between a coronet and a player's tinsel crown," observed his princely rival, with a sneer, as he too arose and assumed an attitude of waiting. "have a care, my lord. i may forget--" hart's fingers played upon his sword-hilt. "your occupation, sir?" jeered buckingham. "aye; my former occupation of a soldier"; and hart's sword sprang from its scabbard, with a dexterity that proved that he had not forgotten the trick of war. buckingham too would have drawn, but a merry voice stayed him. "how now, gentlemen?" sprang from nell's rosy lips, as she came between them, a picture of roguish beauty. hart's pose in an instant was that of apology. "pardon, nell," he exclaimed, lifting his hat and bowing in courtly fashion. "a small difference of opinion; naught else." "between friends," replied nell, reprovingly. "by the gods," cried buckingham,--and his hat too was in the air and his knee too was bent before the theatre-queen,--"the rewards are worth more than word-combats." "pshaw!" said nell, as she hugged the king's roses tighter in her arms. "true englishmen fight shoulder to shoulder, not face to face." "in this case," replied his lordship, with the air of a conqueror, "the booty cannot be amicably distributed." "oh, ho!" cried nell. "brave generals, quarrelling over the spoils. pooh! there is no girl worth fighting for--that is, not over one! buckingham! jack! for shame! what coquette kindles this hot blood?" "the fairest maid in england," said hart, with all the earnestness of conviction, and with all the courtesy of the theatre, which teaches courtesy. "the dearest girl in all this world," said buckingham as quickly; for he too must bow if he would win. "how stupid!" lisped nell, with a look of baby-innocence. "you must mean me! who else could answer the description? a quarrel over poor me! this is delicious. i love a fight. out with your swords and to't like men! to the victor! come, name the quarrel." "this player--" began his lordship, hotly. he caught the quick gleam in nell's eyes and hesitated. "i mean," he substituted, apologetically, "master hart--labours under the misapprehension that you sup with him to-night." "nell," asserted the manager, defensively, "it is his lordship who suffers from the delusion that the first actress of england sups with him to-night." "my arm and coach are yours, madame," pleaded his lordship, as he gallantly offered an arm. "pardon, my lord; nell, my arm!" said hart. "heyday!" cried the witch, bewitchingly. "was ever maid so nobly squired? this is an embarrassment of riches." she looked longingly at the two attending gallants. there was something in her voice that might be mockery or that might be love. only the devil in her eyes could tell. "gentlemen, you tear my heart-strings," she continued. "how can i choose between such loves? to-night, i sup at whitehall!" and she darted quickly toward the door. "whitehall!" the rivals cried, aghast. "aye, whitehall--_with the king_!" there was a wild, hilarious laugh, and she was gone. [illustration: mistress nell is told of the king's danger.] buckingham and hart stood looking into each other's face. they heard the sound of coach-wheels rapidly departing in the street. chapter v _it was never treason to steal a king's kisses._ a year and more had flown. it was one of those glorious moon-lit nights in the early fall when there is a crispness in the air which lends an edge to life. st. james's park was particularly beautiful. the giant oaks with their hundreds of years of story written in their rings lifted high their spreading branches, laden with leaves, which shimmered in the light. the historic old park seemed to be made up of patches of day and night. in the open, one might read in the mellow glow of the harvest-moon; in the shade of one of its oaks, a thief might safely hide. facing on the park, there stood a house of elizabethan architecture. along its wrinkled, ivy-mantled wall ran a terrace-like balustrade, where one might walk and enjoy the night without fear. the house was well defined by the rays of the moon, which seemed to dance upon it in a halo of mirth; and from the park, below the terrace, came the soft notes of a violin, tenderly picked. none other than strings was sitting astride of a low branch of an oak, looking up at a window, like some guardian spirit from the devil-land, singing in his quaintly unctuous way: _"four and twenty fiddlers all in a row, and there was fiddle-fiddle, and twice fiddle-fiddle."_ "how's that for a serenade to mistress nell?" he asked himself as he secured a firm footing on the ground and slung his fiddle over his back. "she don't know it's for her, but the old viol and old strings know." he came to a stand-still and winced. "oons, my old wound again," he said, with a sharp cry, followed as quickly by a laugh. his eyes still wandered along the balustrade, as eagerly as some young romeo at the balcony of his juliet. "i wish she'd walk her terrace to-night," he sighed, "where we could see her--the lovely lady!" his rhapsody was suddenly broken in upon by the approach of some one down the path. he glided into the shadow of an oak and none too quickly. from the obscurity of the trees, into the open, a chair was swiftly borne, by the side of which ran a pretty page of tender years, yet well schooled in courtly wisdom. the lovely occupant leaned forward and motioned to the chairmen, who obediently rested and assisted her to alight. "retire beneath the shadow of the trees," she whispered. "have a care; no noise." the chairmen withdrew quietly, but within convenient distance, to await her bidding. strings's heart quite stopped beating. "the duchess of portsmouth at mistress nell's!" he said, almost aloud in his excitement. "then the devil must be to pay!" and he slipped well behind the oak-trunk again. portsmouth's eyes snapped with french fire as she glanced up at nell's terrace. then she turned to the page by her side. "his majesty came this path before?" she asked, with quick, french accent. "yes, your grace," replied the page. "and up this trellis?" "yes, your grace." "again to-night?" "i cannot tell, your grace," replied the lad. "i followed as you bade me; but the king's legs were so long, you see, i lost him." portsmouth smiled. "softly, pretty one," she said. "watch if he comes and warn me; for we may have passed him." the lad ran gaily down the path to perform her bidding. "state-business!" she muttered, as she reflected bitterly upon the king's late excuses to her. "_mon dieu_, does he think me a country wench? i was schooled at louis's court." her eyes searched the house from various points of advantage. "a light!" she exclaimed, as a candle burned brightly from a window, like a spark of gold set in the silver of the night. "would i had an invisible cloak." she tiptoed about a corner of the wall--woman-like, to see if she could see, not nell, but charles. scarcely had she disappeared when a second figure started up in the moonlight, and a gallant figure, too. it was the duke of buckingham. "not a mouse stirring," he reflected, glancing at the terrace. "fair minx, you will not long refuse buckingham's overtures. come, nelly, thy king is already half stolen away by portsmouth of france, and portsmouth of france is our dear ally in the great cause and shall be more so." to his astonishment, as he drew nearer, he observed a lady, richly dressed, gliding between himself and the terrace. he rubbed his eyes to see that he was not dreaming. she was there, however, and a pretty armful, too. "nell," he chuckled, as he stole up behind her. portsmouth meanwhile had learned that the window was too high to allow her to gain a view within the dwelling. she started--observing, more by intuition than by sight, that she was watched--and drew her veil closely about her handsome features. "nelly, nelly," laughed buckingham, "i have thee, wench. come, a kiss!--a kiss! nay, love; it was never treason to steal a king's kisses." he seized her by the arm and was about to kiss her when she turned and threw back her veil. "buckingham!" she said, suavely. "portsmouth!" he exclaimed, awestruck. he gathered himself together, however, in an instant, and added, as if nothing in the world had happened: "an unexpected pleasure, your grace." "yes," said she, with a pretty shrug. "i did not know i was so honoured, my lord." "or you would not have refused the little kiss?" he asked, suggestively. "you called me 'nelly,' my lord. i do not respond to that name." "damme, i was never good at names, louise," said he, with mock-apology, "especially by moonlight." "buz, buz!" she answered, with a knowing gesture and a knowing look. then, pointing toward the terrace, she added: "a pretty nest! a pretty bird within, i warrant. her name?" "ignorance well feigned," he thought. he replied, however, most graciously: "nell gwyn." "oh, ho! the king's favourite, who has more power, they say, than great statesmen--like my lord." her speech was well defined to draw out his lordship; but he was wary. "unless my lord is guided by my lady, as formerly," he replied, diplomatically. a look of suspicion crept into portsmouth's face: but it was not visible for want of contrast; for all things have a perverted look by the light of the moon. she had known buckingham well at dover. their interests there had been one in securing privileges from england for her french king. both had been well rewarded too for their pains. there were no proofs, however, of this; and where his lordship stood to-day, and which cause he would espouse, she did not know. his eyes at dover had fallen fondly upon her, but men's eyes fall fondly upon many women, and she would not trust too much until she knew more. "my chairmen have set me down at the wrong door-step," she said, most sweetly. "my lord longs for his kiss. _au revoir!_" she bowed and turned to depart. buckingham was alert in an instant. he knew not when the opportunity might come again to deal so happily with louis's emissary and the place and time of meeting had its advantages. "prythee stay, duchess. i left the merry hunters, returning from hounslow heath, all in portsmouth's interest," he said. "is this to be my thanks?" she approached him earnestly. "my lord must explain. i am stupid in fitting english facts to english words." "have you forgotten dover?" he asked, intensely, but subdued in voice, "and my pledges sworn to?--the treaty at the castle?--the duchess of orléans?--the grand monarch?" "hush!" exclaimed portsmouth, clutching his arm and looking cautiously about. "if my services to you there were known," he continued, excitedly, "and to the great cause--the first step in making england pensioner of france and holland the vassal of louis--my head would pay the penalty. can you not trust me still?" "you are on strange ground to-night," suggested portsmouth, tossing her head impatiently to indicate the terrace, as she tried to fathom the real man. "i thought the king might pass this way, and came to see," hastily explained his lordship, observing that she was reflecting upon the incongruity of his friendship for her and of his visit to madame gwyn. "and if he did?" she asked, dubiously, not seeing the connection. "i have a plan to make his visits less frequent, louise,--for your sweet sake and mine." the man was becoming master. he had pleased her, and she was beginning to believe. "yes?" she said, in a way which might mean anything, but certainly that she was listening, and intently listening too. "you have servants you can trust?" he asked. "i have," she replied as quickly; and she gloried in the thought that some at least were as faithful as louis's court afforded. "they must watch nell's terrace here, night and day," he almost commanded in his eagerness, "who comes out, who goes in and the hour. she may forget her royal lover; and--well--we shall have witnesses in waiting. we owe this kindness--to his majesty." portsmouth shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "_mon dieu!_" she said. "my servants have watched, my lord, already. the despatches would have been signed and louis's army on the march against the dutch but for this vulgar player-girl, whom i have never seen. the king forgets all else." the beautiful duchess was piqued, indeed, that the english king should be so swayed. she felt that it was a personal disgrace--an insult to her charms and to her culture. she felt that the court knew it and laughed, and she feared that louis soon would know. nell gwyn! how she hated her--scarce less than she loved louis and her france. "be of good cheer," suggested buckingham, soothingly; and he half embraced her. "my messenger shall await your signal, to carry the news to louis and his army." "there is no news," replied she, and turned upon him bitterly. "charles evades me. promise after promise to sup with me broken. i expected him to-night. my spies warned me he would not come; that he is hereabouts again. i followed myself to see. i have the papers with me always. if i can but see the king alone, it will not take long to dethrone this up-start queen; wine, sweet words--england's sign-manual." there was a confident smile on her lips as she reflected upon her personal powers, which had led louis xiv. of france to entrust a great mission to her. his lordship saw his growing advantage. he would make the most of it. "in the last event you have the ball!" he suggested, hopefully. "aye, and we shall be prepared," she cried. "but louis is impatient to strike the blow for empire unhampered by british sympathy for the dutch, and the ball is--" "a fortnight off," interrupted buckingham, with a smile. "and my messenger should be gone to-night," she continued, irritably. she approached him and whispered cautiously: "i have to-day received another note from bouillon. louis relies upon me to win from charles his consent to the withdrawal of the british troops from holland. this will insure the fall of luxembourg--the key to our success. you see, buckingham, i must not fail. england's debasement shall be won." there was a whistle down the path. "some one comes!" she exclaimed. "my chair!" the page, who had given the signal, came running to her. her chairmen too were prompt. "join me," she whispered to buckingham, as he assisted her to her seat within. "later, louise, later," he replied. "i must back to the neighbouring inn, before the huntsmen miss me." portsmouth waved to the chairmen, who moved silently away among the trees. buckingham stood looking after them, laughing. "king charles, a french girl from louis's court will give me the keys to england's heart and her best honours," he muttered. he glanced once again quickly at the windows of the house, and then, with altered purpose, swaggered away down a side path. he was well pleased with his thoughts, well pleased with his chance interview with the beautiful duchess and well pleased with himself. his brain wove and wove moonbeam webs of intrigue as he passed through the light and shadow of the night, wherein he would lend a helping hand to france and secure gold and power for his pains. he had no qualms of conscience; for must not his estates be kept, his dignity maintained? his purpose was clear. he would bring portsmouth and the king closer together: and what england lost, he would gain--and, therefore, england; for was not he himself a part of england, and a great part? then too he must and would have nell. chapter vi softly on tiptoe; here nell doth lie. as often happens in life, when one suitor departs, another suitor knocks; and so it happened on this glorious night. the belated suitor was none other than charles, the stuart king. he seemed in the moonlight the picture of royalty, of romance, of dignity, of carelessness, of indifference--the royal vagabond of wit, of humour and of love. a well-thumbed "hudibras" bulged from his pocket. he was alone, save for some pretty spaniels that played about him. he heeded them not. his thoughts were of nell. "methought i heard voices tuned to love," he mused, as he glanced about. "what knave has spied out the secret of her bower? ho, rosamond, my rosamond! why came i here again to-night? what is there in this girl, this nell? and yet her eyes, how like the pretty maid's who passed me the cup that day at the cottage where we rested. have i lived really to love--i, solomon's rival in the entertainment of the fair,--to have my heart-strings torn by this roguish player?" his reflections were broken in upon by the hunters' song in the distance. the music was so in harmony with the night that the forest seemed enchanted. "hush; music!" he exclaimed, softly, as he lent himself reluctantly to the spell, which pervaded everything as in a fairyland. "odds, moonlight was once for me as well the light for revels, bacchanals and frolics; yet now i linger another evening by nell's terrace, mooning like a lover o'er the memory of her eyes and entranced by the hunters' song." [illustration: the king professes his love for nell.] the singers were approaching. the king stepped quickly beneath the trellis, in an angle of the wall, and waited. their song grew richer, as melodious as the night, but it struck a discord in his soul. he was thinking of a pair of eyes. "cease those discordant jangles," he exclaimed impatiently to himself; "cease, i say! no song except for nell! nell! pour forth your sweetest melody for nell!" the hunters stopped as by intuition before the terrace. a goodly company they were, indeed; there were james and rochester and others of the court returning from the day's hunt. there was buckingham too, who had rejoined them as they left the inn. the music died away. "whose voice was that?" asked james, as he caught the sound of the king's impatient exclamation from the corner of the wall. "some dreamer of the night," laughed buckingham. "yon love-sick fellow, methinks," he continued, pointing to a figure, well aloof beneath the trees, who was watching the scene most jealously. it was none other than hart, who rarely failed to have an eye on nell's terrace and who instantly stole away in the darkness. "this is the home of eleanor gwyn we are passing," said rochester, superfluously; for all knew full well that it was nelly's terrace. "the love-lorn seer is wise," cried the duke of york, quite forgetting his frigid self as he bethought him of nell, and becoming quite lover-like, as he, sighing, said: "it were well to make peace with nelly. sing, hunters, sing!" the command was quickly obeyed and the voices well attuned; for none were there but worshipped nelly. hail to the moonbeams' crystal spray, nestling in heaven all the day, falling by night-time, silvery showers, twining with love-rhyme nell's fair bowers. sing, hunters, sing, gently carolling, here lies our hart-- sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. hail to the king's oaks, sentries blest, spreading their branches, guarding her rest, telling the breezes, hastening by: "softly on tiptoe; here nell doth lie." sing, hunters, sing, gently carolling, here lies our hart-- sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. the king heard the serenade to the end, then stepped gaily from his hiding-place. "brother james under nelly's window!" he said, with a merry laugh. "the king!" exclaimed james, in startled accents, as he realized the presence of his majesty and the awkward position in which he and his followers were placed. "the king!" repeated the courtiers. hats were off and knees were bent respectfully. "brother," saluted charles, as he embraced the duke of york good-naturedly. buckingham withdrew a few steps. he was the most disturbed at the presence of the king at nelly's bower. "as i feared," he thought. "devil take his majesty's meandering heart." "odsfish," laughed charles, "we must guard our nelly, or james and his saintly followers will rob her bower by moonlight." the duke of york assumed a devout and dignified mien. "sire," he attempted to explain, but was interrupted quickly by his majesty. "no apologies, pious brother. god never damned a man for a little irregular pleasure." there was a tittering among the courtiers as the king's words fell upon their ears. james continued to apologize. "in faith, we were simply passing--" he said. again he was interrupted by his majesty, who was in the best of humour and much pleased at the discomfiture of his over-religious brother. "lorenzo too was simply passing," he observed, "but the fair jessica and some odd ducats stuck to his girdle; and the jew will still be tearing his hair long after we are dust. ah, buckingham, they tell me you too have a taste for roguish nelly. have a care!" the king strode across to buckingham as he spoke; and while there was humour in his tone, there was injunction also. buckingham was too great a courtier not to see and feel it. he bowed respectfully, replying to his majesty, "sire, i would not presume to follow the king's eyes, however much i admire their taste." "'t'is well," replied his majesty, pointedly, "lest they lead thee abroad on a sleeveless mission." others had travelled upon such missions; buckingham knew it well. "but what does your majesty here to-night, if we dare ask?" questioned james, who had just bethought him how to turn the tables upon the king. charles looked at his brother quizzically. "humph!" he exclaimed, in his peculiar way. "feeding my ducks in yonder pond." his staff swept indefinitely toward the park. "hunting with us were nobler business, sire," suggested james, decisively. "not so," replied the king, quite seriously. "my way--i learn to legislate for ducks." "'t'were wiser," preached york, "to study your subjects' needs." the king's eyes twinkled. "i go among them," he said, "and learn their needs, while you are praying, brother." at this sally, rochester became convulsed, though he hid it well; for rochester was not as pious as brother james. york, feeling that the sympathy was against him, grew more earnest still. "i wish your majesty would have more care," he pleaded. "'tis a crime against yourself, a crime against the state, a crime against the cavaliers who fought and died for you, to walk these paths alone in such uncertain times. perchance, 'tis courting lurking murder!" "no kind of danger, james," answered the king, with equal seriousness, laying a hand kindly on his brother's shoulder; "for i am sure no man in england would take away my life to make you king." there was general laughter from the assembled party; for all dared laugh, even at the expense of the duke of york, when the jest was of the king's making. indeed, not to laugh at a king's jest has been in every age, in or out of statutes, the greatest crime. fortunately, king charles's wit warranted its observation. james himself grew mellow under the influence of the gaiety, and almost affectionately replied, "god grant it be ever so, brother." he then turned the thought. "we heard but now an ambassador from morocco's court is lately landed. he brings your majesty two lions and thirty ostriches." "odsfish, but he is kind," replied the king, reflecting on the gift. "i know of nothing more proper to send by way of return than a flock of geese." his brow arched quizzically, as he glanced over the circle of inert courtiers ranged about him. "methinks i can count them out at whitehall," he thought. "he seeks an audience to-night. will you grant it, sire?" besought james. "'sheart!" replied the king. "most cheerfully, i'll lead you from nelly's terrace, brother. hey! tune up your throats. on to the palace." chapter vii come down! come up! the music died away among the old oaks in the park. before its final notes were lost on the air, however, hasty steps and a chatter of women's voices came from the house. the door leading to the terrace was thrown quickly open, and nell appeared. her eyes had the bewildered look of one who has been suddenly awakened from a sleep gilded with a delightful dream. she had, indeed, been dreaming--dreaming of the king and of his coming. as she lay upon her couch, where she had thrown herself after the evening meal, she had seemed to hear his serenade. then the music ceased and she started up and rubbed her eyes. it was only to see the moonlight falling through the latticed windows on to the floor of her dainty chamber. she was alone and she bethought herself sadly that dreams go by contraries. once again, however, the hunters' song had arisen on her startled ear--and had died away in sweet cadences in the distance. it was not a dream! as she rushed out upon the terrace, she called moll reprovingly; and, in an instant, moll was at her side. the faithful girl had already seen the hunters and had started a search for nell; but the revellers had gone before she could find her. "what is it, dear nell?" asked her companion, well out of breath. "why did you not call me, cruel girl?" answered nell, impatiently. "to miss seeing so many handsome cavaliers! where is my kerchief?" nell leaned over the balustrade and waved wildly to the departing hunters. a pretty picture she was too, in her white flowing gown, silvered by the moonlight. "see, see," she exclaimed to moll, with wild enthusiasm, "some one waves back. it may be he, sweet mouse. heigh-ho! why don't you wave, moll?" before moll could answer, a rich bugle-horn rang out across the park. "the hunters' horn!" cried nell, gleefully. "oh, i wish i were a man--except when one is with me"; and she threw both arms about moll, for the want of one better to embrace. she was in her varying mood, which was one 'twixt the laughter of the lip and the tear in the eye. "i have lost my brother!" ejaculated some one; but she heard him not. this laconic speech came from none other than the king, who in a bantering mood had returned. "i went one side a tree and pious james t'other; and here i am by nelly's terrace once again," he muttered. "oh, ho! wench!" his eyes had caught sight of nell upon the terrace. he stepped back quickly into the shadow and watched her playfully. nell looked longingly out into the night, and sighed heavily. she was at her wit's end. the evening was waning, and the king, as she thought, had not come. "why do you sigh?" asked moll, consolingly. "i was only looking down the path, dear heart," replied nell, sadly. "he will come," hopefully suggested moll, whose little heart sympathized deeply with her benefactress. "nay, sweet," said nell, and she shook her curls while the moonbeams danced among them, "he is as false as yonder moon--as changeable of face." she withdrew her eyes from the path and they fell upon the king. his majesty's curiosity had quite over-mastered him, and he had inadvertently stepped well into the light. the novelty of hearing himself derided by such pretty lips was a delicious experience, indeed. "the king!" she cried, in joyous surprise. moll's diplomatic effort to escape at the sight of his majesty was not half quick enough for nell, who forthwith forced her companion into the house, and closed the door sharply behind her, much to the delight of the humour-loving king. nell then turned to the balustrade and, somewhat confused, looked down at his majesty, who now stood below, calmly gazing up at her, an amused expression on his face. "pardon, your majesty," she explained, falteringly, "i did not see you." "you overlooked me merely," slyly suggested charles, swinging his stick in the direction of the departed hunters. "i'faith, i thought it was you waved answer, sire," quickly replied nell, whose confusion was gone and who was now mistress of the situation and of herself. "no, nell; i hunt alone for my hart." "you hunt the right park, sire." "yea, a good preserve, truly," observed the king. "i find my game, as i expected, flirting, waving kerchiefs, making eyes and throwing kisses to the latest passer-by." "i was encouraging the soldiers, my liege. that is every woman's duty to her country." "and her country_men_," said he, smiling. "you are very loyal, nell. come down!" it was irritating, indeed, to be kept so at arm's length. she gazed down at him with impish sweetness--down at the king of england! "come up!" she said, leaning over the balustrade. "nay; come down if you love me," pleaded the king. "nay; come up if you love me," said nell, enticingly. "egad! i am too old to climb," exclaimed the merry monarch. "egad! i am too young yet for the downward path, your majesty," retorted nell. the king shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "you will fall if we give you time," he said. "to the king's level?" she asked, slyly, then answered herself: "mayhap." thus they stood like knights after the first tilt. charles looked up at nell, and nell looked down at charles. there was a moment's silence. nell broke it. "i am surprised you happen this way, sire." "with such eyes to lure me?" asked the king, and he asked earnestly too. "tush," answered nell, coyly, "your tongue will lead you to perdition, sire." "no fear!" replied he, dryly. "i knelt in church with brother james but yesterday." "in sooth, quite true!" said nell, approvingly, as she leaned back against the door and raised her eyes innocently toward the moon. "i sat in the next pew, sire, afraid to move for fear i might awake your majesty." the king chuckled softly to himself. nell picked one of the flowers that grew upon the balustrade. "ah, you come a long-forgotten path to-night," she said abruptly. the king was alert in an instant. he felt that he had placed himself in a false light. he loved the witch above despite himself. "i saw thee twa evenings ago, lass," he hastily asserted, in good scotch accents, somewhat impatiently. "and is not that a long time, sire," questioned nell, "or did portsmouth make it fly?" "portsmouth!" exclaimed charles. he turned his face away. "can it be my conscience pricks me?" he thought. "you know more of her than i, sweet nell," he then asserted, with open manner. "marry, i know her not at all and never saw her," said nell. "i shall feel better when i do," she thought. "it were well for england's peace you have not met," laughed charles. "faith and troth," said nell, "i am happy to know our king has lost his heart." "odso! and why?" asked charles; and he gazed at nell in his curious uncertain way, as he thought it was never possible to tell quite what she meant or what she next would think or say or do. "we feared he had not one to lose," she slyly suggested. "it gives us hope." "to have it in another's hand as you allege?" asked charles. "marry, truly!" answered nell, decisively. "the duchess may find it more than she can hold and toss it over." "how now, wench!" exclaimed the king, with assumption of wounded dignity. "my heart a ball for women to bat about!" "sire, two women often play at rackets even with a king's heart," softly suggested nell. "odsfish," cried the king, with hands and eyes raised in mock supplication. "heaven help me then." again the hunters' horn rang clearly on the night. "the horn! the horn!" said nell, with forced indifference. "they call you, sire." there was a triumphantly bewitching look in her eyes, however, as she realized the discomfiture of the king. he was annoyed, indeed. his manner plainly betokened his desire to stay and his irritation at the interruption. "'tis so!" he said at last, resignedly. "the king is lost." the horn sounded clearer. the hunters were returning. "again--nearer!" exclaimed charles, fretfully. his mind reverted to his pious brother; and he laughed as he continued: "poor brother james and his ostriches!" he could almost touch nell's finger-tips. "farewell, sweet," he said; "i must help them find his majesty or they will swarm here like bees. yet i must see my nell again to-night. you have bewitched me, wench. sup with me within the hour--at--ye blue boar inn. can you find the place?" there was mischief in nell's voice as she leaned upon the balustrade. she dropped a flower; he caught it. "sire, i can always find a rendezvous," she answered. "you're the biggest rogue in england," laughed charles. "of a _subject_, perhaps, sire," replied nell, pointedly. "that is treason, sly wench," rejoined the king; but his voice grew tender as he added: "but treason of the tongue and not the heart. adieu! let that seal thy lips, until we meet." he threw a kiss to the waiting lips upon the balcony. "alack-a-day," sighed nell, sadly, as she caught the kiss. "some one may break the seal, my liege; who knows?" "how now?" questioned charles, jealously. nell hugged herself as she saw his fitful mood; for beneath mock jealousy she thought she saw the germ of true jealousy. she laughed wistfully as she explained: "it were better to come up and seal them tighter, sire." "minx!" he chuckled, and tossed another kiss. the horn again echoed through the woods. he started. "now we'll despatch the affairs of england, brother; then we'll sup with pretty nelly. poor brother james! heaven bless him and his ostriches." he turned and strode quickly through the trees and down the path; but, as he went, ever and anon he called: "ye blue boar inn, within the hour!" each time from the balcony in nell's sweet voice came back--"ye blue boar inn, within the hour! i will not fail you, sire!" then she too disappeared. there was again a slamming of doors and much confusion within the house. there were calls and sounds of running feet. the door below the terrace opened suddenly, and nell appeared breathless upon the lawn--at her heels the constant moll. nell ran some steps down the path, peering vainly through the woods after the departing king. her bosom rose and fell in agitation. "oh, moll, moll, moll!" she exclaimed, fearfully. "he has been at portsmouth's since high noon. i could see it in his eyes." her own eyes snapped as she thought of the hated french rival, whom she had not yet seen, but whose relation to the royal household, as she thought, gave her the king's ear almost at will. she walked nervously back and forth, then turned quickly upon her companion, asking her, who knew nothing, a hundred questions, all in one little breath. "what is she? how looks she? what is her charm, her fascination, the magic of her art? is she short, tall, fat, lean, joyous or sombre? i must know." "oh, nell, what will you do?" cried moll in fearful accents as she watched her beautiful mistress standing passion-swayed before her like a queen in the moonlight, the little toe of her slipper nervously beating the sward as she general-like marshalled her wits for the battle. "see her, see her,--from top to toe!" nell at length exclaimed. "oh, there will be sport, sweet mouse. france again against england--the stake, a king!" she glanced in the direction of the house and cried joyously as she saw strings hobbling toward her. "heaven ever gave me a man in waiting," she said, gleefully. "poor fellow, he limps from youthful, war-met wounds. comrade, are you still strong enough for service?" "to the death for you, mistress nell!" he faithfully replied. "you know the duchess of portsmouth, and where she lives?" artfully inquired nell. "portsmouth!" he repeated, excitedly. "she was here but now, peeping at your windows." nell stood aghast. her face grew pale, and her lips trembled. "here, here!" she exclaimed, incredulously. "the imported hussy!" she turned hotly upon strings, as she had upon poor moll, with an array of questions which almost paralyzed the old fiddler's wits. "how looks she? what colour eyes? does her lip arch? how many inches span her waist?" strings looked cautiously about, then whispered in nell's ear. he might as well have talked to all london; for nell, in her excitement, repeated his words at the top of her voice. "you overheard? great heavens! drug the king and win the rights of england while he is in his cups? bouillon--the army--louis--the dutch! a conspiracy!" "oh, dear; oh, dear," came from moll's trembling lips. nell's wits were like lightning playing with the clouds. her plans were formed at once. "fly, fly, comrade," she commanded strings. "overtake her chair. tell the duchess that her beloved charles--she will understand--entreats her to sup at ye blue boar inn, within the hour. nay, she will be glad enough to come. say he awaits her alone. run, run, good strings, and you shall have a hospital to nurse these wounds, as big as noah's ark; and the king shall build it for the message." strings hastened down the path, fired by nell's inspiration, with almost the eagerness of a boy. "run, run!" cried nell, in ecstasy, as she looked after him and dwelt gleefully upon the outcome of her plans. he disappeared through the trees. "heigh-ho!" she said, with a light-hearted step. "now, moll, we'll get our first sight of the enemy." she darted into the house, dragging poor moll after her. chapter viii _"and the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_ an old english inn! what spot on earth is more hospitable, even though its floor be bare and its tables wooden? there is a homely atmosphere about it, with its cobwebbed rafters, its dingy windows, its big fireplace, where the rough logs crackle, and its musty ale. it has ever been a home for the belated traveller, where the viands, steaming hot, have filled his soul with joy. oh, the southdown mutton and the roasts of beef! if england has given us naught else, she should be beloved for her wealth of inns, with their jolly landlords and their pert bar-maids and their lawns for the game of bowls. may our children's children find them still unchanged. in a quaint corner of london, there stood such an inn, in the days of which we speak; and it lives in our story. when it was built, no one knew and none cared. tradition said that it had been a rendezvous for convivial spirits for ages that had gone. a sign hung from the door, on which was a boar's head; and under it, in old english lettering, might have been deciphered, if the reader had the wit to read, "ye blue boar inn." it was the evening of a certain day, known to us all, in the reign of good king charles. three yesty spirits sat convivially enjoying the warmth of the fire upon the huge hearth. a keg was braced in the centre of the room. one of the merry crew--none other, indeed, than swallow, a constable to the king--sat astride the cask, don quixote-like. in place of the dauntless lance, he was armed with a sturdy mug of good old ale. he sang gaily to a tune of his own, turning ever and anon for approbation to buzzard, another spirit of like guild, who sat in a semi-maudlin condition by the table, and also to the moon-faced landlord of the inn, who encouraged the joviality of his guests--not forgetting to count the cups which they demolished. swallow sang: _"here's a health unto his majesty, with a fa, la, fa, conversion to his enemies with a fa, la, fa, and he that will not pledge his health, i wish him neither wit nor wealth, nor yet a rope to hang himself-- with a fa, la, fa, with a fa, la, fa."_ the song ended in a triumphant wave of glory. the singer turned toward the fellow, buzzard, and demanded indignantly: "why don't ye sing, knave, to the tune of the spigot?" "my gullet's dry, master constable," stupidly explained his companion, as he too buried his face in the ale. "odsbud, thou knowest not the art, thou clod," retorted the constable, wisely. "nay; i can sing as well as any man," answered buzzard, indignantly, "an i know when to go up and when to come down." he pointed stupidly, contrary to the phrase, first to the floor and then to the ceiling. the landlord chuckled merrily, imitating him. "when to go up and when to come down!" he repeated with the same idiotic drawl and contradictory gesture. "go to, simple," replied swallow, with tremendous condescension of manner. "thy mother gave thee a gullet but no ear. pass the schnapps." he arose and staggered to the table. "good master constable, how singest thou?" sheepishly inquired buzzard, as he filled swallow's tankard for the twentieth time. "marry, by main force, thou jack-pudding; how else?" demanded swallow, pompously. he reseated himself with much effort astride the cask. "oh, bury me here," he continued, looking into the foaming mug, and then buried his face deep in the ale. his companions were well pleased with the toast; for each repeated it after him, each in his turn emphasizing the "me" and the "here"--"oh, bury _me here!"_ "oh, bury _me here!_"--buzzard in a voice many tones deeper than that of swallow and the landlord in a voice many tones deeper than that of buzzard. indeed, the guttural tones of the landlord bespoke the grave-yard. the three faces were lost in the foam; the three sets of lips smacked in unison; and the world might have wagged as it would for these three jolly topers but for a woman's voice, calling sharply from the kitchen: "jenkins, love!" "body o' me!" exclaimed the landlord, almost dropping his empty tankard. "coming, coming, my dear!" and he departed hastily. the constable poked buzzard in the ribs; buzzard poked the constable in the ribs. "jenkins, love!" they exclaimed in one breath as the landlord returned, much to his discomfiture; and their eyes twinkled and wrinkled as they poked fun at the taverner. "body o' me! thou sly dog!" said the constable, as he continued to twit him. "whence came the saucy wench in the kitchen, landlord? a dimpled cook, eh?" the landlord's face grew serious with offended dignity as he attempted to explain. "'tis my wife, master constable," he said. "marry, the new one?" inquired swallow. "'tis not the old one, master swallow," replied the old hypocrite, wiping away a forced tear. "poor soul, she's gone, i know not where." "i' faith, i trow she's still cooking, landlord," consolingly replied the constable, with tearful mien, pointing slyly downward for the benefit of buzzard and steadying himself with difficulty on the cask. "bless matilde," said the landlord as he wiped his eyes again, "i had a hard time to fill her place." "yea, truly," chuckled swallow in buzzard's ear, between draughts, "three long months from grave to altar." "a good soul, a good soul, master swallow," continued the landlord, with the appearance of deep affliction. "and a better cook, landlord," said swallow, sadly. "odsbud, she knew a gooseberry tart. patch your old wife's soul to your new wife's face, and you'll be a happy man, landlord. here's a drop to her." "thank ye, master constable," replied the landlord, much affected. he looked well to the filling of the flagon in his hand, again wiped a tear from his eye and took a deep draught to the pledge of "the old one!" swallow, with equal reverence, and with some diplomacy, placed his flagon to his lips with the pledge of "the new one!" buzzard, who had not been heard from for some time, roused sufficiently to realize the situation, and broke out noisily on his part with "the next one!" a startled expression pervaded the landlord's face as he realized the meaning of buzzard's words. he glanced woefully toward the kitchen-door, lest the new wife might have overheard. "peace, buzzard!" swallow hastened to command, reprovingly. "would ye raise a man's dead wife? learn discretion from thy elders, an thou hop'st to be a married man." "marry, i do not hope," declared buzzard, striking the table with his clenched hand. he had no time for matrimony while the cups were overflowing. there was a quick, imperative knock at the door. the constable, buzzard and the landlord, all started up in confusion and fear. "thieves," stammered swallow, faintly, from behind the cask, from which he had dismounted at the first sign of danger. "they are making off with thy tit-bit-of-a-wife, landlord." "be there thieves in the neighbourhood, master constable?" whispered the landlord, in consternation. "why should his majesty's constable be here else?" said swallow, reaching for a pike, which trembled in his hand as if he had the ague. "the country about's o'er-run with them; and i warrant 'tis thy new wife's blue eyes they are after." he steadied himself with the pike and took a deep draught of ale to steady his courage as well. buzzard started to crawl beneath the table, but the wary constable caught him by his belt and made a shield for the nonce of his trembling body. the landlord's eyes bulged from their sockets as if a spirit from the nether regions had confronted him. the corners of his mouth, which ascended in harmony with his moon-face, twitched nervously. "mercy me, sayest thou so?" he asked. [illustration: mistress nell finds happiness.] "and in thine ear," continued swallow, consolingly, "and if thou see'st old rowley within a ten league, put thy new huswife's face under lock and key and constable swallow on the door to guard thy treasure." it was not quite clear, however, what the constable meant; for "old rowley" was the name of the king's favourite racehorse, of newmarket fame, and had also come to be the nickname of the king himself. charles assumed it good-naturedly. assuredly, neither might be expected as a visitor to ye blue boar. there came a more spirited knock at the door. the constable sought a niche in the fireplace, whence he endeavoured to exclude buzzard, who was loath to be excluded. "pass the dutch-courage, good landlord," entreated swallow, in a hoarse whisper. the landlord started boldly toward the door, but his courage failed him. "go thou, master constable," he exclaimed. "go thou thyself," wisely commanded swallow, with the appearance of much bravery, though one eye twitched nervously in the direction of the kitchen-door in the rear, as a possible means of exit. "there's no need of his majesty's constable till the battery be complete. there must be an action and intent, saith the law." "old rowley!" muttered the landlord, fearfully. "good master constable--" he pleaded. his face, which was usually like a roast of beef, grew livid with fear. swallow, however, gave him no encouragement, and the landlord once more started for the door. on the way his eye lighted on a full cask which was propped up in the corner. instinct was strong in him, even in death. it had been tapped, and it would be unsafe to leave it even for an instant within reach of such guests. he stopped and quickly replaced the spigot with a plug. there was a third knock at the door--louder than before. "anon, anon!" he called, hastily turning and catching up the half-filled flagon from the table. he disappeared in the entry-way. the brave representatives of the king's law craned their necks, but they could hear nothing. as the silence continued, courage was gradually restored to them; and, with the return of courage, came the desire for further drink. swallow again seized his pike and staggered toward the entry-way to impress his companion with his bravery. buzzard caught the spirit of the action. "marry, i'd be a constable, too, an it were to sit by the fire and guard a pretty wench," he said. his face glowed in anticipation of such happiness as he glanced through the half-open door to the kitchen, where the landlord's wife reigned. "egad, thou a constable!" ejaculated swallow, contemptuously, throwing a withering glance in the direction of his comrade. "thou ignoramamus! old rowley wants naught but brave men and sober men like me to guard the law. thou art a drunken roundhead. one of old noll's vile ruffians. i can tell it by the wart on thy nose, knave." "nay, master constable," explained buzzard, with an injured look at the mention of the wart, "it will soon away. mother says, when i was a rosy babe, master wart was all in all; now i'm a man, master nose is crowding neighbour wart." swallow put his hands on his knees and laughed deeply. he contemplated the nose and person of his companion with a curious air and grew mellow with patronage. "thy fool's pate is not so dull," he said, half aloud, as he lighted a long pipe and puffed violently. "thy wit would crack a quarter-staff. 'sbud, would'st be my _posse?_ this was, indeed, a concession on the part of the constable, who was over-weighted with the dignity of the law which he upheld. "would'st be at my command," he continued, "to execute the king's _statu quos_ on rogues?" "marry, constable buzzard!" exclaimed the toper, gleefully. "nay, and i would!" "marry, 'constable' buzzard!" replied swallow, with tremendous indignation at the assumption of the fellow. "nay, and thou would'st not, ass! by my patron saint--" as the constable spoke, buzzard's eye, with a leer, lighted on the cask in the corner. he bethought him that it had a vent-hole even though the landlord had removed the spigot. he tiptoed unsteadily across the room, and proceeded with much difficulty to insert a straw in the small opening. he had thus already added materially to his maudlin condition, before swallow discovered, with consternation and anger, the temporary advantage which the newly appointed _posse_ had secured. the cunning constable held carefully on to his tongue, however. he quietly produced a knife and staggered in his turn to the cask, unobserved by the unsuspecting buzzard, whose eyes were tightly closed in the realization of a dream of his highest earthly bliss. in an instant, the straw was clipped mid-way and the constable was enjoying the contents of the cask through the lower half, while buzzard slowly awakened to the fact that his dream of bliss had vanished and that he was sucking a bit of straw which yielded naught. "here, knave," commanded swallow, between breaths, pushing the other roughly aside, "thou hast had enough for a _posse_. fill my mug, thou ignoranshibus." buzzard staggered toward the table to perform the bidding. "the flagon's empty, master constable," he replied, and forthwith loudly called out, "landlord! landlord!" the constable dropped his straw and raised himself with difficulty to his full height, one hand firmly resting on the cask. "silence, fool of a _posse_" he commanded, when he had poised himself; "look ye, i have other eggs on the spit. to thy knee, sirrah; to thy knee, knave!" buzzard with difficulty and with many groans unsuspectingly obeyed the command. swallow lifted the cask which not long since he had been riding and which had not as yet been tapped upon the shoulder of his kneeling companion. there was another groan. "'tis too heavy, good master constable," cried buzzard, in sore distress. "thou clodhopper'" yelled swallow, unsympathetically. "an thou cannot master a cask of wine, thou wilt never master the king's law. to the kitchen with thee; and keep thy eyes shut, thou knave of a _posse_." the constable made a dive for his pike and lantern, and enforced his authority by punctuating his remarks with jabs of the pike from behind at his powerless friend, who could scarce keep his legs under the weight of the cask. as buzzard tottered through the kitchen-door and made his exit, the constable, finding his orders faithfully obeyed, steadied himself with the pike to secure a good start; and then, with long staggering strides, he himself made his way after the _posse_, singing loudly to his heart's content: _"good store of good claret supplies everything and the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_ chapter ix _three chickens!_ the door opened quickly, and in came king charles; but who would have known him? the royal monarch had assumed the mien and garb of a ragged cavalier. his eyes swept the inn quickly and approvingly. he turned upon the landlord, who followed him with dubious glances. "cook the chickens to a turn; and, mark you, have the turbot and sauce hot, and plenty of wine," he said. "look to't; the vintage i named, master landlord. i know the bouquet and sparkle and the ripple o'er the palate." "who is to pay for all this, sir?" asked the landlord, aghast at the order. "insolent!" replied charles. "i command it, sirrah." "pardon, sir," humbly suggested the landlord; "guineas, and not words, command here." "odso!" muttered the king, remembering his disguise. "my temper will reveal me. never fear, landlord," he boasted loudly. "you shall be paid, amply paid. i will pledge myself you shall be paid." "pardon, sir," falteringly repeated the landlord, rubbing his hands together graciously; "but the order is a costly one and you--" "do not look flourishing?" said charles, as he laughingly finished the sentence, glancing somewhat dubiously himself at his own dress. "never judge a man by his rags. plague on't, though; i would not become my own creditor upon inspection. take courage, good master landlord; england's debt is in my pocket." "how many to supper, sir?" asked the landlord, fearful lest he might offend. "two! two! only two!" decisively exclaimed charles. "a man is an extravagant fool who dines more. the third is expensive and in the way. eh, landlord?" the king winked gaily at the landlord, who grinned in response and dropped his eyes more respectfully. "two, sir," acquiesced the landlord. "aye, mine host, thou art favoured beyond thy kind," laughed charles, knowingly, as he dwelt upon the joys of a feast incognito alone with nell. "a belated goddess would sup at thy hostelry." the landlord's eyes grew big with astonishment. "i will return. obey her every wish, dost hear, her every wish, and leave the bill religiously to me." charles swaggered gaily up the steps to the entry-way and out the door. the moon-face of the inn-keeper grew slowly serious. he could not reconcile the shabby, road-bespattered garments of the strange cavalier with his princely commands. "body o' me!" he muttered, lighting one by one the candles in the room, till the rafters fairly glowed in expectation of the feast. "roundhead-beggar, on my life! turbot and capons and the best vintage! the king could not have better than this rogue. marry, he shall have the best in the larder; but constable swallow shall toast his feet in the kitchen, with a mug of musty ale to make him linger." the corners of the mouth in the moon-face ascended in a chuckle. "his ragged lordship'll settle the bill very religiously," he thought, "or sleep off his swollen roundhead behind the bars." he passed into the kitchen and gave the order for the repast. as he returned, there was a tap at the door; and he hastened to the window. "bless me, a petticoat!" he cried. "well, he's told the truth for once. she's veiled. ashamed of her face or ashamed of him." he opened the door and ushered in a lady dressed in white; across her face and eyes was thrown a scarf of lace. "not here?" questioned the new-comer, glancing eagerly about the room and peeping into every nook and corner without the asking, to the astonishment of the inn-keeper. "not here?" she asked herself again, excitedly. "tell me, tell me, is this ye blue boar inn?" "yes, lady--" replied the landlord, graciously. "good, good! has she been here? have you seen her?" "who, the goddess?" asked the landlord, stupidly. "the goddess!" retorted nell, for it was none other, with humorous irony of lip. "how can you so belie the duchess?" she laughed merrily at the thought. there was a second knock; and the landlord again hastened to the window. "'tis she; 'tis she!" exclaimed nell, excitedly. "haste ye, man; i am in waiting! what has she on? how is she dressed?" "body o' me!" exclaimed the landlord, in awe, as he craned his neck at the sash. "'tis a lady of quality." "bad quality," ejaculated nell. "she has come in a chair of silver," cried the landlord. "my chair shall be of beaten gold, then," thought nell, with a twinkle of the eye. "charles, you must raise the taxes." "mercy me, the great lady's coming in," continued the landlord, beside himself in his excitement. "she shall be welcome, most welcome, landlord," observed nell promptly. "body o' me! what shall i say?" asked the landlord, in trembling accents. "faith and troth," replied nell, coming to his rescue, "i will do the parlez-vousing with her ladyship. haste thee, thou grinning fat man." she glided quickly into a corner of the old fireplace, where she could not be observed so readily. the duchess of portsmouth entered, with all the haughty grandeur of a queen. she glanced about contemptuously, and her lip could be seen to curl, even through the veil which partially hid her face. "this _bourgeois_ place," she said, "to sup with the king! it cannot be! _garçon!_" "what a voice," reflected nell, in her hiding-place, "in which to sigh, 'i love you.'" "barbarous place!" exclaimed portsmouth. "his majesty must have lost his wits." she smiled complacently, however, as she reflected that the king might consent even within these walls and that his sign-manual, if so secured, would be as binding as if given in a palace. "_garçon!_" again she called, irritably. nell was meanwhile inspecting her rival from top to toe. nothing escaped her quick eye. "i'll wager her complexion needs a veil," she muttered, with vixenish glee. "that gown is an insult to her native france." "_garçon_; answer me," commanded portsmouth, fretfully. the landlord had danced about her grace in such anxiety to please that he had displeased. he had not learned the courtier's art of being ever present, yet never in the way. "yes, your ladyship," he stupidly repeated again and again. "what would your ladyship?" "did a prince leave commands for supper?" she asked, impatiently. "no, your ladyship," he replied, obsequiously. "a ragged rogue ordered a banquet and then ran away, your ladyship." "how, sirrah?" she questioned, angrily, though the poor landlord had meant no discourtesy. "if he knew his guests, he would ne'er return," softly laughed nell. "_parbleu_," continued portsmouth, in her french, impatient way, now quite incensed by the stupidity of the landlord, "a cavalier would meet me at ye blue boar inn; so said the messenger." she suddenly caught sight of nell, whose biting curiosity had led her from her hiding-place. "this is not the rendezvous," she reflected quickly. "we were to sup alone." the landlord still bowed and still uttered the meaningless phrase: "yes, your ladyship." the duchess was at the end of her patience. "_mon dieu_," she exclaimed, "do you know nothing, sirrah?" the moon-face beamed. the head bowed and bowed and bowed; the hands were rubbed together graciously. "good lack, i know not; a supper for a king was ordered by a ragged roundhead," he replied. "here are two petticoats, your ladyship. when i know which petticoat is which petticoat, your ladyship, i will serve the dinner." the tavern-keeper sidled toward the kitchen-door. as he went out, he muttered, judiciously low: "i wouldn't give a ha'penny for the choice." "beggar!" snapped portsmouth. "musty place, musty furniture, musty _garçon_, musty everything!" she stood aloof in the centre of the room as if fearful lest she might be contaminated by her surroundings. nell approached her respectfully. "you may like it better after supper, madame," she suggested, mildly. "a good spread, sparkling wine and most congenial company have cast a halo o'er more time-begrimed rafters than these." "who are you, madame?" inquired the duchess, haughtily. "a fellow-passenger on the earth," gently replied nell, "and a lover of good company, and--some wine." "yes?" said the duchess, in a way that only a woman can ask and answer a question with a "yes" and with a look such as only a woman can give another woman when she asks and answers that little question with a "yes." there was a moment's pause. the duchess continued: "perhaps you have seen the cavalier i await." "marry, not i," replied nell, promptly; and she bethought her that she had kept a pretty sharp lookout for him, too. "is this a proper place for a lady to visit?" pompously inquired the duchess. "you raise the first doubt," said nell quickly. "madame!" exclaimed portsmouth, interrupting her, with fiery indignation. "i say, you are the first to question the propriety of the place," explained nell, apologetically, though she delighted inwardly at the intended shot which she had given her grace. "i came by appointment," continued the duchess; "but it seems i was misled. _garçon_, my chair!" the duchess made a move toward the door, but nell's words stopped her. "be patient, duchess! he is too gallant to desert you." "she knows me!" thought portsmouth. she turned sharply upon the stranger. "i have not the pleasure of your acquaintance, madame." "such is my loss, not yours," replied nell, suavely. "remove your veil," commanded the duchess; and her eyes flashed through her own. "i dare not before the beauty of versailles," continued nell, sweetly. "remove yours first. then i may take mine off unseen." "do i know you?" suspiciously inquired portsmouth. "i fear not," said nell, meekly, and she courtesied low. "i am but an humble player--called nell gwyn." the duchess raised herself to her full height. "nell gwyn!" she hissed, and she fairly tore off her veil. "your grace's most humble servant," said nell, again courtesying low and gracefully removing her veil. "this is a trap," exclaimed the duchess, as she realized the situation. "heaven bless the brain that set it then," sweetly suggested nell. "your own, minx," snapped portsmouth. "i'll not look at the hussy!" she muttered. she crossed the room and seated herself upon the bench, back to nell. "your grace would be more kind if you knew my joy at seeing you." "and why?" asked the duchess, ironically. "i would emulate your warmth and amiability," tenderly responded nell. "yes?" said portsmouth; but how much again there was in her little "yes," accented as it was with a french shrug. "i adore a beautiful woman," continued nell, "especially when i know her to be--" "a successful rival?" triumphantly asked the duchess. "a rival!" exclaimed nell, in well-feigned astonishment, still toying with the duchess's temper. "is the poor actress so honoured in a duchess's thought? your grace is generous." if all the angels had united, they could not have made her speech more sweet or her manner more enticing. "i presumed you might conceive it so," replied portsmouth, with mocking, condescending mien. nell approached her timidly and spoke softly, lovingly, subserviently. "a rival to the great duchess of portsmouth!" she said. "perish the thought! it is with trepidation i look upon your glorious face, madame; a figure that would tempt st. anthony; a foot so small it makes us swear the gods have lent invisible wings to waft you to your conquest. nay, do not turn your rosy lip in scorn; i am in earnest, so in earnest, that, were i but a man, i would bow me down your constant slave--unless perchance you should grow fat." the turn was delicious: nell's face was a study; and so was portsmouth's. the duchess sprang to her feet, realizing fully for the first time that she had been trapped and trifled with. "hussy! beware your own lacings," she angrily exclaimed, turning now full face upon her adversary. nell was leaning against the table across the room, quietly observing portsmouth upon the word-wrack. her whole manner had changed. she watched with evident delight the play of discomfiture, mingled with contempt, upon the beautiful duchess's face. "_me_ fat!" she derisively laughed. "be sure i shall never grow too much so. and have not the stars said i shall ne'er grow old?" "your stars are falser than yourself," tartly snapped the duchess. "mayhap," said nell, still gleeful; "but mark you this truth: i shall reign queen of love and laughter while i live, and die with the first wrinkle." she was interrupted by his majesty, who, unsuspecting, swaggered into the room in buoyant spirits. "the king!" exclaimed nell, as she slyly glanced over her shoulder. the king looked at one woman and then at the other in dismay and horror. "scylla and charybdis!" he muttered, nervously, glancing about for means of escape. "all my patron-saints protect me!" nell was by his side in an instant. "good even' to your majesty," she roguishly exclaimed. "how can i ever thank you, sire, for inviting the duchess to sup with me! i have been eager to meet her ladyship." "ods-pitikins," he thought, "a loophole for me." "well,--you see--" he said, "a little surprise, nelly,--a little surprise--for me." the last two words were not audible to his hearers. he looked at the beautiful rivals an instant, then ventured, "i hoped to be in time to introduce you, ladies." "oh, your majesty," asserted nell, consolingly, "we are already quite well acquainted. i knew her grace through her veil." "no doubt on't," observed the king, knowingly. "yes, sire," said the duchess, haughtily, casting a frigid glance at nell, "i warrant we understand each other perfectly." "better and better," said charles, with a sickly laugh. his majesty saw rocks and shoals ahead, and his wits could find no channel of escape. he turned in dire distress upon nell, who stood aloof. she looked up into his face with the innocence of a babe in every feature. "minx, this is your work!" he whispered. "yes, sire!" she answered, mock-reprovingly, bending quite to the floor as she courtesied low. "'yes, sire.' baggage!" he exclaimed good-naturedly despite himself. as he turned away, praying heaven to see him out of the difficulty, he observed the landlord, who had just entered with bread and cups, muttering some dubious invocations to himself. he clutched at this piece of human stupidity--like a drowning man clutching at a straw: "ah, landlord, bring in what we live for; and haste ye, sirrah. the wine! the wine!" "it is ready, sir," obsequiously replied the landlord, who had just sense enough in his dull cranium to reflect also, by way of complement, "so is constable swallow." "good news, good news!" cried charles; and he tossed his plumed hat upon the sideboard, preparatory to the feast. "d'ye hear, my fair and loving friends? come, it is impolite to keep the capons waiting. my arms; my arms!" the king stepped gallantly between the ladies, making a bold play for peace. the duchess took one arm formally. nell seized the remaining arm and almost hugged his majesty, nestling her head affectionately against his shoulder. charles observed the decorum of due dignity. he was impartial to a fault; for he realized that there only lay his salvation. the phalanx approached the feast in solemn march. the king tossed his head proudly and observed: "who would not play the thorn with two such buds to blush on either side?" there was a halt. the duchess looked coldly at the table, then coldly at the king, then more coldly at nell. the king looked at each inquiringly. "i thought your majesty ordered supper for three," she said. "it is set for two." "odsfish, for two!" cried charles, glancing, anxiously, for the first time at the collation. nell had taken her place at the feast, regardless of formality. she was looking out for herself, irrespective of king or duchess. she believed that a dinner, like the grave, renders all equal. "egad!" she exclaimed, as she dwelt upon the force of the duchess's observation. "our host is teaching us the virtues of economy." the unsuspecting landlord re-entered at this moment, wine in hand, which he proceeded to place upon the table. "what do you mean, knave, by this treachery!" almost shrieked the king at sight of him. "another plate, dost hear; another plate, dog!" "bless me," explained the landlord, in confusion, "you said supper for two, sir; that a man was a fool who dined more; that the third was expensive and in the way." "villain!" cried charles, in a hopeless effort to suppress the fellow, "i said two-two--beside myself. i never count myself in the presence of these ladies." the landlord beat a hasty retreat. the duchess smiled a chilling smile, and asked complacently: "which one of us did you expect, sire?" "yes, which did you expect, sire?" laughed nell. "oh, my head," groaned charles; "well, well,--you see--duchess, the matter lies in this wise--" "let me help your majesty," generously interrupted nell. "her ladyship is ill at figures. you see, charles and i are one, and you make two, duchess." "i spoke to the king," haughtily replied the duchess, not deigning to glance at nell. the king placed his hands upon his forehead in bewilderment. "this is a question for the prime minister and sages of the realm in council." "there are but two chairs, sire," continued portsmouth, coldly. "two chairs!" exclaimed the merry monarch, aghast, as he saw the breach hopelessly widening. "i am lost." "that is serious, sire," said nell, sadly; and then her eye twinkled as she suggested, "but perhaps we might make out with one, for the duchess's sake. i am so little." she turned her head and laughed gaily, while she watched the duchess's face out of the corner of her eye. "'sheart," sighed the king, "i have construed grave controversies of state in my time, but ne'er drew the line yet betwixt black eyes and blue, brunette and blonde, when both were present. another chair, landlord! come, my sweethearts; eat, drink and forget." the king threw himself carelessly into a chair in the hope that, in meat and drink, he might find peace. "aye," acquiesced nell, who was already at work, irrespective of ceremony, "eat, drink and forget! i prefer to quarrel after supper." "i do not," said the duchess, who still stood indignant in the centre of the room. nell could scarce speak, for her mouthful; but she replied gaily, with a french shrug, in imitation of the duchess: "oh, very well! i have a solution. let's play sphinx, sire." charles looked up hopefully. "anything for peace," he exclaimed. "how is't?" "why," explained nell, with the philosophical air of a learned doctor, "some years before you and i thought much about the ways and means of this wicked world, your majesty, the sphinx spent her leisure asking people riddles; and if they could not answer, she ate them alive. give me some of that turbot. don't stand on ceremony, sire; for the duchess is waiting." the king hastened to refill nell's plate. "thank you," laughed the vixen; "that will do for now. let the duchess propound a riddle from the depths of her subtle brain; and if i do not fathom it upon the instant, sire, 't is the duchess's--not nell's--evening with the king." "odsfish, a great stake!" cried charles. he arose with a serio-comic air, much pleased at the turn things were taking. "don't be too confident, madame," ironically suggested the duchess; "you are cleverer in making riddles than in solving them." as she spoke, the room was suddenly filled with savoury odour. the moon-faced landlord had again appeared, flourishing a platter containing two finely roasted chickens. his face glowed with pride and ale. "the court's famished," exclaimed charles, as he greeted the inn-keeper; "proceed!" "two capons! i have it," triumphantly thought portsmouth, as she reflected upon a riddle she had once heard in far-off france. it could not be known in england. nothing so clever could be known in england. she looked contemptuously at nell, and then at the two chickens, as she propounded it. "let your wits find then three capons on this plate." "three chickens!" cried charles, in wonderment, closely scrutinizing the two fowl upon the plate and then looking up inquiringly at the duchess. "there are but two." nell only gurgled. "another glass, landlord, and i'll see four," she said. "here's to you two, and to me too." she drank gaily to her toast. "that is not the answer, madame," coldly retorted the duchess. "are we come to blows over two innocent chickens?" asked charles, somewhat concerned still for the outcome. "bring on your witnesses." "this is one chicken, your majesty," declared the duchess. "another's two; and two and one make three." with much formality and something of the air of a conjurer, she counted the first chicken and the second chicken and then recounted the first chicken, in such a way as to make it appear that there were three birds in all. the king, who was ill at figures, like all true spendthrifts, sat confused by her speech. nell laughed again. the landlord, who was in and out, stopped long enough to enter upon his bill, in rambling characters, " chickens." this was all his dull ear had comprehended. he then piously proceeded on his way. "gadso!" exclaimed the king, woefully. "it is too much for me." "pooh, pooh, 'tis too simple for you, sire," laughed nell. "i solved it when a child. here is my bird; and here is your bird; and our dearest duchess shall sup on her third bird!" nell quickly spitted one chicken upon a huge fork and so removed it to her own plate. the second chicken, she likewise conveyed to his majesty's. then, with all the politeness which she only could summon, she bowed low and offered the empty platter to the duchess. portsmouth struck it to the board angrily with her gloved hand and steadied herself against the table. "hussy!" she hissed, and forthwith pretended to grow faint. charles was at her elbow in an instant, supporting her. "oh,--sire, i--" she continued, in her efforts to speak. "what is it?" cried charles, seriously, endeavouring to assist her. "you are pale, louise." "i am faint," replied she, with much difficulty. "pardon my longer audience, sire; i am not well. _garçon_, my chair. assist me to the door." the fat landlord made a hasty exit, for him, toward the street, in his desire to help the great lady. charles supported her to the threshold. "call a leech, sire," cried nell after them, with mock sympathy. "her grace has choked on a chicken-bone." "be still, wench," commanded the king. "do not leave us, louise; it breaks the sport." "nay," pleaded nell also, "do not go because of this little merry-making, duchess. i desire we may become better friends." her voice revived the duchess. "_sans doute_, we shall, madame," portsmouth replied, coldly. "_À mon bal! pas adieu, mais au revoir_." the great duchess courtesied low, kissed the king's hand, arose to her full height and, with an eye-shot at nell, took her departure. chapter x _arrest him yourself!_ the king stood at the door, thoughtfully reflecting on the temper of the departing duchess. she was a maid of honour and, more than that, an emissary from his brother louis of france. gossip said he loved her, but it was not true, though he liked her company exceeding well when the mood suited. he regretted only the evening's incident, with the harsher feeling it was sure to engender. nell stood by the fireplace, muttering french phrases in humorous imitation of her grace. observing the king's preoccupation, she tossed a _serviette_ merrily at his head. this brought his majesty to himself again. he turned, and laughed as he saw her; for his brain and heart delighted in her merry-making. he loved her. "what means this vile french?" she asked, with delicious suggestion of the shrug, accent and manner of her vanquished rival. "the duchess means," explained the king, "that she gives a royal ball--" "and invites me?" broke in nell, quickly, placing her elbows upon a cask and looking over it impishly at charles. "and invites you _not_" said the king, "and so outwits you." "by her porters' wits and not her own," retorted nell. she threw herself into a chair and became oblivious for the moment of her surroundings. "the french hussy! so she gives a ball?" she thought. "well, well, i'll be there! i'll teach her much. oh, i'll be pretty, too, aye, very pretty. no fear yet of rivalry or harm for england." charles watched her amusedly, earnestly, lovingly. the vixen had fallen unconsciously into imitating again the duchess's foreign ways, as an accompaniment even for her thoughts. "_sans doute_, we shall, _madame_" nell muttered audibly, with much gesticulating and a mocking accent. "_À mon bal! pas adieu, mais au revoir_." the king came closer. "are you ill," he asked, "that you do mutter so and wildly act?" "i was only thinking that, if i were a man," she said, turning toward him playfully, "i would love your duchess to devotion. her wit is so original, her repartee so sturdy. your majesty's taste in horses--and some women--is excellent." she crossed the room gaily and threw herself laughing upon the bench. the king followed her. "heaven help the being, naughty nell," he said, "who offends thy merry tongue; but i love thee for it." he sat down beside her in earnest adoration, then caught her lovingly in his arms. "love me?" sighed nell, scarce mindful of the embrace. "ah, sire, i am but a plaything for the king at best, a caprice, a fancy--naught else." "nay, sweet," said charles, "you have not read this heart." "i have read it too deeply," replied nell, with much meaning in her voice. "it is this one to-day, that one to-morrow, with king charles. ah, sire, your love for the poor player-girl is summed up in three little words: 'i amuse you!'" "amuse me!" exclaimed charles, thoughtfully. "hark ye, nell! states may marry us; they cannot make us love. ye gods, the humblest peasant in my realm is monarch of a heart of his own choice. would i were such a king!" "what buxom country lass," asked nell, sadly but wistfully, "teaches your fancy to follow the plough, my truant master?" "you forget: i too," continued charles, "have been an outcast, like orange nell, seeking a crust and bed." he arose and turned away sadly to suppress his emotion. he was not the king of england now: he was a man who had suffered; he was a man among men. "forgive me, sire," said nell, tenderly, as a woman only can speak, "if i recall unhappy times." "unhappy!" echoed charles, while fancy toyed with recollection. "nell, in those dark days, i learned to read the human heart. god taught me then the distinction 'twixt friend and enemy. when a misled rabble had dethroned my father, girl, and murdered him before our palace gate, and bequeathed the glorious arts and progressive sciences to religious bigots and fanatics, to trample under foot and burn--when, if a little bird sang overjoyously, they cut out his tongue for daring to be merry--in some lonely home by some stranger's hearth, a banished prince, called charles stuart, oft found an asylum of plenty and repose; and in your eyes, my nell, i read the self-same, loyal, english heart." there was all the sadness of great music in his speech. nell fell upon her knee, and kissed his hand, reverently. "my king!" she said; and her voice trembled with passionate love. he raised her tenderly and kissed her upon the lips. "my queen," he said; and his voice too trembled with passionate love. "and milton says that paradise is lost," whispered nell. her head rested on the king's shoulder. she looked up--the picture of perfect happiness--into his eyes. "not while nell loves charles," he said. "and charles remembers nell," her voice answered, softly. meanwhile, the rotund landlord had entered unobserved; and a contrast he made, indeed, to the endearing words of the lovers as at this instant he unceremoniously burst forth in guttural accents with: "the bill! the bill for supper, sir!" nell looked at the king and the king looked at nell; then both looked at the landlord. the lovers' sense of humour was boundless. that was their first tie; the second, their hearts. "the bill!" repeated nell, smothering a laugh. "yes, we were just speaking of the bill." "how opportune!" exclaimed charles, taking the cue. "we feared you would forget it, sirrah." "see that it is right," ejaculated nell. the king glanced at the bill indifferently, but still could not fail to see " chickens" in unschooled hand. his eyes twinkled and he glanced at the landlord, but the latter avoided his look with a pretence of innocence. [illustration: the deception.] "gad," said charles, with a swagger, "what are a few extra shillings to parliament? here, my man." he placed a hand in a pocket, but found it empty. "no; it is in the other pocket." he placed his hand in another, only to find it also empty. then he went through the remaining pockets, one by one, turning them each out for inspection--his face assuming an air of mirthful hopelessness as he proceeded. he had changed his garb for a merry lark, but had neglected to change his purse. "devil on't, i--have--forgotten--odsfish, where is my treasurer?" he exclaimed at last. "your treasurer!" shrieked the landlord, who had watched charles's search, with twitching eyes. "want your treasurer, do ye? constable swallow'll find him for ye. constable swallow! i knew you were a rascal, by your face." charles laughed. this exasperated the landlord still further. he began to flutter about the room aimlessly, bill in hand. he presented it to charles and he presented it to nell, who would have none of it; while at intervals he called loudly for the constable. "peace, my man," entreated nell; "be still for mercy's sake." "good lack, my lady," pleaded the landlord, in despair, "good lack, but you would not see a poor man robbed by a vagabond, would ye? constable swallow!" the situation was growing serious indeed. the king was mirthful still, but nell was fearful. "nell, have you no money to stop this heathen's mouth?" he finally ejaculated, as he caught up his bonnet and tossed it jauntily upon his head. "not a farthing," replied she, sharply. "i was invited to sup, not pay the bill." "if the king knew this rascal," yelled the landlord at the top of his voice, pointing to charles, "he would be behind the bars long ago." this was too much for his majesty, who broke into the merriest of laughs. "verily, i believe you," he admitted. then he fell to laughing again, almost rolling off the bench in his glee. "master constable," wildly repeated the landlord, at the kitchen-door. "let my new wife alone; they are making off with the house." nell was filled with consternation. "he'll raise the neighbourhood, sire," she whispered to charles. "have you no money to stop this heathen's mouth?" "not even holes in my pockets," calmly replied the merry monarch. "odsfish, what company am i got into!" sighed nell. she ran to the landlord and seized his arm in her endeavour to quiet him. the landlord, however, was beside himself. he stood at the kitchen-door gesticulating ferociously and still shouting at the top of his voice: "constable swallow! help, help; thieves; constable swallow!" swallow staggered into the room with all his dignity aboard. tankard in hand, he made a dive for the table, and catching it firmly, surveyed the scene. nell turned to her lover for protection. "murder, hic!" ejaculated the constable. "thieves! what's the row?--hic!" "arrest this blackguard," commanded the landlord, nervously, "this perfiler of honest men." "arrest!--you drunken idiot!" indignantly exclaimed charles; and his sword cut the air before the constable's eyes. nell seized his arm. her woman's intuition showed her the better course. "you will raise a nest of them," she whispered. "you need your wits, sire; not your sword." "nay; come on, i say," cried charles, fearlessly. "we'll see what his majesty's constables are made of." "you rogue--_posse!_" exclaimed swallow, starting boldly for the king, then making a brilliant retreat, calling loudly for help, as the rapier tickled him in the ribs. "you ruffian--_posse!_" he continued to call, alternately, first to one and then to the other; for his fear paralyzed all but his tongue. "you outlaw--_posse commi-ti-titous_--hic!" buzzard also now entered from his warm nest in the kitchen, so intoxicated that he vented his enthusiasm in song, which in this case seemed apt: _"the man that is drunk is as great as a king."_ "another champion of the king's law!" ejaculated charles, not without a shadow of contempt in his voice, once more assuming an attitude of defence. "oh, charles!" pleaded nell, again catching his arm. "_posse_, arrest that vagabond," commanded the constable, from a point of safety behind the table. "aye, aye, sir," replied the obedient buzzard. "on what charge--hic?" "he's a law-breaker and a robber!" yelled the watchful landlord. "he called the law a drunken idiot. hic--hic!" woefully wailed swallow. "odsbud, that's treason! arrest him, _posse_--hic!" "knave, i arrest--hic!" asserted buzzard. the _posse_ started boldly enough for his game, but was suddenly brought to a stand-still in his reeling course by the sharp point of the rapier playing about his legs. he made several indignant efforts to overcome the obstacle. the point of the blade was none too gentle with him, even as he beat a retreat; and his enthusiasm waned. "arrest him yourself--hic!" he exclaimed. swallow's face grew red with rage. to have his orders disobeyed fired him with much more indignation of soul than the escape of the ruffian, who was simply defrauding the landlord of a dinner. he turned hotly upon the insubordinate _posse_, crying: "i'll arrest you, you buzzard--hic!" "i'll arrest you, you swallow--hic!" with equal dignity retorted buzzard. "i'm his majesty's constable--hic!" hissed swallow, from lips charged with air, bellows-like. "i'm his majesty's _posse_--hic!" hissed buzzard in reply. the two drunken representatives of the law seized each other angrily. the landlord, in despair, endeavoured hopelessly to separate them. "a wrangle of the generals," laughed charles. "now is our time." he looked about quickly for an exit. "body o' me! the vagabonds'll escape," shouted the landlord. "fly, fly!" said nell. "this way, charles." she ran hastily toward the steps leading to the entry-way; the king assisted her. "stop, thief! stop, thief!" screamed the landlord. "the bill! the bill!" "send it to the duchess!" replied nell, gaily, as she and the merry monarch darted into the night. the landlord turned in despair, to find the drunken champions of the king's law in a struggling heap upon the floor. he raised his foot and took out vengeance where vengeance could be found. chapter xi _in the field, men; at court, women!_ it was the evening of portsmouth's long-awaited _bal masqué_. music filled her palace with rhythmic sound. in the gardens, its mellowing strains died away among the shrubs and over-hanging boughs. in every nook and corner wandered at will the nobility--the richest--the greatest--in the land. none entertain like the french; and the duchess had, indeed, exhausted french art in turning the grand old place into a land of ravishing enchantment, with its many lights, its flowers, its works of art. her abode was truly an enlivening scene, with its variety of maskers, bright dominoes and vizards. the king was there and took a merry part in all the sport, although, beneath his swaggering abandon, there lurked a vein of sadness. he laughed heartily, he danced gaily, he jested with one and all; but his manner was assumed. the shrewdest woman's eye could not have seen it; though she might have felt it. brother james too enjoyed the dance, despite his piety; and buckingham, rochester and a score of courtiers beloved by the king entered mirthfully into the scene, applauding the duchess's entertainment heartily. as the evening wore apace, the merry maskers grew merrier and merrier. in a drawing-room adjoining the great ball-room, a robber-band, none other than several gallants, whose identity was concealed by silken vizards, created huge amusement by endeavouring to steal a kiss from lady hamilton. she feigned shyness, then haughtiness, then anger; then she ran. they were after her and about her in an instant. there were cries of "a kiss!" "a kiss!" "this way!" "make a circle or she'll escape us!" a dozen kisses so were stolen by the eager gallants before my lady broke away, stamping her foot in indignation, as she exclaimed: "nay, i am very angry, very--" "that there were no more, wench!" laughed buckingham. "marry, 'tis a merry night when portsmouth reigns. long live the duchess in the king's heart!" "so you may capture its fairer favourite, friend buckingham?" suggested the king, softly; and there was no hidden meaning in his speech, for the king suspected that buckingham's heart as well was not at portsmouth's and buckingham knew that the king suspected it. buckingham was the prince of courtiers; he bowed low and, saying much without saying anything, replied respectfully: "so i may console her, sire, that she is out-beautied by france to-night." "out-beautied! not bidden, thou mean'st," exclaimed the king, his thoughts roving toward nelly's terrace. ah, how he longed to be there! "the room is close," he fretted. "come, gallants, to the promenade!" he was dressed in white and gold; and a princely prince he looked, indeed, as the courtiers separated for him to pass out between them. all followed save buckingham, whom portsmouth's eye detained. she broke into a joyous laugh as she turned from the tapestry-curtains, through which she could see his majesty--the centre of a mirthful scene without. "what say you now, my lord?" she asked, triumphantly, of buckingham. "i am half avenged already, and the articles half signed. the king is here despite his madame gwyn, and in a playful mood that may be tuned to love." buckingham's ardour did not kindle as she hoped. "merriment is oft but sadness's mask, louise," he replied, thoughtfully. "what meanest thou?" she asked, in her nervous, gallic way, and as quickly, her mind anticipating, answered: "this trifle of the gossips that charles advances the player's whim to found a hospital at chelsea, for broken-down old soldiers? _ce n'est rien!"_ she broke into a mocking laugh. "aye!" replied buckingham, quietly but significantly. "the orders are issued for its building and the people are cheering nell throughout the realm." "_ma foi!_" came from the duchess's contemptuous lips. "and what say the rabble of portsmouth?" "that she is louis's pensioner sent here from france--a spy!" he answered, quickly and forcefully too. "the hawkers cry it in the streets." "fools! fools!" she mused. then, making sure that no arras had ears, she continued: "before the night is done, thou shalt hear that luxembourg has fallen to the french--mark!--luxembourg! feed the rabble on that, my lord. heaven preserve king louis!" the duke started incredulously. when had portsmouth seen the king? and by what arts had she won the royal consent? a score of questions trembled on his lips--and yet were checked before the utterance. not an intimation before of her success had reached his ear, though he had advised with the duchess almost daily since their accidental meeting below nell's terrace. indeed, in his heart, he had never believed that she would be able so to dupe the king. the shadow from the axe which fell upon charles i. still cast its warning gloom athwart the walls of whitehall; and, in the face of the temper of the english people and of well-known treaties, the acquiescence of charles ii. in louis's project would be but madness. luxembourg was the key strategetically to the netherlands and the states beyond. its fall meant the augmentation of the empire of louis, the personal ignominy of charles! "luxembourg!" he repeated the word cautiously. "king charles did not consent--" "nay," replied the duchess, in her sweetest way, "but i knew he would; and so i sent the message in advance." "forgery! 'twas boldly done, louise," cried buckingham, in tones of admiration mixed with fear. "i knew my power, my lord," she said confidently; and her eyes glistened with womanly pride as she added: "the consent will come." buckingham's eyes--usually so frank--fell; and, for some seconds, he stood seemingly lost in abstraction over the revelations made by the duchess. he was, however, playing a deeper game than he appeared to play. apparently in thoughtlessness, he began to toy with a ring which hung upon a ribbon about his neck and which till then had been cautiously concealed. "nay, what have you there?" questioned portsmouth. buckingham's face assumed an expression of surprise. he pretended not to comprehend the import of her words. she pointed to the ring. he glanced at it as though he regretted it had been seen, then added carelessly, apparently to appease but really to whet the duchess's curiosity: "merely a ring the king gave nell." there was more than curiosity now in portsmouth's eyes. "i borrowed it to show it you," continued buckingham, indifferently, then asked, with tantalizing calmness: "is your mission quite complete?" with difficulty, the duchess mastered herself. without replying, she walked slowly toward the table, in troubled thought. the mask of crime revealed itself in her beautiful features, as she said, half to herself: "i have a potion i brought from france." she was of the latin race and poison was a heritage. buckingham caught the words not meant for him, and realized too well their sinister meaning. poison nell! his eyes swept the room fearfully and he shuddered. he hastened to portsmouth's side, and in cold whispers importuned her: "for heaven's mercy, woman, as you love yourself and me--poison is an unhealthy diet to administer in england." the duchess turned upon him impatiently. the black lines faded slowly from her face; but they still were there, beneath the beauty-lines. "my servants have watched her house without avail," she sneered. "your plan is useless; my plan will work." "stay!" pleaded buckingham, still fearful. "we can ourselves entice some adventurous spirit up nell's terrace, then trap him. so our end is reached." "aye," replied the duchess, in milder mood, realizing that she had been over-hasty at least in speech, "the minx presumes to love the king, and so is honest! but of her later. the treaties! he shall sign to-night--to-night, i say." with a triumphant air, she pointed to the quills and sand upon a table in readiness for his signing. buckingham smiled approvingly; and in his smile lurked flattery so adroit that it pleased the duchess despite herself. "lord hyde, st. albans and the rest," said he, "are here to aid the cause." "bah!" answered portsmouth, with a shrug. "in the field, men; at court, women! this girl has outwitted you all. i must accomplish my mission alone. charles must be louis's pensioner in full; england the slave of france! my fortune--_le grand roi's_ regard--hang upon it." buckingham cautioned her with a startled gesture. "nay," smiled portsmouth, complacently, "i may speak frankly, my lord; for your head is on the same block still with mine." "and my heart, louise," he said, in admiration. "back to the king! do nothing rash. we will banish thy rival, dear hostess." he did not add, save in thought, that nell's banishment, if left to him, would be to his own country estate. there was almost a touch of affection in the duchess's voice as she prepared to join the king. "leave all to me, my lord," she said, then courtesied low. "yea, all but nell!" reflected his lordship, as he watched her depart. "with this ring, i'll keep thee wedded to jealous interest, and so enrich my purse and power. thou art a great woman, fair france; i half love thee myself. but thou knowest only a moiety of my purpose. the other half is nell!" he stood absorbed in his own thoughts. the draperies at the further doorway, on which was worked in gobelin tapestry a forest with its grand, imposing oaks, were pushed nervously aside. jack hart entered, mask in hand, and scanned the room with skeptic eye. "a happy meeting," mused buckingham, reflecting upon hart's one-time ardour for mistress nell and upon the possibility that that ardour, if directed by himself, might yet compromise nell in the king's eyes and lead to the realization of his own fond dreams of greater wealth and power and, still more sweet, to the possession of his choice among all the beauties of the realm. "it is a sad hour," thought hart, glancing at the merry dancers through the arch, "when all the world, like players, wear masks." buckingham assumed an air of bonhomie. "whither away, master hart?" he called after the player, who started perceptibly at his voice. "let not thy fancy play truant to this gay assemblage, to mope in st. james's park." "my lord!" exclaimed hart, hotly. the fire, however, was gone in an instant; and he added, evidently under strong constraint: "pardon; but we prefer to change the subject." "the drift's the same," chuckled the shrewd buckingham; "we may turn it to advantage." he approached the player in a friendly manner. "be not angry," he exclaimed soothingly; "for there's a rift even in the clouds of love. brighter, man; for king charles was seeking your wits but now." "he'd have me play court-fool for him?" asked the melancholy mime, who had in his nature somewhat of the cynicism of jaques, without his grand imaginings of soul. "there are many off the stage, my lord, in better practice." "true, most true," acquiesced buckingham; "i could point them out." he would have continued in this vein but beyond the door, whence hart had just appeared, leading by a stair-way of cupids to the entrance to the palace, arose the sound of many voices in noisy altercation. "hark ye, hark!" he exclaimed, in an alarmed tone. "what is't? confusion in the great hallway below. we'll see to't." he had assumed a certain supervision of the palace for the night. with the player as a body-guard, he accordingly made a hasty exit. chapter xii _beau adair is my name._ the room was not long vacant. the hostess herself returned. she was radiant. as she crossed the threshold, she glanced back proudly at the revellers, who, led by his majesty, were turning night into day with their merry-making. she had the right, indeed, to be proud; for the evening, though scarce half spent, bespoke a complete triumph for her entertainment. this was the more gratifying too, in that she knew that there were many at court who did not wish the "imported" duchess, as they called her, or her function well, though they always smiled sweetly at each meeting and at each parting and deigned now to feast beyond the limit of gentility upon her rich wines and collations. the _bal masqué_, however, as we have seen, was with the duchess but a means to an end. she took from the hand of a pretty page the treaties, lately re-drawn by bouillon, and glanced hastily over the parchments to see that her instructions from louis were covered by their words. a smile played on her arching lips as she read and re-read and realized how near she was to victory. "'tis portsmouth's night to-night!" she mused. "my great mission to england is nearly ended. dear france, i feel that i was born for thy advancement." she seated herself by the table, where the materials for writing had been placed, and further dwelt upon the outcome of the royal agreements, their contingencies and triumphs. she could write charles rex almost as well as the king, she thought, as her eye caught the places left for his signature. "bouillon never fails me," she muttered. "drawn by king charles's consent, except perchance some trifling articles which i have had interlined for louis's sake. we need not speak of them. it would be troublesome to charles. a little name and seal will make these papers history." her reflections were interrupted by the return of buckingham, who was laughing so that he could scarcely speak. "what is 't?" she asked, petulantly. "the guard have stayed but now a gallant, irish youth," replied he, as best he could for laughter, "who swore that he had letters to your highness. oh, he swore, indeed; then pleaded; then threatened that he would fight them all with single hand. of course, he won the ladies' hearts, as they entered the great hall, by his boyish swagger; but not the guards. your orders were imperative--that none unbidden to the ball could enter." "'tis well," cried portsmouth. "none, none! letters to me! did he say from whom?" "he said," continued buckingham, still laughing, "that he was under orders of his master to place them only in the duchess's hands. oh, he is a very lordly youth." the duke throughout made a sad attempt at amusing imitations of the brogue of the strange, youthful, irish visitor who, with so much importunity, sought a hearing. portsmouth reflected a moment and then said: "i will see him, buckingham, but briefly." buckingham, not a little surprised, bowed and departed graciously to convey the bidding. the duchess lost herself again in thought. "his message may have import," she reflected. "louis sends strange messengers ofttimes." in the midst of her reverie, the tapestry at the door was again pushed back, cautiously this time, then eagerly. there entered the prettiest spark that ever graced a kingdom or trod a measure. it was nell, accoutred as a youth; and a bold play truly she was making. her face revealed that she herself was none too sure of the outcome. "by my troth," she thought, as she glanced uncomfortably about the great room, "i feel as though i were all breeches." she shivered. "it is such a little way through these braveries to me." her eyes turned involuntarily to the corner where portsmouth sat, now dreaming of far-off france. "the duchess!" her lips breathed, almost aloud, in her excitement. "so you'd play hostess to his majesty," she thought, "give a royal ball and leave poor nelly home, would you?" the duchess was conscious only of a presence. "_garçon!_" she called, without looking up. nell jumped a foot. "that shook me to the boots," she ejaculated, softly. "_garçon!_" again called the impatient duchess. "madame," answered nell, fearfully, the words seeming to stick in her fair throat, as she hastily removed her hat and bethought her that she must have a care or she would lose her head as well, by forgetting that she was an irishman with a brogue. "who are you?" asked portsmouth, haughtily, as, rising, with surprised eyes, she became aware of the presence of a stranger. indeed, it is not strange that she was surprised. the youth who stood before her was dressed from top to toe in gray--the silver-gray which lends a colour to the cheek and piquancy to the form. the dress was of the latest cut. the hat had the longest plume. the cloak hung gracefully save where the glistening sword broke its falling lines. the boots were neat, well rounded and well cut, encasing a jaunty leg. the dress was edged with silver. ah, the strange youth was a love, indeed, with his bright, sparkling eyes, his lips radiant with smiles, his curls falling to his shoulders. "well," stammered nell, in awkward hesitation but in the richest brogue, as the duchess repeated her inquiry, "i'm just i, madame." the duchess smiled despite herself. "you're just you," she said. "that's very clear." "yes, that's very clear," reiterated nell, still fearful of her ground. "a modest masker, possibly," suggested portsmouth, observing the youth's embarrassment and wishing to assist him. "yea, very modest," replied nell, her speech still stumbling, "almost ashamed." portsmouth's eyes looked sharply at her. "she suspects me," thought nell, and her heart leaped into her throat. "i am lost--boots and all." "your name?" demanded the duchess again, impatiently. for the life of her nell could not think of it. "you see," she replied evasively, "i'm in london for the first time in my present self, madame, and--" "your name and mission, sir?" the tone was imperative. nell's wits returned to her. "beau adair is my name," she stammered, "and your service my mission." it was out, though it had like to have choked her, and nell was more herself again. the worst she had feared was that the duchess might discover her identity and so turn the tables and make her the laughing-stock at court. she grew, indeed, quite hopeful as she observed a kindly smile play upon the duchess's lips and caught the observation: "beau adair! a pretty name, and quite a pretty fellow." a smile of self-satisfaction and a low bow were nell's reply. "vain coxcomb!" cried portsmouth, reprovingly, though she was highly amused and even pleased with the strange youth's conceit. "nay; if i admire not myself," wistfully suggested nell, in reply, with pretence of much modesty, "who will praise poor me in this great palace?" "you are new at court?" asked portsmouth, doubtingly. "quite new," asserted nell, gaining confidence with each speech. "my london tailor made a man of me only to-day." "a man of you only to-day!" cried the duchess, in wonderment. "he assured me, madame," nell hastened to explain, "that the fashion makes the man. he did not like my former fashion. it hid too much that was good, he said. i am the bearer of this letter to the great duchess of portsmouth; that you are she, i know by your royalty." she bowed with a jaunty, boyish bow, sweeping the floor with her plumed hat, as she offered the letter. "oh, you are the gentleman," said portsmouth, recalling her request to buckingham, which for the instant had quite escaped her. she took the letter and broke the seal eagerly. "she does not suspect," thought nell; and she crossed quickly to the curtained arch, leading to the music and the dancing, in the hope that she might see the king. portsmouth, who was absorbed in the letter, did not observe her. "from rochet! dear rochet!" mused the duchess, as she read aloud the lines: "'the bearer of this letter is a young gallant, very modest and very little versed in the sins of court.'" "very little," muttered nell, with a mischievous wink, still intent upon the whereabouts and doings of the king. "'he is of excellent birth,'" continued the duchess, reading, "'brave, young and to be trusted--_to be trusted_. i commend him to your kindness, protection and service, during his stay in town.'" she reflected a moment intently upon the letter, then looked up quickly. nell returned, somewhat confused, to her side. "this is a very strong letter, sir," said portsmouth, with an inquiring look. "yes, very strong," promptly acquiesced nell; and she chuckled as she recalled that she had written it herself, taking near a fortnight in the composition. her fingers ached at the memory. "where did you leave rochet?" inquired the duchess, almost incredulously. "leave rochet?" thought nell, aghast. "i knew she would ask me something like that." there was a moment's awkwardness--nell was on difficult ground. she feared lest she might make a misstep which would reveal her identity. the duchess grew impatient. finally, nell mustered courage and made a bold play for it, as ever true to her brogue. "where did i leave rochet?" she said, as if she had but then realized the duchess's meaning, then boldly answered: "in cork." "in cork!" cried portsmouth, in blank surprise. "i thought his mission took him to dublin." she eyed the youth closely and wondered if he really knew the mission. "nay; cork!" firmly repeated nell; for she dared not retract, lest she awaken suspicion. "i am quite sure it was cork i left him in." "quite sure?" exclaimed the duchess, her astonishment increasing with each confused reply. "well, you see, duchess," said nell, "we had an adventure. it was dark; and we were more solicitous to know whither the way than whence." the duchess broke into a merry laugh. the youth had captured her, with his wistful, irish eyes, his brogue and his roguish ways. "we give a ball to-night," she said, gaily. "you shall stay and see the king." "the king!" cried nell, feigning fright. "i should tremble so to see the king." "you need not fear," laughed the hostess. "he will not know you." "i trust not, truly," sighed nell, with much meaning, as she scanned her scanty masculine attire. "take my mask," said the duchess, graciously. "as hostess, i cannot wear it." nell seized it eagerly. she would be safe with this little band of black across her eyes. even the king would not know her. "i shall feel more comfortable behind this," she said, naïvely. "did you ever mask?" inquired portsmouth, gaily. [illustration: as a cavalier mistress nell deceives even the king.] "nay, i am too honest to deceive," answered nell; and her eyes grew so round and so big, who would not believe her? "but you are at court now," laughed the duchess, patronizingly. "masking is the first sin at court." "then i'll begin with the first sin," said nell, slyly, raising the duchess's fingers to her lips, "and run the gamut." they passed together into the great ball-room, nell exercising all her arts of fascination--and they were many. the music ceased as they entered. the dancers, and more especially the ladies, eyed curiously the jaunty figure of the new-comer. there were merry whisperings among them. "who can he be?" asked one, eagerly. "what a pretty fellow!" exclaimed a second, in admiration. "i've been eying him," said a third, complacently. the men too caught the infection. "who can he be?" inquired rochester. "marry, i'll find out," said lady hamilton, with an air of confidence, having recovered by this time from the kisses which had been thrust upon her and being now ready for a new flirtation. she approached adair, artfully, and inquired: "who art thou, my butterfly? tell me now, e'er i die." her attitude was a credit to the extremes of euphuism. there was general laughter at her presumptuous and effete pose and phrase. the ladies had gathered about the new hero, like bees about new clover. the gallants stood, or sat as wall-flowers in a row, deserted. the king too had been abandoned for the lion of the hour and sat disconsolate. "peace, jealous ones!" cried lady hamilton, reprovingly, then continued, with a winning way: "i know thou art apollo himself, good sir." nell smiled complacently, though she felt her mask, to assure herself that it was firm. "apollo, truly," she said, jauntily, "if thou art his lyre, sweet lady." lady hamilton turned to the duchess. "oh, your grace," she asked, languishingly, "tell us in a breath, tell us, who is this dainty beau of the ball?" "how am i to know my guests," answered portsmouth, feigning innocence, "with their vizors down? nay, sweet sir, unmask and please the ladies. i'faith, who art thou?" the hostess was delighted. the popularity of the new-comer was lending a unique novelty to her entertainment. she was well pleased that she had detained monsieur adair. she thought she saw a jealous look in the king's usually carelessly indifferent gaze when she encouraged the affectionate glances of the irish youth. "i'faith," laughed nell, in reply, "i know not, duchess." "d'ye hear?" said portsmouth. "he knows not himself." "but i have a suspicion, duchess," sighed nell. "hark ye," laughed portsmouth, with a very pretty pout, "he has a suspicion, ladies." "nay, you will tell?" protested nell, as the ladies gathered closer about her in eager expectation. there was a unison of voices to the contrary. "trust us, fair sir," said one. "oh, we are good at keeping secrets." "then, 'twixt you and me, i am--" began nell; and she hesitated, teasingly. the group about grew more eager, more wild with curiosity. "yes, yes--" they exclaimed together. "i am," said nell, "the pied piper of hamlin town." "the rat-catcher," cried portsmouth. "oh, oh, oh!" there was a lifting of skirts, revealing many high-born insteps, and a scramble for chairs, as the ladies reflected upon the long lines of rats in the train of the mesmeric pied piper. "flee, flee!" screamed lady hamilton, playfully. "he may pipe us into the mountains after the children." "you fill me with laughter, ladies," said portsmouth to her guests. "the man does not live who can entrap me." "the woman does," thought nell, as, mock-heroically, she placed near her lips a reed-pipe which she had snatched from a musician in the midst of the fun; and, whistling a merry tune which the pipe took no part in, she circled about the room, making quite a wizard's exit. the ladies, heart and soul in the fun, fell into line and followed, as if spell-bound by the magic of the piper. charles, james, rochester and the gallants, who remained, each of whom had been in turn deserted by his fair lady, unmasked and looked at one another in wonderment. of one accord, they burst into a peal of laughter. "sublime audacity," exclaimed charles. "who is this curled darling--this ball-room adonis? ods-pitikins, we are in the sear and yellow leaf." "truly, sire," said james, dryly, "i myself prefer a gathering of men only." "brother james," forthwith importuned the king, waggishly, "will you favour me with your lily-white hand for the next dance? i am driven to extremity." "pardon, sire," replied james, quite humorously for him, "i am engaged to a handsomer man." "odsfish," laughed charles, "king charles of england a wall-flower. come, rochester, my epitaph." the king threw himself into a chair, in an attitude of hopeless resignation, quite delicious. rochester perked up with the conceit and humour of the situation. with the utmost dignity, and with the quizzical, pinched brow of the labouring muse, halting at each line, he said: _"here lies our sovereign lord, the king, whose word no man relies on; who never said a foolish thing, and never did a wise one!"_ the post-mortem verse was sufficiently subtle and clever to revive the king's drooping spirits; and he joined heartily in the applause. "the matter," he said, approvingly, "is easily accounted for--my discourse is my own, my actions are my ministry's." there was a _frou-frou_ of petticoats. the hostess entered gaily. "the king! the courtiers! unmasked!" she exclaimed, in coy reproof. "fy, fy, your majesty! for shame! gallants! are you children that i must pair you off?" "we are seeking consolation," suggested charles, dryly; "for modest souls have small chance to-night, louise." he nodded significantly in the direction of the great ball-room, where the chatter of women's voices betokened the unrivalled popularity of nell. "when did you turn modest, sire?" slyly inquired portsmouth, with a look of love. "when i was out-stripped in audacity by yon hibernian youth," replied the king, seriously. "who is this peacock you are introducing?" a peal of laughter from without punctuated the king's speech. it was the reward of a wit-thrust from nell. "the piper the maids would now unmask?" queried portsmouth, rapturously. "marry, 'tis the fascinating beau adair of cork, entertaining the ladies. oh, he is a love, sire; he does not sulk in corners. see! see!" she pointed toward the archway, through which nell was plainly visible. she was strutting jauntily back and forth upon the promenade. it is unnecessary to say that she was escorted by the assembled fair ones. as nell caught the eye of the hostess in the distance, she gaily tossed a kiss to her. "'sdeath, that i were a woman to hope for one of his languishing smiles," observed buckingham. "even the old hens run at his call," sneered the pious james, in discontent; for he too had been deserted by his ladylove and even before the others. the king looked at his brother with an air of bantering seriousness, to the delight of all assembled. "brother james is jealous of the old ones only," he observed. "you know his favourites are given him by his priests for penance." a merry ripple ran through the group. the hostess took advantage of the king's speech to make a point. "and you are jealous of the young ones only," she said, slyly, quickly adding as a bid for jealousy: "pooh, pooh! _le beau_ had letters to me, sire. nay, we do not love him very much. we have not as yet had time." "alas, alas," sighed charles, with drooping countenance, "that it should come to this." "my liege, i protest--" cried portsmouth, hastily, fearful lest she might have gone too far. "to-night is the first i ever saw the youth. i adore you, sire." "not a word!" commanded charles, with mock-heroic mien. he waved his hand imperatively to his followers. "friends," he continued, "we will mix masks and dominoes and to't again to drown our sorrow." "in the thames?" inquired james, facetiously for him. "tush! in the punch-bowl, pious brother!" protested the merry monarch, with great dignity. "you know, a very little water will drown even a king." the gallants mixed masks and dominoes in obedience to the royal wish. the king, sighing deeply, cast a hopeless glance at portsmouth, not without its tinge of humour. he then sauntered slowly toward the windows of the great ball-room, followed subserviently by all the courtiers, save buckingham, who was lost in converse with player hart. "hark ye," suddenly broke off buckingham, observing the approach of adair and his adorers, "here come again the merry maskers. by bacchus, the little bantam still reigns supreme. the king and his gallants in tears. let us join the mourners, master hart." as the duke and the player, the former assuming a fraternal air for an end of his own, joined the royal group, nell re-entered gaily, every inch the man. she was still surrounded by the ladies, who, fluttering, flattering and chattering, hung upon her every word. with one hand she toyed with her mask, which she had good-naturedly dropped as none were about who knew her. she clapped it, however, quickly to her eyes at sight of the king. "you overwhelm me, my fair ones," she said, with spirit, as she held court in the centre of the room. "i assure you, i am not used to such attention--from the ladies." "our hospitality is beggarly to your deserts," sighed portsmouth, who had joined the bevy, but loud enough for the king to hear. "you quite o'erpower me, duchess," answered nell, modestly, adding for the satisfaction of her own sense of humour: "no wonder we men are fools, if you women talk like this." while she was speaking, lady hamilton whispered facetiously in portsmouth's ear. "beau adair married!" exclaimed the duchess, in response. "it cannot be. he looks too gay for a married man." "no confidences, my pretty ones," observed nell, reprovingly. the hostess hesitated; then she out with it in a merry strain. "lady hamilton asks after the wife you left at home." "my wife!" cried nell, in astonishment; for this phase of her masquerading had not presented itself to her before. "great heavens, i have no wife--i assure you, ladies!" "so?" observed portsmouth, her curiosity awakened. "modest--for a bachelor." "a bachelor!" exclaimed nell, now fully _en rapport_ with the spirit of the situation. "well,--not exactly a bachelor either,--ladies." "alack-a-day," sighed lady hamilton, with a knowing glance at her companions, "neither a bachelor nor a married man!" "well, you see--" explained nell, adroitly, "that might seem a trifle queer, but--i'm in mourning--deeply in mourning, ladies." she drew a kerchief from her dress and feigned bitter tears. "a widower!" tittered lady hamilton, heartlessly. "our united congratulations, sir." the other ladies one by one sobbed with affected sympathy, wiping their eyes tenderly, however, lest they might remove the rich colour from their cheeks. "mesdames," said nell, reprovingly, "the memory is sacred. believe me, very sacred." she fell apparently once again to weeping bitterly. "the memory is always sacred--with men," observed portsmouth, for the benefit of her guests, not excepting the irish youth. "nay, tell us the name of the fair one who left you so young. my heart goes out to you, dear beau." "kind hostess," replied nell, assuming her tenderest tones, "the name of my departed self is--nell!" hart caught the word. the player was standing near, reflecting on the scene and on the honeyed words of the duke of buckingham, who was preparing the way that he might use him. "nell!" he muttered. "who spoke that name?" the hostess too was startled. "nell!" she exclaimed, with contending emotions. "strange! another cavalier who graces _mon bal masqué_ to-night has lost a loved one whose name is nell. ah, but she was unworthy of his noble love." she spoke pointedly at the masked king, who started perceptibly. "yes," he thought; for his conscience smote him, "unworthy--he of her." "unworthy, truly, if he dances so soon and his own nell dead," added nell, reflectively, but so that all might hear, more especially charles. "perchance nell too thinks so," thought he, as he restlessly walked away, sighing: "i wish i were with her on the terrace." "'sdeath, duchess," continued nell abruptly, in assumed horror at the sudden thought, "the lady's spirit may visit the ball, to the confusion of us all. such things have been." "the nell i mean," said portsmouth, with a confident smile, "will not venture here, e'en in spirit." nell assumed a baby-innocence of face. "she has not been bidden, i presume?" she queried. "the vixen would not stop for asking," declared portsmouth, almost fiercely. "come without asking?" cried nell, as if she could not believe that there could be such people upon the earth. "how ill-bred! thine ear, loved one. my nell revisits the world again at midnight. the rendezvous--st. james's park." hart brushed close enough to the group, in his biting curiosity, to catch her half-whisper to portsmouth. he at once sought a window and fresh air, chafing with surprise and indignation at what he had overheard. "st. james's at midnight," he muttered. "'tis my nell's abode." the duchess herself stood stunned at what appeared to her a possible revelation of great import. "st. james's!" she thought. "can he mean madame gwyn? no, no!" the look of suspicion which for an instant had clouded her face changed to one of merriment, under adair's magic glance. "and you would desert me for such a fleshless sprite?" she asked. "not so," said nell, with a winning look; "but, when my better-half returns to life, i surely cannot refuse an interview--especially an she come from afar." nell's eyes arose with an expression of sadness, while her finger pointed down--ward in the direction of what she deemed the probable abode of her departed "nell." her lips twitched in merriment, however, despite her efforts to the contrary; and the hostess fell a-laughing. "ladies," she cried, as she appealed to one and all, "is not _le beau_ a delight--so different from ordinary men?" "i am not an ordinary man, i assure you," nell hastened to declare. this assertion was acquiesced in by a buzz of pretty compliments from the entire bevy of ladies. "positively charming!" exclaimed one. "a perfect love!" said another. nell listened resignedly. "'sheart," she said, at length, with an air of _ennui_, "i cannot help it. 'tis all part of being a man, you know." "would that all men were like you, _le beau_!" sighed the hostess, not forgetting to glance at the king, who again sat disconsolate, in the midst of his attendant courtiers, drawn up, as in line of battle, against the wall. "heaven help us if they were!" slyly suggested nell. rochester, who had been watching the scene in his mischievous, artistic way, drew from portsmouth's compliment to adair another meaning. he was a mixture 'twixt a man of arts and letters and satan's own--a man after the king's own heart. turning to the king, with no desire to appease the mischief done, he said, banteringly: "egad, there's a rap at you, sire. france would make you jealous." the duke of buckingham too, though he appeared asleep, had seen it all. "and succeeds, methinks," he reflected, glancing approvingly in the direction of the irish youth. "a good ally, i'faith." nell, indeed, was using all her arts of fascination to ingratiate herself with the duchess, and making progress, too. "your eyes are glorious, fair hostess," she said, in her most gallant love-tones, "did i not see my rival in them." she could not, however, look at portsmouth for laughter, as she thought: "i believe lying goes with the breeches; i never was so proficient before." the compliment aroused the king's sluggish nature. "i can endure no more, gallants," cried he, with some pretence of anger, rising abruptly, followed, of course, in each move and grimace by his courtier-apes, in their desire to please. "are we to be out-done in our own realm by this usurper with a brogue? ha! the fiddlers! madame, i claim the honour of this fair hand for the dance." at the sound of the music, he had stepped gallantly forward, taking the hostess's hand. "my thanks, gallant masker," replied the duchess, pretending not to know him for flattery's sake, "but i am--" to her surprise, she had no opportunity to complete the sentence. "engaged! engaged!" interposed nell, coming unceremoniously between them, with swaggering assumption and an eye-shot at the king through the portal of her mask. "forsooth, some other time, strange sir." the hostess stood horrified. "pardon, sir masker," she hastened to explain; "but the dance was pledged--" "no apologies, duchess," replied the king, as he turned away, carelessly, with the reflection: "all's one to me at this assemblage." he crossed the room, turning an instant to look, with a humorous, quizzical glance, at portsmouth. nell mistook the glance for a jealous one and, perking up quickly, caught the royal eye with a challenging eye, tapping her sword-hilt meaningly. had the masks been off, the situation would have differed. as it was, the king smiled indifferently. the episode did not affect him further than to touch his sense of humour. nell turned triumphantly to her partner. "odsbud," she exclaimed, with a delicious, youthful swagger, "we may have to measure swords in your behalf, dear hostess. i trow the fellow loves you." "have a care," whispered the duchess, nervously. "it is the king." "what care i for a king?" saucily replied nell, with a finger-snap. she had taken good care, however, to speak very low. "my arm, my arm, duchess!" she continued, with a gallant step. "places, places; or the music will outstrip us." "strut on, my pretty bantam," thought buckingham, whose eyes lost little that might be turned to his own advantage; "i like you well." there was no mending things at this stage by an apology. the duchess, therefore, tactfully turned the affair into one of mirth, in which she was quickly joined by her guests. with a merry laugh, she took the irish gallant's proffered arm, and together they led the dance. the king picked a lady indifferently from among the maskers. it was a graceful old english measure. nell's roguish wits, as well as her feet, kept pace with the music. she assured her partner that she had never loved a woman in all her life before and followed this with a hundred merry jests and sallies, keyed to the merry fiddles, so full of blarney that all were set a-laughing. anon, the gallants drew their swords and crossed them in the air, while the ladies tiptoed in and out. nell's blade touched the king's blade. when all was ended the swords saluted with a knightly flourish, then tapped the floor. there was an exultant laugh from one and all, and the dance was done. nell hastened to her partner's side. she caught the duchess's hand and kissed it. "you dance divinely, your grace," she said. "a goddess on tiptoe." "oh, beau adair!" replied the duchess, courtseying low; and her eyes showed that she was not wholly displeased at the warmth of his youthful adoration. "oh, duchess!" said nell, fondly, acknowledging the salute. the duchess hastened to join his majesty and together they threaded their way through many groups. nell tossed her head. "how i love her!" she muttered, veiling the sarcasm under her breath. she crossed the great room, her head erect. her confidence was quite restored. this had been the most difficult bit of acting she had ever done; and how well it had been done! the other dancers in twos and threes passed from the room in search of quiet corners, in which to whisper nothings. nell's eyes fell upon strings, who had had a slight turn for the better in the world and who now, in a dress of somewhat substantial green, was one of the fiddlers at the duchess's ball. "how now, sirrah!" she said, sharply, as she planted herself firmly before him to his complete surprise. "i knew you were here." she placed one of her feet in a devil-may-care fashion upon a convenient chair in manly contempt of its upholstery and peeped amusedly through her mask at her old friend. he looked at her in blank amazement. "gads-bobbs," he exclaimed, in confusion, "the irish gentleman knows me!" "there's nothing like your old fiddle, strings," continued nell, still playing with delight upon his consternation. "it fills me with forty dancing devils. if you were to play at my wake, i would pick up my shroud, and dance my way into paradise." "your lordship has danced to my fiddling before?" he gasped, in utter amazement. "danced!" gleefully cried nell. "i have followed your bow through a thousand jigs. to the devil with these court-steps. i'm for a jig, jig, jig, jig, jig! oh, i'm for a jig! tune up, tune up, comrade; and we'll have a touch of the old days at the king's house." "the king's house! jigs!" exclaimed the fiddler, now beside himself. "jigs!" chuckled nell. "jigs are my line of business." _oranges, will you have my oranges? sweet as love-lips, dearest mine, picked by spanish maids divine,--_ the room had now quite cleared; and, protected by a friendly alcove, nell punctuated the old song with a few happily turned jig-steps. strings looked at her a moment in bewilderment: then his face grew warm with smiles; the mystery was explained. "mistress nell, as i live," he cried, joyously, "turned boy!" "the devil fly away with you, you old idiot! boy, indeed!" replied nell, indignantly. "i'm a full-grown widower!" she had removed her mask and was dancing about strings gleefully. there was the sound of returning voices. "oons, you will be discovered," exclaimed strings, cautiously. "marry, i forgot," whispered nell, glancing over her shoulder. "you may have to help me out o' this scrape, strings, before the night is done." "you can count on me, mistress nell, with life," he replied, earnestly. "i believe you!" said nell, in her sympathetic, hearty way. her mind reverted to the old days when strings and she were at the king's. "oh, for just one jig with no petticoats to hinder." nell, despite herself, had fallen into an old-time jig, with much gusto, for her heart was for a frolic always, when strings, seized her arm in consternation, pointing through the archway. "the king!" she exclaimed. she clapped her mask to her eyes and near tumbled through the nearest arras out of the room in her eagerness to escape, dragging her ever-faithful comrade with her. chapter xiii _for the glory of england?_ the king entered the room with his historic stride. his brow was clouded; but it was all humorous pretence, for trifles were not wont to weigh heavily upon his majesty. with him came portsmouth. "can you forgive me, sire?" she asked. "i had promised the dance to beau adair. i did not know you, sire; you masked so cleverly." "'sdeath, fair flatterer!" replied the king. "i have lived too long to worry o'er the freaks of women." "the youth knew not to whom he spoke," still pleaded portsmouth. "his introduction here bespeaks his pardon, sire." the king looked sardonic, but his laugh had a human ring. "he is too pretty to kill," he declared, dramatically. "we'll forgive him for your sake. and now good night." "so soon?" asked portsmouth, anxiously. "it is late," he replied. "not while the king is here," she sighed. "night comes only when he departs." "your words are sweet," said charles, thoughtfully observing her. she sighed again. "my thoughts stumble in your speech," she said. "i regret i have not english blood within my veins." "and why?" "the king would trust and love me then. he does not now. i am french and powerless to do him good." there was a touch of honest sadness in her speech which awakened the king's sympathy. "nay," he said hastily, to comfort her; "'tis thy fancy. thy entertainment hath made me grateful--to louis and louise." "think not of louis and louise," she said, sadly and reproachfully, "but of thy dear self and england's glory. for shame! ah, sire, my childhood-dreams were of sunny france, where i was born; at versailles--at fontainebleau among the monarch trees--my early womanhood sighed for love. france gave me all but that. it came not till i saw the english king!" the siren of the nile never looked more bewitchingly beautiful than this siren of france as she half reclined upon the couch, playing upon the king's heart with a bit of memory. his great nature realized her sorrow and encompassed it. "and am i not good to thee, child?" he asked. he took her hand and responded to her eyes, though not with the tenderness of love--the tenderness for which she sought. "you are good to none," she replied, bitterly; "for you are not good to charles." "you speak enigmas," he said, curious. "have you forgotten your promise?" she asked, naïvely. "nay; the passport, pretty one?" he answered, amused at the woman's wiles. "all this subterfuge of words for that! there; rest in peace. thy friend hath a path to france at will." he smiled kindly as he took the passport from his girdle, handed it to her and turned to take his leave. "my thanks are yours. stay, sire," she said, hastily; for her mission was not yet complete and the night was now well gone. "passports are trifles. will you not leave the dutch to louis and his army? think!" she placed her arms about his neck and looked enticingly into his eyes. "but," he replied, kindly, "my people demand that i intervene and stay my brother louis's aggressive hand." "are the people king?" she asked, with coy insinuation. "do they know best for england's good? nay, sire, for your good and theirs, i beseech, no more royal sympathy for holland. i speak to avoid entanglements for king charles and to make his reign the greater. i love you, sire." she fell upon her knee. "i speak for the glory of england." his majesty was influenced by her beauty and her arts,--what man would not be?--but more by the sense of what she said. "for the glory of england?" he asked himself. "true, my people are wrong. 'tis better we remain aloof. no wars!" he took the seat by the table, which the duchess offered him, and scanned casually the parchment which she handed to him. nell peered between the curtains. strings was close behind her. "bouillon's signature for france," mused the king. "'tis well! no more sympathy for the dutch, louise, until holland sends a beauty to our court to outshine france's ambassador." he looked at portsmouth, smiled and signed the instrument, which had been prepared, as he thought, in accordance with his wishes and directions. he then carelessly tossed the sand over the signature to blot it. the fair duchess's eyes revealed all the things which all the adjectives of all the lands ever meant. "holland may outshine in beauty, sire," she said, kneeling by the king's side, "but not in sacrifice and love." she kissed his hand fervently. he sat complacently looking into her eyes, scarce mindful of her insinuating arts of love. he was fascinated with her, it is true; but it was with her beauty, flattery and sophistry, not her heart. "i believe thou dost love england and her people's good," he said, finally. "thy words art wise." portsmouth leaned fondly over his shoulder. "one more request," she said, with modest mien, "a very little one, sire." the king laughed buoyantly. "nay, an i stay here," he said, "thy beauty will win my kingdom! what is thy little wish, sweet sovereign?" "no more parliaments in england, sire," she said, softly. "what, woman!" he exclaimed, rising, half-aghast, half-humorous, at the suggestion; for he too had an opinion of parliament. "to cross the sway of thy great royal state-craft," she continued, quickly following up the advantage which her woman's wit taught her she had gained. "the people's sufferings from taxation spring from parliament only, sire." "'tis true," agreed charles, decisively. portsmouth half embraced him. "for the people's good, sire," she urged, "for my sweetest kiss." "you are mad," said charles, yet three-fourths convinced; "my people--" "will be richer for my kiss," the duchess interrupted, wooingly, "and their king, by divine right and heritage, will rule untrammelled by country clowns, court knaves and foolish lords, who now make up a silly parliament. with such a king, england will be better with no parliament to hinder. think, sire, think!" "i have thought of this before," said charles, who had often found parliament troublesome and, therefore, useless. "the taxes will be less and contention saved." [illustration: between two fires] "why hesitate then?" she asked. "this hour's as good for a good deed as any." "for england's sake?" reflected charles, inquiringly, as he took the second parchment from her hands. "heaven direct my judgment for my people's good. i sign." the treaties which louis xiv. of france had sent the artful beauty to procure lay signed upon her desk. nell almost pulled the portières from their hangings in her excitement. "i must see those papers," she thought. "there's no good brewing." portsmouth threw her arms about the king and kissed him passionately. "now, indeed, has england a great king," she said, adding to herself: "and that king louis's slave!" charles smiled and took his leave. as he passed through the portal, he wiped his lips, good-humouredly muttering: "portsmouth's kisses and nell's do not mix well." portsmouth listened for a moment to his departing footsteps, then dropped into the chair by the table and hastily folded and addressed the papers. her mission was ended! chapter xiv _he loves me! he loves me!_ nell, half draped in the arras, had seen the kiss in reality bestowed by portsmouth but as she thought bestowed by the king. as his majesty departed through the door at the opposite end of the room, the colour came and went in her cheeks. she could scarce breathe. portsmouth sat unconscious of all but her own grand achievement. she had accomplished what shrewd statesmen had failed to bring about; and this would be appreciated, she well knew, by louis. "'sdeath!" muttered nell to herself, hotly, as, with quite a knightly bearing, she approached the duchess. "he kisses her before my very eyes! he kisses her! i'll kill the minx!" she half unsheathed her blade. "pshaw! no! no! i am too gallant to kill the sex. i'll do the very manly act and simply break her heart. aye, that is true bravery in breeches." her manner changed. "your grace!" she said suavely. "yes," answered portsmouth, her eyes still gleaming triumphantly. "it seems you are partial of your favours?" "yes." "such a gift from lips less fair," continued nell, all in wooing vein, "would make a beggar royal." the hostess was touched with the phrasing of the compliment. she smiled. "you would be pleased to think me fair?" she coyly asked, with the air of one convinced that it could not well be otherwise. "fairer than yon false gallant thinks you," cried nell, with an angry toss of the head in the direction of the departed king. "charles's kiss upon her lips?" she thought. "'tis mine, and i will have it." in the twinkling of an eye, she threw both arms wildly about the neck of the astonished hostess and kissed her forcefully upon the lips. then, with a ringing laugh, tinged with triumph, she stepped back, assuming a defiant air. the duchess paled with anger. she rose quickly and, turning on the pretty youth, exclaimed: "sir, what do you mean?" "tilly-vally!" replied the naughty nell, in her most winning way. "a frown upon that alabaster brow, a pout upon those rosy lips; and all for nothing!" "_parbleu!_" exclaimed the indignant duchess. "your impudence is outrageous, sir! we will dispense with your company. good night!" "ods-pitikins!" swaggered nell, feigning umbrage. "angry because i kissed you! you have no right, madame, to be angry." "no right?" asked portsmouth, her feelings tempered by surprise. "no right," repeated nell, firmly. "it is i who should be outraged at your anger." "explain, sir," said the duchess, haughtily. nell stepped toward the lady, and, assuming her most tender tone, with wistful, loving eyes, declared: "because your grace can have no appreciation of what my temptation was to kiss you." the duchess's countenance glowed with delight, despite herself. "i'faith, was there a temptation?" she asked, quite mollified. "an overwhelming passion," cried nell, following up her advantage. "and you were disappointed, sir?" asked portsmouth suggestively, her vanity falling captive to the sweet cajolery. "i only got yon courtier's kiss," saucily pouted nell, "so lately bestowed on you." "do you know whose kiss that was?" inquired the duchess. "it seemed familiar," answered nell, dryly. "the king's," said portsmouth, proudly. "the king's!" cried nell, opening wide her eyes. "take back your kiss. i would not have it." "indeed!" said portsmouth, smiling. "'tis too volatile," charged nell, decisively. "'tis here, 'tis there, 'tis everywhere bestowed. each rosy tavern-wench with a pretty ankle commands it halt. a kiss is the gift of god, the emblem of true love. take back the king's kiss; i do not wish it." "he does not love the king," thought portsmouth, ever on the lookout for advantage. "a possible ally!" she turned upon the youth, with humorous, mocking lip, and said reprovingly: "a kiss is a kiss the world over, fair sir; and the king's kisses are sacred to portsmouth's lips." "zounds," replied nell, with a wicked wink, "not two hours since, he bestowed a kiss on eleanor gwyn--" "nell gwyn!" cried the duchess, interrupting; and she started violently. "with oaths, mountains high," continued nell, with pleasurable harshness, "that his lips were only for her." the duchess stood speechless, quivering from top to toe. nell herself swaggered carelessly across the room, muttering mischievously, as she watched the duchess from the corner of her eye: "methinks that speech went home." "he kissed her in your presence?" gasped portsmouth, anxiously following her. "i was not far off, dear duchess," was the quizzical reply. "you saw the kiss?" "no," answered nell, dryly, and she could scarce contain her merriment. "i--i--felt the shock." before she had finished the sentence, the king appeared in the doorway. his troubled spirit had led him to return, to speak further with the duchess regarding the purport of the treaties. he had the good of his people at heart, and he was not a little anxious in mind lest he had been over-hasty in signing such weighty articles without a more careful reading. he stopped short as he beheld, to his surprise, the irish spark adair in earnest converse with his hostess. "i hate nell gwyn," he overheard the duchess say. "is't possible?" interrogated nell, with wondering eyes. the king caught this utterance as well. "in a passion over nelly?" reflected he. "i'd sooner face cromwell's soldiers at boscobel! all hail the oak!" his majesty's eye saw with a welcome the spreading branches of the monarch of the forest, outlined on the tapestry; and, with a sigh of relief, he glided quickly behind it and, joining a group of maskers, passed into an anteroom, quite out of ear-shot. "most strange!" continued nell, wonderingly. "nell told me but yesterday that portsmouth was charming company--but a small eater." "'tis false," cried the duchess, and her brow clouded at the unpleasant memory of the meeting at ye blue boar. "i never met the swearing orange-wench." "ods-pitikins!" acquiesced nell, woefully. "nell's oaths are bad enough for men." "masculine creature!" spitefully ejaculated the duchess. "verily, quite masculine--of late," said nell, demurely, giving a significant tug at her boot-top. "a vulgar player," continued the indignant duchess, "loves every lover who wears gold lace and tosses coins." "nay; 'tis false!" denied nell, sharply. the duchess looked up, surprised. nell was all obeisance in an instant. "pardon, dear hostess, a thousand pardons," she prayed; "but i have some reason to know you misjudge mistress nell. with all her myriad faults, she never loved but one." "you seem solicitous for her good name, dear beau?" suggested portsmouth, suspiciously. "i am solicitous for the name of all good women," promptly explained nell, who was rarely caught a-napping, "or i would be unworthy of their sex--i mean their friendship." the duchess seemed satisfied with the explanation. "dear beau, what do the cavaliers see in that horrid creature?" archly asked the duchess, contemptuous of this liking of the stronger sex. "alack-a-day, we men, you know," replied nell, boastfully, "well--the best of us make mistakes in women." "are you mistaken?" questioned portsmouth, coyly. "what?" laughed nell, in high amusement. "i love nelly? nay, duchess," and her voice grew tender, "i adore but one!" "and she?" asked the hostess, encouraging the youth's apparently awakening passion. "how can you ask?" said nell, with a deep sigh, looking adoringly into portsmouth's eyes and almost embracing her. "do you not fear?" inquired portsmouth, well pleased. "fear what?" questioned nell. "my wrath," said portsmouth. "nay, more, thy love!" sighed nell, meaningly, assuming a true lover's dejected visage. "my love!" cried portsmouth, curiously. "aye," again sighed nell, more deeply still; "for it is hopeless." "try," said the duchess, almost resting her head upon nell's shoulder. "i am doing my best," said nell, her eyes dancing through wistful lashes, as she embraced in earnest the duchess's graceful figure and held it close. "do you find it hopeless?" asked portsmouth, returning the embrace. "until you trust me," replied nell, sadly. she shook her curls, then fondly pleaded: "give me the secrets of your brain and heart, and then i'll know you love me." the hostess smiled and withdrew from the embrace. nell stood the picture of forlorn and hopeless love. "nay," laughed portsmouth, consolingly, "they would sink a ship." "one would not," still pleaded nell, determined at all odds to have the packet. "one!" the duchess's eyes fell unconsciously upon the papers which she had bewitched from the king and which lay so near her heart. she started first with fear; and then her countenance assumed a thoughtful cast. there was no time now for delay. the papers must be sent immediately. the king might return and retract. many a battle, she knew, had been lost after it had been won. that night, at the rainbow tavern, well out of reach of the town, of court spies and gossips, louis would have a trusted one in waiting. his commission was to receive news from various points and transmit it secretly to france. it was a ride of but a few hours to him. she had purposed to send the packet by her messenger in waiting; but he had rendered her suspicious by his speech and action in the late afternoon, and she questioned whether she would be wise in trusting him. nor was she willing to risk her triumph in the hands of buckingham's courier. it was too dear to her. indeed, she was clever enough to know that state-secrets are often safer in the custody of a disinterested stranger than in the hands of a friend, especially if the stranger be truly a stranger to the court. she glanced quickly in the direction of nell, who looked the ideal of daring youth, innocent, honest and true to the death. "why not?" she thought quickly, as she reflected again upon rochet's words, "to be trusted." "of irish descent, no love for the king, young, brave, no court ties; none will suspect or stay him." her woman's intuition said "yes." she turned upon nell and asked, not without agitation in her voice: "can i trust you?" nell's sword was out in an instant, glistening in the light, and so promptly that the duchess started. nell saluted, fell upon one knee and said, with all the exuberance of audacious, loving youth: "my sword and life are yours." portsmouth looked deeply into nell's honest eyes. she was convinced. "this little packet," said she, in subdued tones, summoning nell to her side, "a family matter merely, must reach the rainbow tavern, on the canterbury road, by sunrise, where one is waiting. you'll find his description on the packet." nell sheathed her sword. "i know the place and road," she said, earnestly, as she took the papers from the duchess's hand and placed them carefully in her doublet. a rustle of the curtains indicated that some one had returned and was listening by the arras. "hush!" cautioned portsmouth. "be true, and you will win my love." nell did not reply, save to the glance that accompanied the words. snatching her hat from a chair on which she had tossed it, she started eagerly in the direction of the great stairs that led to the hallway below, where, an hour since, she had been at first refused admission to the palace. could she but pass again the guards, all would be well; and surely there was now no cause for her detention. yet her heart beat tumultuously--faster even than when she presented herself with rochet's letter written by herself. as she was hastening by the arras, her quick eye, however, recognized the king's long plume behind it; and she halted in her course. she was alert with a thousand maddening thoughts crowding her brain, all in an instant. "the king returned--an eavesdropper!" she reflected. "jealous of portsmouth; his eyes follow her. where are his vows to nell? i'll defame nell's name, drag her fair honour in the mire; so, charles, we'll test your manliness and love." she recrossed the room quickly to portsmouth. "madame," she exclaimed, in crisp, nervous tones, loud enough for the king's ear, "i have been deceiving, lying to you. i stood here, praising, honouring eleanor gwyn--an apple rotten to the core!" "how now?" ejaculated charles, in an undertone. his carelessness vanished upon the instant. where he had waited for the single ear of portsmouth, he became at once an earnest listener. nell paused not. "i had a friend who told me he loved nell. i loved that friend. god knows i loved him." "yes, yes!" urged portsmouth, with eagerness. "a man of noble name and princely mien," continued nell, so standing that the words went, like arrows, straight to the king's ear and heart, "a man of honour, who would have died fighting for nell's honour--" "misled youth," muttered portsmouth. nell seemed not to hear the words. "who, had he heard a murmur of disapproval, a shadow cast upon her name, would have sealed in death the presumptuous lips which uttered it." "she betrayed his confidence?" asked portsmouth, breathlessly. "betrayed--and worse!" gesticulated nell, with the visage of a madman. "a woman base, without a spark of kindliness--an adventuress! this is the picture of that eleanor gwyn! where is a champion to take up the gauntlet for such a nell?" as quick as light, the king threw back the arras and came between them. the duchess saw him and cried out in surprise. nell did not turn--only caught a chair-top to save herself from falling. "here, thou defamer!" he called, his voice husky with passion. "thou base purveyor of lies, answer me--me, for those words! i am nell's champion! i'll force you to own your slander a lie." the king was terribly in earnest. "the guard! the guard!" called portsmouth, faintly, almost overcome by the scene. in her passion that the king so revealed his love for nell, she quite forgot that adair was the bearer of her packet. "i want no guard," commanded the king. "an insult to nell gwyn is my cause alone." nell was in an elysium of ecstasy. she realized nothing, saw nothing. "he loves me! he loves me!" her trembling lips breathed only. "he'll fight for nell." "come; draw and defend yourself," angrily cried the king. portsmouth screamed and fell upon his arm. it is doubtful what the result would otherwise have been. true, nell ofttimes had fenced with the king and knew his wrist, but she was no swordswoman now. though she took up in her delirium the king's challenge with a wild cry, "aye, draw and defend yourself!" she realized nothing but his confession of love for nell. the scene was like a great blur before her eyes. she rushed upon the king and by him, she scarce knew how. their swords harmlessly clashed; that was all. the cries had been taken up without. "the guard! the guard!" "treason!" "treason!" the air was alive with voices. nell ran up the steps leading to a french window, which opened upon a tiny railed balcony. below, one story only, lay a soft carpet of greensward, shimmering in the moonlight. with her sword, she struck the frail sash, which instantly yielded. meantime, the room had filled with courtiers, guards and gallants, who had rushed in, sword and spear in hand, to guard the king. as the glass shivered and flew wide, under the point of nell's blade, all eyes turned toward her and all blades quivered threateningly in the air. buckingham was first to ascend the steps in pursuit. he was disarmed--more through the superiority of nell's position than through the dexterity of her wrist. then for the first time, she realized her danger. her eyes staring from their sockets, she drew back from her murderous pursuers, and, in startled accents, she knew not why, screamed in supplication, with hands uplifted: "gentlemen! gentlemen!" the storm was stayed. all paused to hear what the stranger-youth would say. would he apologize or would he surrender? the suspense was for but a second, though it seemed an eternity to nell. the open window was behind. with a parting glance at the trembling blades, she turned quickly and with reckless daring leaped the balcony. "t' hell with ye!" was wafted back in a rich brogue defiantly by the night. astonishment and consternation filled the room; but the bird had flown. some said that the wicked farewell-speech had been adair's, and some said not. how it all happened, no one could tell, unless it was a miracle. chapter xv _i come, my love; i come._ one lonely candle, or to speak more strictly a bit of one, sputtered in its silver socket in the cosy drawing-room; and a single moonbeam found its way in through the draperies of the window leading to the terrace and to st. james's park. moll lay upon a couch asleep; but it was a restless sleep. the voice of a town-crier resounded faintly across the park: "midnight; and all is well." she started up and rubbed her eyes in a bewildered way. "the midnight crier!" she thought; and there was a troubled expression in her face. "i have been asleep and the candle's nearly out." she jumped to her feet and hastily lighted two or three of its more substantial mates, of which there was an abundance in the rich candelabra about the room. a cricket in a crevice startled her. she ran to the window and looked anxiously out upon the park, then hastened to the door, with equal anxiety, lest it might be unlocked. every shadow was to her feverish fancy a spirit of evil or of death. "i wish nell would come," she thought. "the ghosts and skeletons fairly swarm in this old house at midnight; and i am all alone to-night. it's different when nell's about. the goblins are afraid of her merry laugh. boo! i am cold all over. i am afraid to stand still, and i am afraid to move." she ran again to the window and this time pulled it open. the moonlight instantly flooded the room, dimming the candles which she had lighted. she saw her shadow, and started back in horror. "some one glided behind the old oak in the park," she cried aloud, for the company of her voice. "oh, oh! nell will be murdered! i begged her not to go to portsmouth's ball. she said she just wanted to peep in and pay her respects to the hostess. moll! you better pray." she fell upon her knees and reverently lifted her hands and eyes in prayer. something fell in the room with a heavy thud. she shut her eyes tight and prayed harder. the object of her fear was a long gray boot, which had been thrown in at the window and had fallen harmlessly by her side. it was followed in an instant by its mate, equally harmless yet equally dreadful. a jaunty figure, assisted by a friendly shoulder, then bounded over the balustrade and rested with a sigh of relief just within the window-opening. it was nell, returning from the wars; she was pale, almost death-like. the evening's excitement, her daring escapade and more especially its exciting finish had taken hold of her in earnest. her dainty little self was paying the penalty. she was all of a tremble. "safe home at last!" she cried wearily. "heaven reward you, strings." from below the terrace, without the window, responded the fiddler, in sympathetic, loving tones: "good night, mistress nell; and good sleep." "good night, comrade," answered nell, as she almost fell into the room, calling faintly: "moll! moll! what are you doing, moll?" moll closed her eyes tighter and prayed still more fervently. "praying for nell," her trembling lips mechanically replied. "humph!" cried nell, half fainting, throwing herself upon the couch. "there's no spirit in this flesh worth praying for. some wine, some wine; and the blessing after." the command brought moll to her senses and she realized that it was really nell who had entered thus unceremoniously. she rushed to her for safety, like a frightened deer to the lake. "nell, dear nell!" she cried. "you are ill." "wine, wine, i say," again fell in peremptory tones from the half-reclining nell. moll glanced in dismay at her bootless mistress: her garments all awry; her sword ill sheathed; her cloak uncaught from the shoulder and half used, petticoat-like, as a covering for her trembling-limbs; her hair dishevelled; her cheeks pale; her wild eyes, excitement-strained, staring from their sockets. "you are wounded; you are going to die," she cried. "moll will be all alone in the world again." her hands shook more than nell's as she filled a glass half full of wine and passed it to her mistress. "to the brim, girl, to the brim," commanded nell, reviving at the prospect of the draught. "there!" she tossed off the drink in gallant fashion: "i tell you, sweetheart, we men need lots of stimulating." "you are all of a tremble," continued moll. "little wonder!" sighed nell. "these braveries are a trifle chilly, sweet mouse. boo!" she laughed hysterically, while moll closed the window. "you see, i never was a man before, and i had all that lost time to make up--acres of oats to scatter in one little night. open my throat; i cannot breathe. take off my sword. the wars are done, i hope." she startled moll, who was encasing her mistress's pretty feet in a pair of dainty shoes, with another wild, hilarious laugh. "moll," she continued, "i was the gayest mad-cap there. the sex were wild for me. i knew their weak points of attack, lass. if i had been seeking a mate, i could have made my market of them all and started a harem." she seemed to forget all her dangers past in the recollection. "wicked girl," said moll, pouting reprovingly. "oh, i am a jolly roisterer, little one," laughed nell, in reply, as with cavalier-strides she crossed the room. she threw herself upon the table and proceeded to boast of her doings for moll's benefit, swinging her feet meanwhile. "i ran the gamut. i had all the paces of the truest cavalier. i could tread a measure, swear like one from the wars, crook my elbow, lie, gamble, fight--fight? did i say fight?" she hid her curly head in her hands and sobbed spasmodically. "you have been in danger!" exclaimed moll, fearfully. "danger!" repeated nell, breaking out afresh. "i taught the king a lesson he will dream about, my sweet, though it near cost me my life. he loves me, d'ye hear; he loves me, pretty one! dance, moll, dance--dance, i say! i could fly for very joy!" with the tears still wet upon her cheeks, she seized moll by both hands and whirled the astonished girl wildly about the room, until she herself reeled for want of breath. then, catching at a great carved oaken chair, she fell into it and cried and laughed alternately. "nell, nell," gasped moll, as she too struggled for breath; "one minute you laugh and then you cry. have you lost your wits?" "i only know," exulted nell, "i made him swear his love for nell to portsmouth's face. i made him draw his sword for nell." "great heavens!" exclaimed moll, aghast. "you did not draw yourself? a sword against the king is treason." "ods-bodikins, i know not!" answered nell. "i know not what i did or said. i was mad, mad! all i remember is: there was a big noise--a million spears and blunderbusses turned upon poor me! gad! i made a pretty target, girl." "a million spears and blunderbusses!" echoed moll, her eyes like saucers. "an army, child, an army!" continued nell, in half-frantic accents. "i did not stop to count them. then, next i knew, i was in my coach, with dear old strings beside me. the horses flew. we alighted at the chapel, tiptoed about several corners to break the scent; then i took off my shoes and stole up the back way like a good and faithful husband. oh, i did the whole thing in cavalier-style, sweetheart. but,'twixt us, moll," and she spoke with a mysterious, confidential air,"--i wouldn't have it go further for worlds--adair is a coward, a monstrous coward! he ran!" as if to prove the truth of her words, at a sudden, sharp, shrill sound from the direction of the park, the sad remnant of adair clutched moll frantically; and both girls huddled together with startled faces and bated breaths. "hark! what is that?" whispered nell. "the men, perchance, i told you of," answered moll; "they've spied about the house for weeks." "nonsense, you little goose," remonstrated nell, though none too bravely; "some of your ex-lovers nailing their bleeding hearts to the trees." "no, no; listen!" exclaimed moll, frantically, as the noise grew louder. "they're in the entry." "in the entry!" stammered nell; and she almost collapsed at the thought of more adventures. "i wish we were in bed, with our heads under the sheet." "here is your sword," said moll, as she brought nell the sharp weapon, held well at arm's length for fear of it. "oh, yes, my sword!" exclaimed nell, perking up--for an instant only. "i never thought of my sword; and this is one of the bravest swords i ever drew. i am as weak as a woman, moll." "take heart," said moll, encouraging her from the rear, as nell brandished the glittering blade in the direction of the door. "you know you faced an army to-night." "true," replied nell, her courage oozing out at her finger-tips, "but then i was a man, and had to seem brave, whether i was or no. who's there?" she called faintly. "who's there? support me, moll. beau adair is on his last legs." both stood listening intently and trembling from top to toe. a score of rich voices, singing harmoniously, broke upon the night. the startled expression on nell's face changed instantly to one of fearless, roguish merriment. she was her old self again. she tossed the sword contemptuously upon the floor, laughing in derision now at her companion's fear. "a serenade! a serenade!" she cried. "moll--why, moll, what feared ye, lass? come!" she ran gaily to the window and peeped out. "oh, ho, masqueraders from the moon. some merry crew, i'll be bound. i am generous. i'll give thee all but one, sweet mouse. the tall knight in white for me! i know he's gallant, though his vizor's down. marry, he is their captain, i trow; and none but a captain of men shall be captain of my little heart." "it is satan and his imps," cried moll, attempting to draw nell from the window. "tush, little one," laughed nell, reprovingly. "satan is my warmest friend. besides, they cannot cross the moat. the ramparts are ours. the draw-bridge is up." in a merry mood, she threw a piece of drapery, mantle-like, about adair's shoulders, quite hiding them, and, decapitating a grim old suit of armour, placed the helmet on her head. thus garbed, she threw the window quickly open and stepped boldly upon the ledge, within full view of the band beneath. as the moonlight gleamed upon her helmet, one might have fancied her a goodly knight of yore; and, indeed, she looked quite formidable. "nell, what are you doing?" called moll, wildly, from a point of safety. "they can see and shoot you." "tilly-vally, girl," replied nell, undaunted now that she could see that there was no danger, "we'll parley with the enemy in true feudal style. we'll teach them we have a man about the house. ho, there, strangers of the night--breakers of the king's peace and the slumbers of the righteous! brawlers, knaves; would ye raise honest men from their beds at such an hour? what means this jargon of tipsy voices? what want ye?" a chorus of throats without demanded, in muffled accents: "drink!" "drink!" "sack!" "rhenish!" [illustration: "i was that boy!"] "do ye think this a tavern, knaves?" responded nell, in a husky, mannish voice. "do ye think this a vintner's? there are no topers here. jackanapes, revellers; away with you, or we'll rouse the citadel and train the guns." her retort was met with boisterous laughter and mocking cries of "down with the doors!" "break in the windows!" this was a move nell had not anticipated. she jumped from the ledge, or rather tumbled into the room, nervously dropping her disguise upon the floor. "heaven preserve us," she said to moll, with quite another complexion in her tone, "they are coming in! oh, moll, moll, i did not think they would dare." moll closed the sashes and bolted them, then hugged nell close. "ho, there, within!" came, in a guttural voice, now from without the door. "yes?" nell tried to say; but the word scarce went beyond her lips. again in guttural tones came a second summons--"nell! nell!" nell turned to moll for support and courage, whispering: "some arrant knave calls nell at this hour." then, assuming an attitude of bravery, with fluttering heart, she answered, as best she could, in a forced voice: "nell's in bed!" "yes, nell's in bed," echoed the constant moll. "everybody's in bed. call to-morrow!" "no trifling, wench!" commanded the voice without, angrily. "down with the door!" "stand close, moll," entreated nell, as she answered the would-be intruder with the question: "who are ye? who are ye?" "old rowley himself!" replied the guttural voice. this was followed by hoarse laughter from many throats. "the king--as i thought!" whispered nell. "good lack; what shall i do with adair? plague on't, he'll be mad if i keep him waiting, and madder if i let him in. where are your wits, moll? run for my gown; fly--fly!" moll hastened to do the bidding. nell rushed to the entry-door, in frantic agitation. "the bolt sticks, sire," she called, pretending to struggle with the door, hoping so to stay his majesty until she should have time to dispose of poor adair. "how can i get out of these braveries?" she then asked herself, tugging awkwardly at one part of the male attire and then at another. "i don't know which end of me to begin on first." moll re-entered the room with a bundle of pink in her arms, which turned out to be a flowing, silken robe, trimmed with lace. "here is the first i found," she said breathlessly. nell motioned to her nervously to put it upon the couch. "help me out of this coat," she pleaded woefully. moll took off the coat and then assisted nell to circumscribe with the gown, from heels to head, her stunning figure, neatly encased in adair's habit, which now consisted only of a jaunty shirt of white, gray breeches, shoes and stockings. "marry, i would i were a fairy with a magic wand; i could befuddle men's eyes easier," nell lamented. the king knocked again upon the door sharply. "patience, my liege," entreated nell, drawing her gown close about her and muttering with personal satisfaction: "there, there; that hides a multitude of sins. the girdle, the girdle! adair will not escape from this--if we can but keep him quiet; the rogue has a woman's tongue, and it will out, i fear." she snatched up a mirror and arranged her hair as best she could in the dim light, with the cries without resounding in her ears and with moll dancing anxiously about her. "down with the door," threatened the king, impatiently. "the ram; the battering ram." "i come, my love; i come," cried nell, in agitation, fairly running to the door to open it, but stopping aghast as her eye caught over her shoulder the sad, telltale condition of the room. "'sdeath," she called in a stage-whisper to moll; "under the couch with adair's coat! patience, sire," she besought in turn the king. "help me, moll. how this lock has rusted--in the last few minutes. my sword!" she continued breathlessly to moll. "my boots! my hat! my cloak!" moll, in her efforts to make the room presentable, was rushing hither and thither, first throwing adair's coat beneath the couch as nell commanded and firing the other evidences of his guilty presence, one behind one door and another behind another. it was done. nell slipped the bolt and calmly took a stand in the centre of the room, drawing her flowing gown close about adair's person. she was quite exhausted from the nervous strain, but her actress's art taught her the way to hide it. moll, panting for breath, across the room, feigned composure as best she could. the door opened and in strode the king and his followers. "welcome, royal comrades, welcome all!" said nell, bowing graciously to her untimely visitors. chapter xvi _ods-pitikins, my own reflection!_ upon the fine face of the king, as he entered nell's drawing-room, was an expression of nervous bantering, not wholly unmixed with anxiety. the slanderous adair and his almost miraculous escape had not long weighed upon his majesty's careless nature. as he had not met adair until that night or even heard of him, his heart had told him that the irish roisterer could scarcely be a serious obstacle in the way of nell's perfect faith, if, indeed, he had met nell at all, which he doubted. his command to the guard to follow and overtake the youth had been more the command of the ruler than of the man. despite himself, there had been something about the dainty peacock he could not help but like; and the bold dash for the window, the disarming of the purse-proud buckingham, who for many reasons displeased him, and the leap to the sward below, with the accompanying farewell, had especially delighted both his manhood and his sense of humour. he had, therefore, dismissed adair from his mind, except as a possible subject to banter nell withal, or as a culprit to punish, if overtaken. his restless spirit had chafed under the duchess's lavish entertainment--for the best entertainment is dull to the lover whose sweetheart is absent--and he had turned instinctively from the ball to nell's terrace, regardless of the hour and scarce noticing his constant attendants. the night was so beautiful that their souls had found vent in song. this serenade, however, had brought to nell's window a wide-awake fellow, who had revealed himself in saucy talk; and the delighted cavaliers, in hope of fun, had charged jeeringly that they had outwitted the guard and had found adair. it was this that had brought the anxious look to the king's face; and, though his better judgment was still unchanged, the sight of the knave at the window, together with the suggestions of his merry followers, had cast a shadow of doubt for the moment upon his soul, and he had reflected that there was much that the irish youth had said that could not be reconciled with that better judgment. with a careless shrug, he had, therefore, taken up the jest of his lawless crew, which coincided with his own intended purpose, and had sworn that he would turn the household out of bed without regard to pretty protests or formality of warrant. he would raise the question forthwith, in jest and earnest, and worry nell about the boaster. "scurvy entertainment," he began, with frowning brow. "yea, my liege," explained nell, winsomely; "you see--i did not expect the king so late, and so was unpresentable." "it is the one you do not expect," replied charles, dryly, "who always causes the trouble, nell." "we were in bed, sire," threw in moll, thinking to come to the rescue of her mistress. "marry, truly," said nell, catching at the cue, "--asleep, sire, sound asleep; and our prayers said." "tilly-vally," exclaimed the king, "we might credit thy tongue, wench, but for the prayers. no digressions, spider nell. my sword is in a fighting mood. 'sdeath, call forth the knight-errant who holds thy errant heart secure for one short hour!" "the knight of my heart!" cried nell. "ah, sire, you know his name." she looked at his majesty with eyes of unfailing love; but the king was true to his jest. "yea, marry, i do," laughed charles, tauntingly, with a wink at his companions; "a pretty piece of heraldry, a bold escutcheon, a dainty poniard--pale as a lily, and how he did sigh and drop his lids and smirk and smirk and dance your latest galliard to surpass de grammont. ask brother james how he did dance." "nay, sire," hastily interceded the ever-gallant rochester, "his highness of york has suffered enough." york frowned at the reference; for he had been robbed of his lady at the dance by adair. he could not forget that. heedless of his royalty, bestowed by man, she, like the others, had followed in the train of the irish spark, who was royal only by nature. "hang the coxcomb!" he snarled. "'slife, i will," replied charles, slyly, "an you overtake him, brother." "his back was shapely, sire," observed rochester, with quaint humour. "yea, and his heels!" cried the king, reflectively. "he had such dainty heels--mercury's wings attached, to waft him on his way." "this is moonshine madness!" exclaimed nell, with the blandest of bland smiles. "there's none such here. by my troth, i would there were. nay, ask moll." moll did not wait to be asked. "not one visitor to-night," she asserted promptly. "odso!" cried charles, in a mocking tone. "whence came the jack at the window--the brave young challenger--'would ye raise honest men from their beds at such an hour?'" a burst of laughter followed the king's grave imitation of the window-boaster. "sire!" sighed rochester, in like spirit. "'do you think this a vintner's? there are no topers here.'" another burst of merry laughter greeted the speaker, as he punctuated his words by catching up the wine-cups from the table and clinking them gaily. nell's face was as solemn as a funeral. "to your knees, minx," commanded james, grimly, "and crave mercy of your prince." "faith and troth," pleaded nell, seriously, "'t was i myself with helmet and mantle on. you see, sire, my menials were guests at portsmouth's ball--to lend respectability." "saucy wag," cried the merry monarch. "a ball?--a battle--which would have killed thee straight!" "it had liked to," reflected nell, as she tartly replied: "a war of the sex without me? it was stupid, then. the duchess missed me, i trow." "never fear," answered charles, with difficulty suppressing his mirth; "you were bravely championed." "i am sure of that," said nell, slyly; "my king was there." "and a bantam cock," ejaculated charles, sarcastically, "upon whose lips 'nell' hung familiarly." "some strange gallant," cried nell, in ecstasy, "took my part before them all? who was he, sire? don't tantalize me so." she smiled, half serious, half humorous, as she pleaded in her charming way. "a chip from the blarney stone," observed the king at length, ironically, "surnamed adair!" "adair! adair!" cried nell, to the astonishment of all. "we spent our youth together. i see him in my mind's eye, sire, throw down the gauntlet in nell's name and defy the world for her. fill the cups. we'll drink to my new-found hero! fill! fill! to beau adair, as you love me, gallants! long life to adair!" the cups were filled to overflowing and trembled on eager lips in response to the hostess's merry toast. "stay!" commanded the king, in peremptory tones. "not a drop to a coward!" "a coward!" cried nell, aghast. "adair a coward? i'll never credit it, sire!" she turned away, lest she reveal her merriment, as she bethought her: "he is trembling in my boots now. i can feel him shake." "our pledge is nell, nell only!" exclaimed the king, his cup high in air. with one accord, the gallants eagerly took up the royal pledge. "aye, aye, nell!" "nell!" "we'll drink to nell!" "you do me honour, royal gentlemen," bowed nell, well pleased at the king's toast. she had scarce touched the cup to her lips, however, with a mental chuckle, "poor adair! here's a health to the inner man!" when her eye fell upon one of adair's gray boots, which moll had failed to hide, in her excitement, now revealing itself quite plainly in the light of the many candles. she caught it adroitly on the tip of her toe and sent it whizzing through the air in the direction of poor moll, who, fortunately, caught it in midair and hid it quickly beneath her apron. the king turned at the sound; but nell's face was as woefully unconcerned as a church-warden's at his hundredth burial. the wine added further zest to the merry-making and the desire for sport. "now, fair huswife," continued charles, his thoughts reverting to adair, "set forth the dish, that we may carve it to our liking. 'tis a dainty bit,--lace, velvet and ruffles." "heyday, sire," responded nell, evasively, "the larder's empty." "devil on't," cried charles, ferociously; "no mincing, wench. in the confusion of the ball, the bird escaped my guard by magic. we know whither the flight." the king assumed a knowing look. "escaped the guard?" gasped nell, in great surprise. "alas, i trow some petticoat has hid him then." "i'll stake my life upon't," observed james, who had not been heard from in some time but who had been observing the scene with decorous dignity. "sire, you would not injure adair," pleaded nell, now alert, with all her arts of fascination. "you are too generous. blue eyes of heaven, and such a smile! did you mark that young irishman's smile, sire?" her impudence was so bewitching that the king scarce knew whether it were jest or earnest. he sprang to his feet from the couch, where he had thrown himself after the toast to nell, and, with some forcefulness, exclaimed: "odsfish, this to my teeth, rogue! guard the doors, gallants; we'd gaze upon this paragon." "and set him pirouetting, sire," sardonically suggested james. "yea, to the tune of these fiddle-sticks," laughed charles, as he unsheathed his rapier. "search from tile to rafter." "aye, aye," echoed the omnipresent rochester, "from cellar to garret." before, however, the command could be obeyed, even in resolution, nell moved uneasily to a curtain which hung in the corner of the room and placed herself before it, as if to shield a hidden man. "sire," she pleaded fearfully, "spare him, sire; for my sake, sire. he is not to blame for loving me. he cannot help it. you know that, sire!" "can he really be here?" muttered charles, with clouding visage. "saucy wench! hey! my blood is charging full-tilt through my veins. odsfish, we'll try his mettle once again." "prythee, sire," begged nell, "he is too noble and brave and handsome to die. i love his very image." "oh, ho!" cried charles. "a silken blind for the silken bird! hey, st. george for merry england! come forth, thou picture of cowardice, thou vile slanderer." he grasped nell by the wrist and fairly dragged her across the room. then, rushing to the curtain, he seized its silken folds and tore it completely from its hangings--only to face himself in a large mirror. "ods-pitikins, my own reflection!" he exclaimed, with menacing tone, though there was relief as well in his voice. he bent the point of his blade against the floor, gazed at himself in the pier-glass and looked over his shoulder at nell, who stood in the midst of his courtiers, splitting her sides with laughter, undignified but honest. "rogue, rogue," he cried, "i should turn the point on thee for this trick; but england would be worse than a puritan funeral with no nell. thou shalt suffer anon." "i defy thee, sire, and all thy imps of satan," laughed the vixen, as she watched the king sheathe his jewelled sword. "cast nell in the blackest dungeon, adair is her fellow-prisoner; outlaw nell, adair is her brother outlaw; off with nell's head, off rolls adair's. who else can boast so true a love!" "thou shalt be banished the realm," decided the king, jestingly; for he was now convinced that her adair was but a jest to tease him--a roland for his oliver. "banished!" cried nell, with bated breath. "aye; beyond sea, witch!" answered the king, with pompous austerity. "virginia shall be thy home." "good, good!" laughed nell, gaily. "sire, the men grow handsome in virginia, and dauntless; and they tell me there are a dearth of women there. oh, banish me at once to--what's the name?" "jamestown," suggested york, recalling the one name because of its familiar sound. "yea, brother james," said nell, fearlessly mimicking his brusque accent, "jamestown." "savages, wild men, cannibals," scowled charles. "cannibals!" cried nell. "marry, i should love to be a cannibal. are there cannibals in jamestown, brother james? banish me, sire; banish me to jamestown of all places. up with the sails, my merry men; give me the helm! adair will sail in the same good ship, i trow." "adair! i trow thou wert best at home, cannibal nelly," determined the king. "then set all the men in britain to watch me, sire," said nell; "for, from now on, i'll need it." the king shook his finger warningly at her, then leaned carelessly against the window. "ho there!" he cried out suddenly. "a night disturbance, a drunken brawl, beneath our very ears! fellow-saints, what mean my subjects from their beds this hour of night? their sovereign does the revelling for the realm. james, rochester and all, see to 't!" chapter xvii _the day will be so happy; for i've seen you at the dawn._ the room was quickly cleared, the king's courtiers jostling one another in their efforts to carry out the royal bidding. charles turned with a merry laugh and seized nell in his arms almost fiercely. "a subterfuge!" he cried eagerly. "nell, quick; one kiss!" "nay; you question my constancy to-night," said nell, sadly, as she looked into his eyes, with the look of perfect love. "you do not trust me." "i do, sweet nell," protested the king, earnestly. "you bring me portsmouth's lips," said nell, with sad reproof. "i left her dance for you," replied the king, drawing her closer to him. "at near sunrise, sire," sighed nell, reprovingly, as she drew back the curtain and revealed the first gray streaks of the breaking light of day. "nay, do not tantalize me, nell," besought the king, throwing himself upon the couch. "i am sad to-night." the woman's forgiving heart was touched with sympathy. her eyes sought his sadly beautiful face. she ran to him, fell upon her knees and kissed his hand tenderly. "tantalize my king!" she cried. "the day will be so happy; for i've seen you at the dawn." there was all the emotional fervour and pathetic tenderness which the great composer has compressed into the love-music of "tristan and isolde" in her voice. "my crown is heavy, nell," he continued. "heaven gives us crowns, but not the eye to see the ending of our deeds." "god sees them," said nell. "ah, sire, i thank the maker of the world for giving a crown to one whom i respect and love." "and i curse it," cried the king, with earnest eyes; "for 'tis the only barrier to our united love. it is the sparkling spider in the centre of a great web of intrigue and infamy." "you make me bold to speak. cut the web, sire, which binds thy crown to france. there is the only danger." "thou art wrong, nelly, wrong!" he spoke in deep, firm accents. "i have decided otherwise." he rose abruptly, his brow clouded with thought. she took his hand tenderly. "then, change your mind, sire," she pleaded; "for i can prove--" "what, girl?" he asked eagerly, his curiosity awakened by her manner. nell did not respond. to continue would reveal adair, and she could not think of that. "what, i say?" again asked charles, impatiently. "to-morrow, sire," laughed nell, evasively. "aye, to-morrow and to-morrow!" petulantly repeated the king. he was about to demand a direct reply but was stayed by the sound of a struggle without. it befell in the nick of time for nell, as all things, indeed, in life seemed to befall in the nick of time for her. the impious huswives shook their heads and attributed it to the evil influence; the pious huswives asserted it was providential; nell herself laughingly declared it was her lucky star. "ho, without there!" charles cried, impatiently--almost angrily--at the interruption. "whence comes this noisy riot?" james, rochester and the others unceremoniously re-entered. "pardon, sire," explained the duke of york; "the guard caught but now an armed ruffian prowling by the house. they report they stayed him on suspicion of his looks and insolence." "adair! adair! my life upon't!" laughed the king, ever ready for sport. "set him before us." an officer of the guard departed quickly to bring in the offender. the courtiers took up the king's cry most readily; and there was a general cackle of "adair!" "adair!" "a trial!" "sire!" "bring in the coward!" nell stood in the midst of the scene, the picture of demure innocence. "they've caught adair!" she whispered to moll, mischievously. "aye, gallants," cried the merry monarch, approvingly, "we'll form a court of inquiry. this table shall be our bench, on which we'll hem and haw and puff and look judicial. odsfish, we will teach radamanthus and judge jeffreys ways of terrorizing." he sprang upon the table, which creaked somewhat beneath the royal burden, and assumed the austere, frowning brow of worldly justice. "_oyer, oyer_, all ye who have grievances--" cried the garrulous rochester in the husky tones of the crier, who most generally assumes that he is the whole court and oftentimes should be. "mistress nell," commanded the royal judge, summoning nell to the bar, "thou shalt be counsel for the prisoner; adair's life hangs upon thy skill to outwit the law." "or bribe the judge, sire?" suggested nell, demurely. "not with thy traitor lips," retorted charles, with the injured dignity of a petty justice about to commit a flash of true wit for contempt of court. "traitor lips?" cried nell, sadly. "by my troth, i never kissed adair. i confess, i tried, your majesty; but i could not." "have a care," replied the king, in a tone which indicated that the fires of suspicion still smouldered in his breast; "i am growing jealous." nell fell upon one knee and stretched forth her arms suppliantly. "adair is in such a tight place, sire, he can scarcely breathe," she pleaded, with the zeal of a barrister hard-working for his first fee in her voice, "much less speak for himself. mercy!" "we will have justice; not mercy," replied the court, with a sly wink at rochester. "guilty or not guilty, wench?" "not guilty, sire! did you ever see the man who was?" the king laughed despite himself, followed by his ever-aping courtiers. "i'll plead for the crown," asserted the grim james, with great vehemence, "to rid the realm of this dancing-jack." "thou hast cause, brother," laughed the king. "rochester, thou shalt sit by us here." rochester sprang, with a contented chuckle, into a chair on the opposite side of the table to that upon which his majesty was holding his mock-court and seated himself upon its high back, so poised as not to fall. from this lofty bench, with a queer gurgle, to say nothing of a swelling of the chest, and with an approving glance from his majesty, he added his mite to the all-inspiring dignity of the revellers' court. "judge rochester!" continued the king, slapping him with his glove, across the table. "judge--of good ale. we'll confer with the cups, imbibe the statutes and drink in the law. set the rascal before us." in obedience to the command, a man well muffled with a cloak was forced into the room, a guard at either arm. behind them, taking advantage of the open door to appease their curiosity, crowded many hangers-on of courtdom, among whom was strings, who had met the revellers some distance from the house and had returned with them. "hold off your hands, knaves," commanded the prisoner, who was none other than hart, the player, indignant at the detention. "silence, rogue!" commanded the king. "thy name?" "sire!" cried hart, throwing off his mantle and glancing for the first time at the judge's face. he sank immediately upon one knee, bowing respectfully. "jack hart!" cried one and all, craning their necks in surprise and expectation. "'slife, a spy upon our merry-making!" exclaimed the displeased monarch. "what means this prowling, sir?" "pardon, pardon, my reply, your majesty," humbly importuned the player. "blinded by passion, i might say that i should regret." "your strange behaviour and stranger looks have meaning, sir," cried the king, impatiently. "out with it! these are too dangerous times to withhold your thoughts from your king." "no need for commands, sire," entreated hart. "the words are trembling on my lips and will out themselves in spite of me. at portsmouth's ball, an hour past, i o'erheard that fop adair boast to-night a midnight rendezvous here with nell." nell placed her hands upon her heart. "this--my old friend," she reflected sadly. "our jest turned earnest," cried charles. "well? well?" he questioned, in peremptory tones. "i could not believe my ears, sire," the prisoner continued, faltering. "i watched to refute the lie--" "yes--yes--" exhorted the king, in expectation. "i cannot go on." "knave, i command!" "i saw adair enter this abode at midnight." hart's head fell, full of shame, upon his breast. "'sblood," muttered the king, scarce mindful that his words might be audible to those about him, "my heart stands still as if't were knifed. my pretty golden-head, my bonnie nell!" he turned sharply toward the player. "your words are false, false, sir! kind heaven, they must be." "pardon, sire," pleaded hart; "i know not what i do or say. only love for nell led me to this spot." "love!" cried nell, with the irony of sadness. "oh, inhuman, to spy out my ways, resort to mean device, involve my honour, and call the motive love!" "you are cruel, cruel, nell," sobbed hart; and he turned away his eyes. he could not look at her. "love!" continued nell, bitterly. "true love would come alone, filled with gentle admonition. i pity you, friend hart, that god has made you thus!" "no more, no more!" hart quite broke beneath the strain. "dost hear, dost hear?" cried charles, in ecstasy, deeply affected by nell's exposition of true love. "sir, you are the second to-night to belie the dearest name in england. you shall answer well to me." "ask the lady, sire," pleaded hart, in desperation. "i'll stake my life upon her reply." "nell?--nell?" questioned the king; for he could scarce refuse to accept her word when a player had placed unquestioned faith in it. nell hid her face in her silken kerchief and burst into seeming spasmodic sobs of grief. "sire!" was all the response the king could hear. he trembled violently and his face grew white. he did not know that nell's tears were merry laughs. "her tears convict her," exclaimed hart, triumphantly. "i'll not believe it," cried the king. nell became more hysterical. she sobbed and sobbed, as though her heart would break, her face buried in her hands and her flying curls falling over and hiding all. "adair's sides are aching," she chuckled, in apparent convulsions of sorrow. "he's laughing through nell's tears." meanwhile, moll had been standing by the window; and, though she was watching eagerly the exciting scene within the room, she could not fail to note the sound of galloping horses and the rattling of a heavy coach on the roadway without. "a coach and six at break-neck speed," she cried, "have landed at the door. a cavalier alights." "time some one arrived," thought nell, as she glanced at herself in the mirror, to see that adair was well hidden, and to arrange her curls, to bewitch the new arrivals, whosoever they might be. as the cavalier dashed up the path, in the moonlight, moll recognized the duke of buckingham, and at once announced his name. "ods-pitikins!" exclaimed charles, angrily. "no leisure for buckingham now. we have other business." he had scarce spoken, however, when buckingham, unceremoniously and almost breathless, entered the room. "how now?" cried the king, fiercely, as the duke fell on his knee before him; for his temper had been wrought to a high pitch. "pardon, your majesty," besought his lordship, in nervous accents. "my mission will excuse my haste and interruption. your ear i crave one moment. sire, i am told nell has to-night secreted in this house a lover!" "another one!" whispered nell to moll. "'tis hearsay," cried the king, now at fever-heat, "the give-and-take of gossips! i'll none of it." "my witness, sire!" answered buckingham. he turned toward the door; and there, to the astonishment of all, stood the duchess of portsmouth, who had followed him from the coach, a lace mantilla, caught up in her excitement, protecting her shapely shoulders and head. as the assembled courtiers looked upon the beautiful rivals, standing, as they did, face to face before the king, and realized the situation, their faces grew grave, indeed. the suspense became intense. "the day of reckoning's come," thought nell, as she met with burning glances the duchess's eyes. "speak, your grace," exhorted buckingham. "the king attends you." "nay, before all, my lord?" protested portsmouth, with pretended delicacy. "i could not do madame gwyn so much injustice." "if your speech concerns me," observed nell, mildly, "out with it boldly. my friends will consider the source." "speak, and quickly!" commanded charles. "i would rather lose my tongue," still protested the duchess, "than speak such words of any one; but my duty to your majesty--" "no preludes," interrupted the king; and he meant it, too. he was done with trifling, and the duchess saw it. "my servants," she said, with a virtuous look, "passing this abode by chance, this very night, saw at a questionable hour a strange cavalier entering the boudoir of madame gwyn!" "she would make my honour the price of her revenge," thought nell, her eyes flashing. "she shall rue those words, or adair's head and mine are one for naught." "what say you to this, nell?" asked the king, the words choking in his throat. "sire,--i--i--" answered nell, evasively. "there's some mistake or knavery!" "she hesitates," interpolated the duchess, eagerly. "you change colour, wench," cried charles, his heart, indeed, again upon the rack. "ho, without there! search the house." an officer entered quickly to obey the mandate. "stay, sire," exclaimed nell, raising herself to her full height, her hot, trembling lips compressed, her cheeks aflame. "my oath, i have not seen adair's face this night." her words fell upon the assemblage like thunder from a june-day sky. the king's face brightened. the duchess's countenance grew pale as death. "_mon dieu!_ adair!" she gasped in startled accents to lord buckingham, attendant at her side. "could it be he my servants saw? the packet! fool! why did i give it him?" buckingham trembled violently. he was even more startled than portsmouth; for he had more to lose. england was his home and france was hers. "the scales are turning against us," he whispered. "throw in this ring for safety. nell's gift to adair; you understand." he slipped, unobserved, upon the duchess's finger the jewelled ring the king had given to almahyde among the roses at the performance of "granada." "yes! yes! 'tis my only chance," she answered, catching at his meaning; for her wits were of the sharpest in intrigue and cunning, and she possessed the boldness too to execute her plans. she approached the king, with the confident air possessed by great women who have been bred at court. "your majesty recognizes this ring?" she asked in mildest accents. "the one i gave to nell!" answered the astonished king. "the one adair this night gave to me," said portsmouth, calmly. "'tis false!" cried nell, who could restrain her tongue no longer. "i gave that ring to dear old strings." "a rare jewel to bestow upon a fiddler," said the duchess, sarcastically. "it is true," said strings, who had wormed his way through the group at mention of his name and now stood the meek central figure at the strange hearing. "my little ones were starving, sire; and nell gave me the ring--all she had. they could not eat the gold; so i sold it to the duke of buckingham!" "we are lost," whispered buckingham to portsmouth, scarce audibly. "coward!" sneered the duchess, contemptuously. "i am not ready to sail for france so soon." the king stood irresolute. events had transpired so quickly that he scarce knew what it was best to do. his troubled spirit longed for a further hearing, while his heart demanded the ending of the scene with a peremptory word. before he could decide upon his course, the duchess had swept across the room, with queenly grace. "our hostess will pardon my eyes for wandering," she said, undaunted; "but her abode is filled with pleasant surprises. sire, here is a piece of handiwork." she knelt by the couch, and drew from under it a coat of gray, one sleeve of which had caught her eye. nell looked at moll with reproving glances. "marry, 'tis strings's, of course," continued portsmouth, dangling the coat before the wondering eyes of all. "the lace, the ruffle, becomes his complexion. he fits everything here so beautifully." as she turned the garment slowly about, she caught sight of a package of papers protruding from its inner pocket, sealed with her own seal. for the first time, the significance of the colour of the coat came home to her. "_mon dieu_," she cried, "adair's coat.--the packet!" her fingers sought the papers eagerly; but nell's eye and hand were too quick for her. "not so fast, dear duchess," said nell, sweetly, passing the little packet to his majesty. "our king must read these papers--and between the lines as well." "enough of this!" commanded charles. "what is it?" "some papers, sire," said nell, pointedly, "given for a kiss and taken with a kiss. i have not had time to read them." "some family papers, sire," asserted the duchess, with assumed indifference, "stolen from my house." she would have taken them from his majesty, so great, indeed, was her boldness; but nell again stayed her. "aye, stolen," said nell, sharply; "but by the hostess herself--from her unsuspecting, royal guest. there, sire, stands the only thief!" she pointed accusingly at portsmouth. "my signature!" cried charles, as he ran his eye down a parchment. "the treaties! no more parliaments for england. i agreed to that." "i agree to that myself," said nell, roguishly. "england's king is too great to need parliaments. the king should have a confidential adviser, however--not french," and she cast a defiant glance at portsmouth, "but english. read on; read on." she placed her pretty cheek as near as possible to the king's as she followed the letters over his shoulder. "a note to bouillon!" he said, perusing the parchments further. "charles consents to the fall of luxembourg. i did not sign all this. i see it all: louis's ambition to rule the world, england's king debased by promises won and royal contracts made with a clever woman--forgery mixed with truth. sweet heaven, what have i done!" "the papers have not gone, sire," blandly remarked nell. "thanks to you, my nell," said charles. he addressed portsmouth sharply: "madame, your coach awaits you." "but, sire," replied the duchess, who was brave to the last, "madame gwyn has yet adair to answer for!" "adair will answer for himself!" cried nell, triumphantly. she threw aside the pink gown and stood as adair before the astonished eyes of all. "at your service," she said, bowing sweetly to the duchess. "a player's trick!" cried portsmouth, haughtily, as a parting shot of contempt. "yes, portsmouth," replied nell, still in sweetest accents, "to show where lies the true and where the false." "you are a witch," hissed portsmouth. [illustration: "once more you have saved me."] "you are the king's true love," exclaimed the merry monarch. "to my arms, nell, to my arms; for you first taught me the meaning of true love! buckingham, you forget your courtesy. her grace wishes to be escorted to her coach." "_bon voyage_, madame," said nell, demurely, as the duchess took buckingham's arm and departed. the king's eyes fell upon the player, hart, who was still in custody. "away with this wretch!" he cried, incensed at his conduct. "i am not done with him." "forgive him, sire," interceded nell. "he took his cue from heaven, and good has come of it." "true, nell," said the king, mercifully. then he turned to hart: "you are free; but henceforth act the knave only on the stage." hart bowed with shame and withdrew. "sire, sire," exclaimed strings, forgetting his decorum in his eagerness. "well, strings?" inquired the king, good-humouredly; for there was now no cloud in his sky. "let me play the exit for the villains?" he pleaded unctuously. "the old fiddle is just bursting with tunes." "you shall, strings," replied his majesty, "and on a cremona. from to-day, you lead the royal orchestra." "odsbud," cried strings, gleefully, "i can offer jack hart an engagement." "just retribution, strings," laughed nell, happily. "can you do as much for nell, and forgive her, sire?" "it is i who should ask your pardon, nell," exclaimed the king, ecstatically, throwing both arms passionately about her. "you are charles's queen; you should be england's." _so the story ends, as all good stories should, in a perfect, unbroken dream of love._ epilogue spoken by miss crosman for the first time in new york at the bijou theatre on the evening of october , : _good friends, before we end the play, i beg you all a moment stay: i warn my sex, by nell's affair, against a rascal called adair!_ _if lovers' hearts you'd truly scan, odsfish, perk up, and be a man!_ grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels original, sincere and courageous--often amusing--the kind that are making theatrical history. madame x. by alexandre bisson and j. w. mcconaughy. illustrated with scenes from the play. a beautiful parisienne became an outcast because her husband would not forgive an error of her youth. her love for her son is the great final influence in her career. a tremendous dramatic success. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. an unconventional english woman and an inscrutable stranger meet and love in an oasis of the sahara. staged this season with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. the prince of india. by lew. wallace. a glowing romance of the byzantine empire, presenting with extraordinary power the siege of constantinople, and lighting its tragedy with the warm underglow of an oriental romance. as a play it is a great dramatic spectacle. tess of the storm country. by grace miller white. illust. by howard chandler christy. a girl from the dregs of society, loves a young cornell university student, and it works startling changes in her life and the lives of those about her. the dramatic version is one of the sensations of the season. young wallingford. by george randolph chester. illust. by f. r. gruger and henry raleigh. a series of clever swindles conducted by a cheerful young man, each of which is just on the safe side of a state's prison offense. as "get-rich-quick wallingford," it is probably the most amusing expose of money manipulation ever seen on the stage. the intrusion of jimmy. by p. g. wodehouse. illustrations by will grefe. social and club life in london and new york, an amateur burglary adventure and a love story. dramatized under the title of "a gentleman of leisure," it furnishes hours of laughter to the play-goers. grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels the kind that are making theatrical history may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list within the law. by bayard veiller & marvin dana illustrated by wm. charles cooke. this is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for two years in new york and chicago. the plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent. what happened to mary. by robert carlton brown. illustrated with scenes from the play. this is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly thrown into the very heart of new york, "the land of her dreams," where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers. the story of mary is being told in moving pictures and played in theatres all over the world. the return of peter grimm. by david belasco, illustrated by john rae. this is a novelization of the popular play in which david war, field, as old peter grimm, scored such a remarkable success. the story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful, both as a book and as a play. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. this novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness. it is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. the play has been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. ben hur. a tale of the christ. by general lew wallace. the whole world has placed this famous religious-historical romance on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. the clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. a tremendous dramatic success. bought and paid for. by george broadhurst and arthur hornblow. illustrated with scenes from the play. a stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. the scenes are laid in new york, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor. the interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which show the young wife the price she has paid. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york titles selected from grosset & dunlap's list re-issues of the great literary successes of the time may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list ben hur. a tale of the christ. by general lew wallace this famous religious-historical romance with its mighty story, brilliant pageantry, thrilling action and deep religious reverence, hardly requires an outline. the whole world has placed "ben-hur" on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. the clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. the prince of india. by general lew wallace a glowing romance of the byzantine empire, showing, with vivid imagination, the possible forces behind the internal decay of the empire that hastened the fall of constantinople. the foreground figure is the person known to all as the wandering jew, at this time appearing as the prince of india, with vast stores of wealth, and is supposed to have instigated many wars and fomented the crusades. mohammed's love for the princess irene is beautifully wrought into the story, and the book as a whole is a marvelous work both historically and romantically. the fair god. by general lew wallace. a tale of the conquest of mexico. with eight illustrations by eric pape. all the annals of conquest have nothing more brilliantly daring and dramatic than the drama played in mexico by cortes. as a dazzling picture of mexico and the montezumas it leaves nothing to be desired. the artist has caught with rare enthusiasm the spirit of the spanish conquerors of mexico, its beauty and glory and romance. tarry thou till i come or, salathiel, the wandering jew. by george croly. with twenty illustrations by t. de thulstrup a historical novel, dealing with the momentous events that occurred, chiefly in palestine, from the time of the crucifixion to the, destruction of jerusalem. the book, as a story, is replete with oriental charm and richness and the character drawing is marvelous. no other novel ever written has portrayed with such vividness the events that convulsed rome and destroyed jerusalem in the early days of christanity. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york stories of western life may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list riders of the purple sage, by zane grey. illustrated by douglas duer. in this picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago, we are permitted to see the unscrupulous methods employed by the invisible hand of the mormon church to break the will of those refusing to conform to its rule. friar tuck, by robert alexander wason. illustrated by stanley l. wood. happy hawkins tells us, in his humorous way, how friar tuck lived among the cowboys, how he adjusted their quarrels and love affairs and how he fought with them and for them when occasion required. the sky pilot, by ralph connor. illustrated by louis rhead. there is no novel, dealing with the rough existence of cowboys, so charming in the telling, abounding as it does with the freshest and the truest pathos. the emigrant trail, by geraldine bonner. colored frontispiece by john rae. the book relates the adventures of a party on its overland pilgrimage, and the birth and growth of the absorbing love of two strong men for a charming heroine. the boss of wind river, by a. m. chisholm. illustrated by frank tenney johnson. this is a strong, virile novel with the lumber industry for its central theme and a love story full of interest as a sort of subplot. a prairie courtship, by harold bindloss. a story of canadian prairies in which the hero is stirred, through the influence of his love for a woman, to settle down to the heroic business of pioneer farming. joyce of the north woods, by harriet t. comstock. illustrated by john cassel. a story of the deep woods that shows the power of love at work among its primitive dwellers. it is a tensely moving study of the human heart and its aspirations that unfolds itself through thrilling situations and dramatic developments. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york the novels of stewart edward white the rules of the game. illustrated by lajaren a. killer the romance of the son of "the riverman." the young college hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft" and comes into the romance of his life. arizona nights. illus. and cover inlay by n. c. wyeth. a series of spirited tales emphasizing some phases of the life of the ranch, plains and desert. a masterpiece. the blazed trail. with illustrations by thomas fogarty. a wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the michigan pines. the claim jumpers. a romance. the tenderfoot manager of a mine in a lonesome gulch of the black hills has a hard time of it, but "wins out" in more ways than one. conjuror's house. illustrated theatrical edition. dramatized under the title of "the call of the north." conjuror's house is a hudson bay trading post where the head factor is the absolute lord. a young fellow risked his life and won a bride on this forbidden land. the magic forest. a modern fairy tale. illustrated. the sympathetic way in which the children of the wild and their life is treated could only belong to one who is in love with the forest and open air. based on fact. the riverman. illus. by n. c. wyeth and c. underwood. the story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the other. the silent places. illustrations by philip r. goodwin. the wonders of the northern forests, the heights of feminine devotion, and masculine power, the intelligence of the caucasian and the instinct of the indian, are all finely drawn in this story. the westerners. a story of the black hills that is justly placed among the best american novels. it portrays the life of the new west as no other book has done in recent years. the mystery. in collaboration with samuel hopkins adams grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. the trail of the lonesome pine. illustrated by f. c. yohn. [illustration] the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the _foot-prints of a girl_. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." the little shepherd of kingdom come illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in the mountains. a knight of the cumberland. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners' fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. the harvester illustrated by w. l. jacobs [illustration] "the harvester," david langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of mother nature herself. if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man, with his sure grip on life, his superb optimism, and his almost miraculous knowledge of nature secrets, it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," and the harvester's whole sound, healthy, large outdoor being realizes that this is the highest point of life which has come to him--there begins a romance, troubled and interrupted, yet of the rarest idyllic quality. freckles. decorations by e. stetson crawford freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment, a girl of the limberlost illustrated by wladyslaw t. brenda. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. it is an inspiring story of a life worth while and the rich beauties of the out-of-doors are strewn through all its pages. at the foot of the rainbow. illustrations in colors by oliver kemp. design and decorations by ralph fletcher seymour. the scene of this charming, idyllic love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love; the friendship that gives freely without return, and the love that seeks first the happiness of the object. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york charming books for girls may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list when patty went to college, by jean webster. illustrated by c. d. williams. one of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been written. it is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable and thoroughly human. just patty, by jean webster. illustrated by c. m. relyea. patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows. the poor little rich girl, by eleanor gates. with four full page illustrations. this story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. a charming play as dramatized by the author. rebecca of sunnybrook farm, by kate douglas wiggin. one of the most beautiful studies of childhood--rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of austere new englanders. the stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record. new chronicles of rebecca, by kate douglas wiggin. illustrated by f. c. yohn. additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that carry rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. rebecca mary, by annie hamilton donnell. illustrated by elizabeth shippen green. this author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing. emmy lou: her book and heart, by george madden martin, illustrated by charles louis hinton. emmy lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. she is; just a bewitchingly innocent, hugable little maid. the book is wonderfully human. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york the novels of clara louise burnham may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. jewel: a chapter in her life. illustrated by maude and genevieve cowles. a sweet, dainty story, breathing the doctrine of love and patience; and sweet nature and cheerfulness. jewel's story book. illustrated by albert schmitt. a sequel to "jewel" and equally enjoyable. clever betsy. illustrated by rose o'neill. the "clever betsy" was a boat--named for the unyielding spinster whom the captain hoped to marry. through the two betsys a clever group of people are introduced to the reader. sweet clover: a romance of the white city. a story of chicago at the time of the world's fair. a sweet human story that touches the heart. the opened shutters. frontispiece by harrison fisher. a summer haunt on an island in casco bay is the background for this romance. a beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside vanity and self love. a delicately humorous work with a lofty motive underlying it all. the right princess. an amusing story, opening at a fashionable long island resort, where a stately englishwoman employs a forcible new england housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. how types so widely apart react on each other's lives, all to ultimate good, makes a story both humorous and rich in sentiment. the leaven of love. frontispiece by harrison fisher. at a southern california resort a world-weary woman, young and beautiful but disillusioned, meets a girl who has learned the art of living--of tasting life in all its richness, opulence and joy. the story hinges upon the change wrought in the soul of the blasè woman by this glimpse into a cheery life. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york louis tracy's captivating and exhilarating romances may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list cynthia's chauffeur. illustrated by howard chandler christy. a pretty american girl in london is touring in a car with a chauffeur whose identity puzzles her. an amusing mystery. the stowaway girl. illustrated by nesbitt benson. a shipwreck, a lovely girl stowaway, a rascally captain, a fascinating officer, and thrilling adventures in south seas. the captain of the kansas. love and the salt sea, a helpless ship whirled into the hands of cannibals, desperate fighting and a tender romance. the message. illustrated by joseph cummings chase. a bit of parchment found in the figurehead of an old vessel tells of a buried treasure. a thrilling mystery develops. the pillar of light. the pillar thus designated was a lighthouse, and the author tells with exciting detail the terrible dilemma of its cut-off inhabitants. the wheel o'fortune. with illustrations by james montgomery flagg. the story deals with the finding of a papyrus containing the particulars of some of the treasures of the queen of sheba. a son of the immortals. illustrated by howard chandler christy. a young american is proclaimed king of a little balkan kingdom, and a pretty parisian art student is the power behind the throne. the wings of the morning. a sort of robinson crusoe _redivivus_ with modern setting and a very pretty love story added. the hero and heroine are the only survivors of a wreck, and have many thrilling adventures en their desert island. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york b. m. bower's novels thrilling western romances large mos. handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated chip, of the flying u a breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of chip and della whitman are charmingly and humorously told. chip's jealousy of dr. cecil grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. a clever, realistic story of the american cow-puncher. the happy family a lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted montana cowboys. foremost amongst them, we find ananias green, known as andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. her prairie knight a realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of easterners who exchange a cottage at newport for the rough homeliness of a montana ranch-house. the merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating beatrice, and the effusive sir redmond, become living, breathing personalities. the range dwellers here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page. the lure of dim trails a vivid portrayal of the experience of an eastern author, among the cowboys of the west, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "bud" thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. the lonesome trail "weary" davidson leaves the ranch for portland, where conventional city life palls on him. a little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. a wholesome love story. the long shadow a vigorous western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life a mountain ranch. its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. it is a fine love story from start to finish. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york novels of southern life by thomas dixon, jr. may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list the leopard's spots: a story of the white man's burden, - . with illustrations by c. d. williams. a tale of the south about the dramatic events of destruction, reconstruction and upbuilding. the work is able and eloquent and the verifiable events of history are followed closely in the development of a story full of struggle. the clansman. with illustrations by arthur i. keller. while not connected with it in any way, this is a companion volume to the author's "epoch-making" story _the leopard's spots_. it is a novel with a great deal to it, and which very properly is going to interest many thousands of readers. * * * it is, first of all, a forceful, dramatic, absorbing love story, with a sequence of events so surprising that one is prepared for the fact that much of it is founded on actual happenings; but mr. dixon has, as before, a deeper purpose--he has aimed to show that the original formers of the ku klux klan were modern knights errant taking the only means at hand to right intolerable wrongs. the traitor. a story of the fall of the invisible empire. illustrations by c. d. williams. the third and last book in this remarkable trilogy of novels relating to southern reconstruction. it is a thrilling story of love, adventure, treason, and the united states secret service dealing with the decline and fall of the ku klux klan. comrades. illustrations by c. d. williams. a novel dealing with the establishment of a socialistic colony upon a deserted island off the coast of california. the way of disillusionment is the course over which mr. dixon conducts the reader. the one woman. a story of modern utopia. a love story and character study of three strong men and two fascinating women. in swift, unified, and dramatic action, we see socialism a deadly force, in the hour of the eclipse of faith, destroying the home life and weakening the fiber of anglo saxon manhood. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york the eddy a novel of today by clarence l. cullen illustrations by ch. weber ditzler g. w. dillingham company publishers new york _copyright, , by_ g. w. dillingham company _the eddy_ [illustration: louise] contents chapter page i. ii. iii. iv. v. vi. vii. viii. ix. x. xi. xii. xiii. xiv. xv. xvi. illustrations page louise _frontispiece_ laura, a woman of thirty-five, had the slender yet well-rounded structural sinuosities of a girl of twenty he'd go over to the house on the drive and get the thing over with "but, why did you never tell me, mother?" he squeaked like a rat; then he went down like a log the eddy chapter i "if only she were a boy!" mrs. treharne almost moaned the words. she tugged nervously at her absurdly diaphanous boudoir jacket, vainly attempting to fasten it with fluttering, uncontrolled fingers; and she shuddered, though her dressing-room was over-warm. heloise, who was doing her hair, juggled and then dropped a flaming red coronet braid upon the rug. the maid, a thin-lipped young woman with a jutting jaw and an implacable eye, pantomimed her annoyance. before picking up the braid she glued the backs of her hands to her smoothly-lathed hips. mrs. treharne, in the glass, could see heloise's drab-filmed grey-blue eyes darting sparks. "i shall resume," croaked the maid in raucous french, "when madame is through writhing and wriggling and squirming." laura stedham--she was relaxing luxuriously in the depths of a chair that fitted her almost as perfectly as her gown--smiled a bit wickedly. "forgive me if i seem catty, tony," said laura in her assuaging contralto, "but it is such a delight to find that there is some one else who is bullied by her maid. mine positively tyrannizes over me." "oh, everybody bullies me," said mrs. treharne, querulously, holding herself rigid in order not to again draw heloise's wrath. "everybody seems to find it a sort of diversion, a game, to browbeat and hector and bully-rag me." "surely i don't, afflicted one--do i?" laura tacked a little rippling laugh to the question. "you do worse, my dear--you laugh at me," plaintively replied the fading woman huddled before the glass. she was haggard as from a trouble that has been unsuccessfully slept upon, and her mouth--not yet made into a crimson bow through heloise's deft artistry--was drawn with discontent. "heaven on high, if only she were a boy!" she broke out petulantly again, after a little pause. this time there was genuine enjoyment in laura's laugh. "don't scowl, antoinette--i know i am a beast for laughing," she said, abandoning her chair and lissomely crossing the room to glance at some new photographs on a mantel. "but, really, you say that so often that it sounds like the refrain to a topical song. 'if only she were a boy--if only she were a boy!'--don't you catch the rhythm of it? i wonder, tony, how many times i have heard you give utterance to that phrase during the past few years--just?" "you haven't heard me say it any oftener than i've meant it, my dear--be very sure of that," said mrs. treharne, without a symptom of a smile. her sense of humor was embryonic, and laura's laughter and words, obviously meant merely in mitigation, jarred upon her. "and a remark is none the less true for being repeated, is it?" she went on in her plaintive monotone. "i _do_ wish louise had been born a boy. you would, too, if you were in my place. you know you would." "but, dear tony, it is such a futile, such a dreadfully childish wish," said laura, striving to erase the smile from her face. "it is like wishing for the fairy prince, or the magic carpet, or the end of the rainbow. worry makes wrinkles, dear. that may sound bromidic, but it's true. why worry yourself through all the years with wishing so impossible--i was going to say so insane--a wish? not only that--forgive me for saying it, dear, won't you?--but it is rather a grisly wish, too; and so unfair to the girl, really. don't you think--don't you know--that it is?" "don't scold, laura--please," said mrs. treharne, almost in a whimper. "you don't know what a miserable mess i am in. you haven't given me time to tell you. louise is coming home immediately." "for the holidays, naturally," said laura. "why shouldn't the poor child come home for the holidays? it will be the first time she has had her holidays at home since she went away to school--nearly four years, i think--isn't it?" "i hope you are not meaning that for a reproach," accused the haggard lady, now being corseted by the lusty-armed heloise. "you are in a shocking humor today; and i did so depend upon you for advice and comfort, if not consolation, when i 'phoned you to come over." "oh, i am in a lark's humor," protested laura, smiling as she rested a gloved hand upon one of the milky shoulders of her troubled friend. "but you puzzle me. why should you make such a catastrophe of it, such a veritable cataclysm, because your pretty and agreeable and, as i recall her, quite lovable daughter announces that she is coming home for the holidays? enlighten me, dear. i seem not to discern the point of your problem." "problem isn't the word for it!" repined the unhappy lady, upon whose nearly knee-length stays heloise now was tugging like a sailor at a capstan. "louise coolly announces--i had her letter yesterday--that she is not returning to miss mayhew's school; that she is coming to remain with me for good." "well?" said laura, murdering the smile that strove to break through her visible mask. "'well?'" wailed mrs. treharne. "is that all you have to say--'well'? can't you see how impossible, how utterly out of the question, how----" "her quitting school now, you mean?" said laura. "really, i think you should be pleased. her announcement shows that louise is a woman--a girl of nineteen who has spent nearly four years at a modern finishing school no longer is a young person, but a woman--that she is a woman with a sense of humor. it is very human, very indicative of the possession of the humorous sense, to tire of school. i did that, myself, a full year before i was through. all of the king's horses could not have dragged me back, either. i hated the thought of graduation day--the foolish, fluttery white frocks, the platitudes of visitors, the moisty weepiness of one's women relatives, the sophomoric speechifying of girls who were hoydens the day before and would be worse hoydens the day after, the showing off of one's petty, inconsequential 'accomplishments'--i loathed the thought of the whole fatuous performance. and so i packed and left a full year in advance of it, resolved not to be involuntarily drawn into the solemn extravaganza of 'being graduated.' that, no doubt, is louise's idea. she is a girl with a merry heart. you should be glad of that, antoinette." laura was simply sparring with the hope of getting her friend's mind off her problem. she knew very well the nature of the problem; none better. the idea of a girl just out of school being plumped into such an environment as that enveloping the treharne household perhaps was even more unthinkable to laura that it was to the girl's mother, a woman who had permitted her sensibilities to become grievously blunted with what she termed the "widening of her horizon." but laura, not yet ready with advice to meet so ticklish a situation, sought, woman-like, to divert the point of the problem by seizing upon one of its quite minor ramifications. of course it was not her fault that she failed. "laura," said mrs. treharne, dismissing her maid with a gesture and fumblingly assembling the materials on her dressing table wherewith to accomplish an unassisted facial make-up, "your occasional assumption of stupidity is the least becoming thing you do. why fence with me? it is ridiculous, unfriendly, irritating." she daubed at her pale wispy eyebrows with a smeary pencil and added with a certain hardness: "you know perfectly well why i dread the thought of louise coming here." laura, at bay, unready for a pronouncement, took another ditch of evasiveness. "i wonder," she said in an intended tone of detachment, "if you are afraid she has become a bluestocking? or maybe a frump? or, worse still, what you call one of the anointed smugs? such things--one or other of them, at any rate--are to be expected of girls just out of school, my dear. louise will conquer her disqualification, if she have one. her imagination will do that much for her. and of course she has imagination." "she has eyes, too, no doubt," said mrs. treharne, drily. "and you know how prying, penetrating the eyes of a girl of nineteen are. you know still better how poorly this--this ménage of mine can stand such inspection; the snooping--wholly natural snooping, i grant you--of a daughter nearly a head taller than i am, whom, nevertheless, i scarcely know. frankly, i don't know louise at all. i should be properly ashamed to acknowledge that; possibly i am. moreover, i believe i am a bit afraid of her." laura assumed a musing posture and thus had an excuse for remaining silent. "additionally," went on mrs. treharne, a little hoarsely, "a woman, in considering her daughter's welfare, must become a trifle smug herself, no matter how much she may despise smugness in its general use and application. what sort of a place is this as a home for louise? i am speaking to you as an old friend. i am in a fiendish predicament. of course you see that. and i can't see the first step of a way out of it. can you?" "for one thing," said laura, mischievously and with eyes a-twinkle, "you might permanently disperse your zoo." mrs. treharne laughed harshly. "one must know somebody," she said, deftly applying the rouge rabbit's-foot. "one can't live in a cave. my own sort banished me. i am _declassée_. shall i sit and twiddle my thumbs? at least the people of my 'zoo,' as you call it, are clever. you'll own that." "they are freaks--impossible, buffoonish, baboonish freaks," replied laura, more earnestly than she had yet spoken. "you know i am not finical; but if this raffish crew of yours are 'bohemians,' as they declare themselves to be--which in itself is _banal_ enough, isn't it?--then give me the sleek, smug inhabitants of spotless town!" "you rave," said mrs. treharne, drearily. "let my zoo-crew alone. we don't agree upon the point." "i thought you had your queer people--your extraordinary sunday evening parties--i came perilously near saying rough-houses, tony--in mind in bemoaning louise's return home," said laura, yawning ever so slightly. "oh, i'd thought of that, of course," said mrs. treharne, artistically adding a sixteenth of an inch of length to the corners of her eyes with the pencil. "but my raffish crew, as you call them, wouldn't harm her. she might even become used to them in time. she hasn't had time to form prejudices yet, it is to be hoped. you purposely hit all around the real mark. louise is nineteen. and you know the uncanny side-lines of wisdom girls pick up at finishing schools nowadays. since you maliciously force me to mention it point-blank, in heaven's name what will this daughter of mine think of--of mr. judd?" "now we are at the heart of the matter," answered laura. "heart, did i say? fancy 'pudge' with a heart!" there was little mirth in her laugh. "you must not call him that, even when you are alone with me, laura," said mrs. treharne, petulantly. "i am in deadly fear that some time or other he will catch you calling him that. you know how mortally sensitive he is about his--his bulk." "well might he be," said laura, drily enough. "is there any particular reason why your daughter should have to meet judd? except very occasionally, i mean?" "how can it be avoided?" asked mrs. treharne, helplessly. "hasn't he the run of the house? you don't for an instant suppose that, even if i implored him, he would forego any of his--his privileges here?" "i am not so imbecile as to suppose any such a thing," said laura, with a certain asperity. "but the man might exhibit a bit of common decency. he knows that louise is coming?" "i haven't told him," said mrs. treharne, fluttering to her feet from the dressing table. "you will hook me, laura? i don't want to call heloise. she only pretends that she doesn't understand english, and she knows too much already. no, i haven't told him yet. he resents the idea of my having a daughter, you know. he will be here directly to take me out in the car. i shall tell him when we are going through the park. then nobody but the chauffeur and i will hear him growl. i know in advance every word that he will say," and the distraught woman looked wan even under her liberal rouge. laura impulsively placed an arm around her friend's shoulder. "tony," she said, gravely, "why don't you show the brute the door?" "because it is his own door--you know that," said mrs. treharne, her eyes a little misty. "then walk out of it," said laura. "this isn't the right sort of thing. i don't pose as a saint. but i could not endure this. come with me. let louise join you with me. you know how welcome you are. i have plenty--more than plenty. you shouldn't have permitted judd to refuse to let you continue to receive the allowance george treharne provided for louise. that wasn't fair to yourself. it was more unfair to your daughter. you shouldn't have allowed her to get her education with judd's money. she is bound to find it out. she would be no woman at all if that knowledge doesn't cut her to the quick. but this is beside the mark. i have plenty. she is a dear, sweet, honest girl, and she is entitled to her chance in the world. i am sure i don't need to tell you that. what chance has she in this house? the doors that are worth while are closed to you, my dear. you know i say that with no unkind intent. it is something you yourself acknowledge. the same doors would be closed to your daughter if she came here. she could and would do so much better with me. neither you nor she would be dependent. we are too old friends for that. and i know george treharne. he would renew the allowance that you permitted judd to thrust back at him through yourself and his lawyer. leave this place, this sort of thing, once and forever. i want you to--for your own sake and your daughter's." mrs. treharne wept dismally, to the sad derangement of her elaborately-applied make-up. but she wept the tears of self-pity, than which there are none more pitiful. the reins of a great chance, for herself and her daughter, were in her hands. perhaps it was the intensity of her perturbation that did not permit her to hold them. very likely it was something else. but, at any rate, hold them she did not. "you are a dear, laura," she said, fighting back her tears for the sake of her make-up. "it was what i might have expected of you. of all the friends i used to have, you are the only one who never has gone back on me. but you must see how impossible it all is. i am in over my head. so what would be the use?" "you speak for yourself only, antoinette," said laura, a little coldly. "what of your daughter?" "oh, if only she were a boy!" the wretched woman harped again. laura stedham removed her arm from her friend's shoulder and shrugged a bit impatiently. "that refrain again?" she said, the warmth departing from her tone. "i must be going before i become vexed with you, tony. your own position would be quite the same in any case--if you had a son instead of a daughter, i mean. for my part, i fail to perceive any choice between being shamed in the eyes of a son of in the eyes of a daughter. true, a son would not have to tolerate so humiliating a situation. a son could, and unquestionably would, clap on his hat the moment he became aware of the state of things here, and stamp out, leaving it all behind him. a son could and would shift for himself. but a girl--a girl just out of school--can't do that. she is helpless. she is at the mercy of the situation you have made for her. i fear you are completely losing your moorings, tony. when is louise arriving?" "tonight," replied mrs. treharne, who had subsided into a sort of apathy of self-pity. "at nine something or other. i shall meet her at the station in the car." laura turned a quizzical, slitted pair of eyes upon her friend, now busy again with her tear-smudged make-up. "not in judd's car, surely, tony?" she said, in earnest expostulation. "why do that? why not let the girl in upon your--your tangled affairs a little more gradually? how could she help wondering at the extravagant, vulgar ornateness of judd's car? for of course she knows perfectly well that your own finances are not equal to such a whale of a machine as that." "it will not take her long to find out everything," said mrs. treharne, a little sullenly. "she need not be uncommonly observant to do that. and you remember how embarrassingly observant she was even as a child." "give her a chance to observe piecemeal, then," said laura, laconically. "i shall be with you at the station. one of my poor accomplishments, you know, is the knack of ameliorating difficult situations. and i was always so fond of the child. i am stark curious to see how she has developed. she was a starchy miss of fifteen when last i saw her. we'll fetch her home in a taxicab. that will be better. it is arranged, then?" "everything that you suggest is as good as arranged,' laura," replied mrs. treharne, with a wan smile. "your gift of persuasion is irresistible--i wish i knew the secret of it. it is extremely good of you to want to meet the child. if i could only meet her with--with such clean hands as--well, as i should have!" "never mind--there'll be a way out of it," said laura, cheerily. "i am off." she grazed the adeptly-applied artificial bloom of the other woman's cheek with her lips. as they stood side by side in the juxtaposition of a caress--they were friends from girlhood--the contrast between the two women was sufficiently striking. laura stedham, a woman of thirty-five, had the slender yet well-rounded structural sinuosities of a girl of twenty who passes all her days in the open air--minus the indubitable blowsiness which some open-air young women can't help but reveal to the dissecting eye. unusually tall, she had the gliding grace of movement which so many women of uncommon stature lack. even in the cluttered dressing room of her friend she made nothing of the obstacles that barred her path, but, walking always with a sort of nervous swiftness, passed around them to her point of destination--a mantel, a table, a hanging picture--with a threading ease of locomotion that made it seem oddly doubtful if she were dependent upon the ground at all for a base. there are tall women who, if they do not collide with stationary objects when they undertake a tour of a room, at least arouse the fear that they will infallibly do so. laura possessed an eye for the measurement of distances, and the litheness perfectly to follow her measurement. her complexion was that of a woman to whom a long tramp, even in the city, in the mist or in the blinding rain, was not a task, but a delight. her hair, all her own, yet worn in the final perverse mood of exaggeration of the coiffure "artist," was of an incredible burnished black, in unusual contrast with her full, kindling, celtic-grey eyes. a certain irregularity in the outline of her features--especially of her nose, which, far from being aquiline, was too short by the merest fraction--lent a certain piquancy to her expression, even when her face was in repose. she had the habit, growing rare in a world of social avoidances and white lies, of looking the person addressing her straight in the eye. it was not an impaling, disquieting gaze, but one that fairly demanded truthfulness and candor; a gaze unconsciously calculated to cause the liar to stutter in the manufacture of his lie. [illustration: laura, a woman of thirty-five, had the slender yet well-rounded structural sinuosities of a girl of twenty.] mrs. treharne, four years older than laura, had the somewhat hollow-eyed plumpness of an indoor woman who wars fiercely but hopelessly and unequally upon ever-threatening _embonpoint_. her triumphs over the enemy never were better than drawn battles; she was compelled to devote at least three hours a day to her determined, almost hysterical warfare upon the natural process of accretion, solely that she might not gain; long before she had abandoned hope of achieving the fragility of outline she pined for. the nostrums she employed in this incessant conflict had made her fragile, however, in at least one respect: her health; besides imparting a certain greenish-yellow tint to her skin which made her make-up box almost as necessary a part of her equipment as the hands wherewith she applied the mitigating tints. five years before she had been a fresh-skinned, clear-eyed, naturally pretty woman of a somewhat inconsequential type; but the necessity--the hideous duty, as she deemed it--of banting without cessation or intermission had left her merely her regular features upon which artificially to create the illusion of a youthfulness she was far from feeling. with the final touch added for an appearance in a company, she still looked dainty, certainly of impeccable grooming. but she had learned to be uneasy under the scrutiny of eyes that she felt to be unfriendly, and she had become exceptionally partial to veils. her hair, originally a light, unaggressive red, had been "done over" into a sort of vivid, brittle "titian." there were occasional reddish gleams in her slightly furtive, small eyes of hazel. she had a child's foot, and she was inordinately proud of her tiny, waxy, too-white hands. in a company she smiled continuously in order to display her teeth, which were perfectly assembled and of an almost porcelain whiteness. mrs. treharne was called a pretty woman even by those who perhaps entertained unexpressed misgivings as to how she might look at her rising hour. after laura had gone mrs. treharne tried, before her glass, the effect of a smile--somewhat frozen and quickly obliterated--upon her carefully studied and artfully executed make-up mask; then sighed drearily as she sank into a chair and began polishing her nails upon her palms. "of course laura is right, as usual--it wouldn't help matters particularly if louise were a boy," she mused with puckered brows. "a boy might be longer in finding out how affairs stood here; but when he did find out--what a storm, what heroics, what juvenile reproaches, what a stagey to-do there would be! perhaps, after all, it is as well that louise is--louise. she can adapt herself to--to things as they are. she must. there's no other way. she can't have lost the tact she possessed as a child. i wish i knew her better, so that i could have some sort of an idea just what to expect from her. i hope she understands the good sense of closing one's eyes to things that can't be improved by looking at them. perhaps i shall be lucky enough to marry her off quickly. that would be almost too easy a solution for me, with my vile luck, to expect." she rang for heloise to have her furs in readiness. "it was thoroughly decent of laura," she thought on, finger at lip, "to advise me to bolt all this and take refuge with her. but i haven't the nerve--that's the plain truth of it. how could i ask treharne to renew the allowance? what a triumph it would be for him if i were to do that! he would be too quixotic to view it as a triumph, but that wouldn't alleviate my humiliation in asking him. and what would the three or four thousand a year be in comparison with--" "the car is at the door, madame," announced heloise, appearing with the sables. mrs. treharne smiled at herself before the glass to smooth out the wrinkles of her musing, tripped lightly down the stairs, and was humming blithely when she nodded indulgently at the ponderous, shaggy-furred man who was waiting to help her into the huge, over-lavish, pulsing car. "you take your time, don't you?" grumbled judd, his breath vaporing into broken clouds in the raw december air. "does that monkey-chattering maid of yours sleep all the time, or has she a case on with the butler? i've been tooting here for ten minutes." his tone was snarling, and his thin lips were drawn away from gnarled teeth. judd was one of those physical anomalies, a man of falstaffian girth with sharp, peaked, predatory features. he pulled off his fur cap to readjust it before stepping into the car, showing a head wholly bald except for crinkly wisps of mixed red and gray hair at the sides and back. there was a deep crease at the back of his neck where the scant hair left off, and his deep-set, red-rimmed little watery-blue eyes were alert and suspicious. mrs. treharne laughed so carelessly that it almost seemed as if she deliberately sought to intensify his irritation. "still in your villanous humor?" she asked him, a taunt in her tone. "i believe this is one of the days--they grow rather frequent--when you should be allowed--required, i should say--to ride alone." "well, that's easy enough to do," grumbled judd in a voice curiously high-pitched for so vast a man. "see here, perhaps you are conceited enough to think--" very deliberately, and still smiling, mrs. treharne rose to leave the car. judd looked blankly nonplussed. "oh, stop this infernal nonsense, tony," he said in a tone tinged with alarm. then his ruddy face expanded into a grin behind which there seemed to be little mirth. "d'ye know, i believe you would be cat enough to step out, before we start, and--" "no names, if you please," mrs. treharne interrupted, choppily. "decidedly i shall leave the car if you feel that it is impossible for you to behave yourself like a human being. i have ceased to extract enjoyment from your growling humors." it was a tone she might have taken in addressing a menial. obviously, however, it was the tone required for the proper subjugation of judd. he exuded a falsetto laugh and patted her hand, at the same time motioning the chauffeur to start. "i don't complain of your hellish moods, do i, tony?" he asked her, still chuckling unpleasantly. "in fact, i believe i rather like the feel of your claws. all the same, there may come a day when--" "when i shall enjoy the sight of your back," calmly interrupted the apparently complaisant woman at his side. "speed the day!" judd's face took on a half-chagrined, half-worried look. it generally did when mrs. treharne was operating upon him what she privately called her "system." this "system," in essence, consisted in her invariable habit of quarreling with him and reducing him to abjectness by more or less veiled threats of abandoning him to a lonesome fate whenever she had something to ask of him, or to tell him, that she knew quite well would arouse his surliness. it was a neatly-devised balancing method, and mrs. treharne as well understood the vital advantage of striking the first blow as she apprehended the extent of her power over him. "i say, tony," said judd, patting her gloved hands again, "you wouldn't really cut and run just because--" "spare me your elephantine sentimentalities, please," she put in, a little less indifferently. "you were never ordained for that sort of thing. anyhow, i would like a sane word or two with you. i've something to tell you." "it's money, of course," said judd, sulkily, leaving off patting her hands with ludicrous suddenness. "more damned extravagance, eh?" "no, it's neither money nor extravagance, beautifully as those two words trot in tandem," she said, airily, yet with a new soothing note in her tone. "it is this: louise is coming home. at once. tonight." "the devil she is!" blurted judd. "what for? who sent for her? how long is she going to stay? what's it all about?" "one question at a time, please," mrs. treharne replied, looking indifferently out toward the bleak river as they shot by claremont. it was a palpably assumed air of indifference; but judd, unskilled at penetrating feminine subtlety, did not discern the nervousness underlying her careless manner. "my daughter is coming home because she wants to. nobody sent for her. she is not going back to school. she announces that in her letter to me; and she is old enough to know her mind and to be entitled to freedom of action. she is remaining permanently with me." she had expected him to storm upon hearing the news in full. judd, however, was an individual who owed a considerable part of his immense success as a man of affairs to his studied and carefully-elaborated habit of never doing the obvious. he leaned back in the car and half-screened his turkey-like eyes with their small, veinous lids. mrs. treharne, surprised at his silence, went on hastily: "i am wretchedly disturbed over it. i know that i have no fit home to offer her. i know that i have completely undermined her chance in life. but what can i do? she can't live alone. and she merely brings the difficulty to a head by coming now. she must come home some time, of course. the child has not spent her holidays or her summer vacations with me for four years. always she has been pushed about among school friends, who, glad as they and their people may have been to have her, surely must have wondered why she did not come home." judd fluttered his eyelids and leaned forward in his seat. "i understand perfectly, of course," he said with a sort of leer. "i understand, you understand, we understand, they understand, everybody understands. then what are you making such a devil of a rumpus about it for?" "well," said mrs. treharne, making the mistake, in dealing with judd, of falling into a slightly apologetic tone, "i thought that perhaps you might----" "wait a minute, antoinette," interrupted judd with suave brutality, leaning back again among the cushions and once more half-closing his eyes. "it doesn't matter a damn what i think. i can stand it if you can. she isn't my daughter, you know. she's your daughter. i suppose she has been taught to mind her own business? very well. i can stand the situation if you can." the slur cut like a rattan, as judd, perceiving a rare advantage, thoroughly intended that it should. he made it worse by patting her hands as he spoke. she hated him with an almost virtuous intensity as he uttered the sneer. but she said no more about her daughter's impending arrival during the remainder of the ride. chapter ii the chair car was well filled when louise somewhat misty-eyed from parting with the doleful group of school intimates who convoyed her to the little station, walked down the aisle just as the train began to move. not in the least sorry because she was finally leaving school, she was affected by the glumness of the girls who had insisted upon bidding her goodbye at the train; but she had not actually wept at any stage of the parting. perhaps the tear-reddened eyes and noses of her school friends had slightly touched her risibles; for her by no means latent sense of humor invariably struggled to the surface when she found herself figuring in anything of the nature of a "scene." she was not lacking in what the iron-jowled dowagers call "becoming sensibilities;" but she was habitually self-contained, and tears were unusual with her. nevertheless, she found difficulty in properly discerning objects, even at close range, as she searched for her place; and it was due to her filmed vision that she took a chair that did not correspond to the number on her pullman ticket. women as well as men pivoted about in their chairs for a second glance at louise. her unusual height was emphasized by the loose-fitting fur-lined cloth coat which fell straight from her shoulders to her skirt's hem. when she removed the coat her simple one-piece gown of blue cloth caused cogitating men in surrounding chairs to marvel as to how she had ever contrived to get into it, and, worse, how she would possibly manage to get out of it. the guimpe of the dress was of a creamy embroidery that dissolved bafflingly into the whiteness of her neck. louise might have reminded an imaginative traveler, had there been such in the car, of a freshly-blown, firm-petalled chrysanthemum. there are women in whom you first discern an utter, convincing wholesomeness; later you become aware of their beauty. their wholesomeness, you think upon your first comprehensive glance, is like that of an early vernal breeze, of dew upon clean grass; then the contributing elements of their beauty emerge upon your consciousness as through a succession of lifted veils. louise treharne was of this type. unusually tall, she had none of the raw-boned angularities of the over-trained young woman who makes a fad of gymnasium or out-of-doors activities and who thoughtlessly sacrifices the beauty of contour on the profitless altar of over-athleticism. slender, yet well rounded, the fine amplitude of her proportions caused her to look several years older than her age. her face contributed to this effect. it was a face such as the imaginary imaginative traveller might vaguely have associated with the faces of women stamped upon roman coins. there is a sort of creamy, vivid pallor that, equally with ruddiness, denotes perfect health and vigor. this was louise's; and the uncommon regularity of her features was tempered and softened by varying phases of expression that spoke of an habitual serenity and a searching common sense. her hair, of the darkest shade of lustrous auburn, waved back loosely and often a bit rebelliously to the great knotted coil in which it was caught at the back of her finely-lathed head. her eyes, the corners of which had an almost indistinguishable slant that only became agreeably noticeable when she smiled, were wide and full, and of so dark a brown that, at night or in shadowed rooms, they were often supposed to be black. she had barely settled herself, chin in palm, to gaze out of the window at the blurred landscape of ice-crusted snow, before she became somewhat confusedly conscious of a loomful figure standing patiently in the aisle beside her. when she suddenly turned her head and surveyed him with calm, questioning eyes, he pulled off his cap of plaid a bit awkwardly and smiled. she mentally observed that his mouth was a trifle over-large; but his smile, for all of that, she thought, was the smile of a man. with the woman's mystifying ability mentally to absorb innumerable details at a mere glance, she noticed (without in the least seeming to notice) that he was of unusual stature and of the type called by women, in their between-themselves appraisals, "delightfully scrubbed-looking;" that he was perhaps a little above thirty; that he had a closely-shaven rugged jaw and somewhat jutting chin, huge, well-cared-for hands, rather closely-cropped brown hair slightly greying at the sides, candid grey eyes with tiny lines of humor and experience running away from their corners. she noticed, too, that he was not wearing gloves, which was satisfying. all of the other men in the over-warm car were wearing their heavy cold-weather gloves, and she was slightly contemptuous of this as an unmasculine affectation. finally, in the same single glance, she perceived his visible embarrassment.... "pray don't disturb yourself," he said, fumbling his cap with both hands. ("why don't all men talk basso?" thought louise.) "i can reach it without your moving at all, if you will permit me. my bag, you know. there are some papers in it that i want to go over, and----" he stopped dead and looked quite wretched when louise came to her feet. "i am in your chair," she said, as he stooped to pick up a bag that, she now noticed for the first time, was wedged by the seat she had unwittingly taken. she was about to remove her coat to the back of the chair in front--her rightful place, as she quickly remembered when she saw the number on the panel--when he put out a determinedly detaining hand. "don't make me feel such a disgraceful nuisance, i beg of you," he said with an earnestness that was out of keeping with his twinkling eyes. "one chair is as good as another--better, in fact, when one already has possession of it. this bag is my only gear. you'll keep the seat, won't you? that's immensely kind of you," as louise resumed the chair. "i wouldn't have had you move for----" "of course," she interrupted him with a quietly frank laugh, "i hadn't the slightest intention of moving. it is more than good of you to suppose that i meant to be so agreeable." "that," he pronounced, again with his liberal smile, "is probably a neat, quickly-conceived way of letting me down easily, for which i am nevertheless grateful;" and, bowing, he took the chair in front of her, dug into his bag and quickly became immersed in a batch of formidable looking documents. louise, again leaning back in her chair, decided that the rear of his head was decidedly shapely. the excessive warmth of the car was making her sleepy, and she closed her eyes and surrendered herself to dozing reflections. she was dubious as to the reception her mother would give her. she had not heard from her mother since writing the letter in which she had calmly announced, as something settled and therefore not open to debate, that she was through with school and would not return to miss mayhew's after the holidays. laura had been only partly right as to louise's reason for quitting school. louise, it was true, was glad enough to escape the nightmare of "commencement exercises" by leaving half a year in advance of her graduation. but she had a far deeper reason for quitting the school without consultation with her mother. she wanted to be at home; any sort of a home. she had no very pleasurable recollections of the places--there had been many of them, and they had not been homes--in which she had lived with her mother before being sent to the finishing school in central new york. her young girlhood had been a period of aimless drifting, at seashore and mountain resorts in summer, and in tiny but by no means snug apartments in new york in the winter; her mother's restlessness and her frequently expressed dislike of "smug domesticity" had combined against her ever establishing anything even approximating a genuine home for herself and her daughter. louise only vaguely remembered her father; the separation, followed by a divorce, had taken place when she was only nine years old. at fifteen she had been trundled off to the up-state finishing school; and the school had been the only home she had known for close upon four years. her mother had visited her twice a year, taking her to the seaside for a week or so during the summer vacation and to lakewood for a brief stay during the holidays. her mother had always been provided with some sort of an excuse for not taking louise to her home--louise knew that she must have some sort of a home--in new york. the place was being overhauled, guests had unexpectedly swooped upon her, she was about to start upon a journey; louise had listened, mystified, so often to these reasons her mother gave for not having her daughter with her in the city at times when nearly all the other girls were leaving the school for home visits that she at length came to believe that her mother was treating her with somewhat humiliating disingenuousness. this feeling, however, aroused less resentment in the girl than it did a feeling of distress; she could not avoid, as she grew older, the conviction that she was being neglected. the feeling became intensified when, year after year, she was shunted, as she considered, on visits to the homes of her schoolgirl friends. it was natural enough, when she observed how cherished the other girls were in their homes, how the arms of strong affection constantly were thrown around them, that she should compare her own thrust-aside state with theirs and that she should develop the intense longing of a normal, affectionate young woman for similar love and protection. she had no sense of resentment against her mother; it was rather a feeling of regret that the curious aloofness between them, which she had no possible way of understanding, had ever risen. she hoped that perhaps, after all, her mother might really need her as sorely as she felt that she herself needed a mother and a home. she was returning to her mother with an open mind; no longer a child to be shunted and evaded, but a woman to be treated with frankness. there were some points in connection with her mother's affairs that she did not understand but as to which she had no undue curiosity. but she was intensely glad to be at least on her way home--on her way to her mother, at any rate--for good and all; and she formed plans for drawing nearer to her mother, wistfully hoping that the plans would have the fruition she longed for. louise's reflections gradually, with the purring movement of the train, became merged into dreams. she awoke with a start when the train came to a grinding stop at a station. she began cutting the pages of a magazine when, glancing up, she saw the man with whom she had held the little colloquy a while before striding down the aisle of the car. in his hand was an unopened telegram. she noticed that he was looking at her as he approached her seat, and that he was knitting his brow in a puzzled, serious sort of way. he stopped when he came to her chair and held out the telegram. "the boy paged the dining car, where i happened to be," he said to her, "and, thinking that you might still be asleep, i took the liberty of signing for your telegram." the telegram was addressed to "miss louise treharne." it was from one of louise's girl friends at the school, telling her that a piece of hand-baggage that louise had absent-mindedly left at the station was being forwarded. louise scarcely glanced at the contents of the telegram, so great was her astonishment over its method of reaching her. "you grant, of course, that i have reason to be puzzled," she said to him, unconstrainedly but entirely in earnest. she noticed that he was far from being unconstrained, and that a certain seriousness sat upon his strong features which she had not before observed. "it is plain that you knew this telegram was for me." "otherwise, of course," he replied, a little huskily, "i should not have presumed to sign for it. i should not have signed for it in any case had i not supposed you to be asleep. i feared, you see, that you might miss it." "but you do not in the least appease my curiosity," said louise, smiling somewhat nervously. "if you knew me--as it seems of course you do--i cannot understand why you did not reveal yourself when we had our little conversation a while ago." "but i did not know--i should say i did not recall you then," he said, plainly flustered. "you only add to the mystery," said louise. "you will enlighten me, of course?" he whirled his chair about so that, sitting back on the arm of it, he could face her. "it is simple enough," he explained, with a hesitancy which louise did not fail to note. "when the lad with the telegram came through the dining car, calling out your name, i could not fail, with that startling reminder, to remember----" he broke off as if reluctant to proceed. "yes?" put in louise, a bit proddingly. "well, i could not fail to remember your father's daughter," he said in a low tone, obviously striving to regain some ease of manner. "you know my father?" said louise, her sense of the mystery of it all increasing rather than abating. "yes," he replied, still struggling, as louise could see, to conquer a trouble that was visible on his features. "i am your father's attorney. i know your mother quite well, too. but this is the first time i have seen you since you were a little girl in pigtails and highly-starched skirts." he strove to make his laugh sound natural and easy, but it was a failure. some worry, as to the nature of which louise could of course not even guess, was in his voice as well as on his face. louise impulsively held out her hand. "the mystery is cleared," she said, brightly, "and it is delightful to meet so old a friend, no matter how oddly. won't you sit down and tell me all about my father and my mother and myself and yourself and--and everybody? or is it permissible for one to cross-examine so solemn and cautious a person as an attorney?" he sat down in the chair facing hers and studied, constrainedly, the pattern of the cap which he held out before him. then he glanced at his watch. "i am leaving the train at peekskill," he said, "so there is not much time. you are to be home for the holidays?" "for the holidays and for all time," she replied with a certain eagerness. "you have visited my mother's home? because, you know, i never have." she had not meant to say that so baldly, and she was sorry for the slip as soon as the words were out. "it is on riverside drive. therefore it must be lovely; the view, at any rate. it is lovely, isn't it?" he deliberately evaded the question. "you are not returning to school at all?" he pointedly counter-questioned her instead. "does your mother know this? i hope i don't seem inquisitive. but i am really interested in knowing." "you trap me into a confession," replied louise, smiling. "i simply announced to my mother that i was through with school, and here i am on my way home. i am hoping that she will not be excessively angry with me. do you think she will be?" louise was finding him decidedly difficult, in spite of her efforts to put him at his ease. he became so immersed in cogitations which louise could see were of the troubled sort that he seemed scarcely to listen to what she was saying. "you have not answered my question, you know, mr.--mr.--you see i do not even know your name," said louise, after a pause, pretending to be aggrieved. "oh, pardon the rudeness, won't you?" he said, hastily. "blythe is my name--john blythe. and forgive me for not having caught your question, miss treharne. you don't mind asking it again?" "oh, it doesn't matter," said louise, appeased, but still curious as to the cause of the perturbation he had exhibited ever since he had brought her the telegram, and which had become more pronounced since she had told him that she was on her way to her mother's home to remain there. she had not failed to notice his quite manifest unwillingness to speak of her mother. not of a prying nature, she concluded, without framing the thought in words, that, if he had a reason for that unwillingness, it was decidedly his privilege to keep the reason to himself. but her curiosity as to her father was not so easily repressed. she had not heard him spoken of--her mother forbade the subject--for many years, nor had he ever communicated with her directly; but her childish recollections of him were very sweet. she could not resist the temptation to speak of him to this newly-revealed friend. why should she not, she thought, since he seemed to be so well acquainted with her parents--and was her father's attorney besides? "mr. blythe," she found herself saying in a tone of unusual hesitation for her, a young woman of perfect frankness, "i feel that i may ask you about my father, seeing that you know--well, everything concerning him and my mother and--myself. it has been so many, many years since i have even heard him mentioned. where is he? when did you see him last?" "he lives in hawaii, miss treharne--i saw him in honolulu a few years ago," replied blythe, promptly enough. louise pondered. there was nothing specific she wanted to ask about her father. but she considered that blythe had not told her very much. "is he--well, nice?" she asked him. blythe, disturbed as he was, could not help but smile at the naïve question. but he sobered before he replied. "he is almost, if not quite, the finest man i ever knew," he said. "i hope to be allowed to tell you all about him some time. i shall be writing to him presently. tut! here is peekskill. i am dropping off here for a few hours," and he thrust his arms into his overcoat. "you will send my love to my father in your letter?" said louise, her eyes slightly filmed, touching him upon the sleeve. he looked gravely down upon her; her words touched him keenly. "i am glad you have asked me to do that, miss treharne," he said. "and he will be more than glad--depend upon that. goodbye--not for very long, i hope. i am overjoyed to have come upon you again--especially at this time," and he took her two hands in his huge palms for an instant and was gone. "'especially at this time'--i wonder what he meant by that?" thought louise. he waved at her as he passed beneath her car window. she was conscious that his smile in doing so was slightly forced; an instant before he caught sight of her through the window she had noticed that his face was clouded with worry. * * * * * an hour later louise was weaving her way through the rushing, holiday-chattering crowd toward the exit gate at the grand central station. peering toward the gate, and able, with her unusual height, to see over the heads of the hurrying women and most of the men, she espied her mother, looking somewhat petitely stodgy beside the stately laura, gazing rather wearily through the iron lattice. "i think i see myself being sent to bed without any supper," whimsically thought louise, considering, as she drew nearer, her mother's bored expression. louise was glad laura was with her mother; when a mere growing girl she had become gratefully familiar with laura's self-styled "ameliorating knack." she had become very fond of her mother's handsome, superbly-capricious but sunny-natured friend before being packed off to school; and now her eyes became slightly blurred at the thought that laura had remembered her and had thought enough of her to be with her mother at her home-coming. "here is our blossomy, bronze-haired boadicea!" louise heard laura say as she was taken into the older woman's arms and heartily kissed. then laura thrust her away with assumed annoyance. "but, minx, you are taller than i am; a full inch, maybe two, taller! how do you ever expect me to forgive you that, child?" and she smiled, drawing louise toward her again, and hugged her once more. louise's mother brushed the girl's cheek with her lips, her daughter bending toward her. "you _are_ grotesquely tall, aren't you, dear?" said mrs. treharne, not very good-naturedly. her petulance over louise's return was by no means allayed; and her masseuse had told her that evening that she had gained two pounds in a week! "you will have to get clothes that will reduce your shocking stature." then, swept by a momentary compunction, "you are well, dear? you are looking excessively well." louise was not hurt by the tone of her mother's greeting. she was well acquainted with her parent's irritableness, and even more familiar with her indurated indifference. the main thing was that she was back with her mother, and with a chance to strive for a better understanding. "but aren't you a mite thinner, mother?" louise asked, thoroughly meaning it; for there wasn't an ounce of sycophancy in louise's make-up, and she noticed her mother's hollowness of eye and generally distraught air and so concluded that she was losing in weight. mrs. treharne flared instantly. "you are not to make game of me, my dear, whatever else you do," she said, icily, to her astonished daughter. laura laughed outright and caught louise's arm in her own as they started through the station. "don't be absurd, antoinette--the dear is not making game of you, as you call it," said laura. "you know she is incapable of that." "but i am all at sea," said louise, still mystified over her mother's inexplicable outbreak. "what is it? what did i say that was wrong?" her mother looked at her and saw that the girl was wholly innocent of the sarcasm she had hastily attributed to her. "you know very well, louise," she said, in a tone meant to be appeasing, "that i am hideously, scandalously, shockingly fat; and you cannot expect me to be cheerful when you begin to taunt me with it before you have had more than one glance at me." "but you are anything but stout, mother dear, and i really meant what i said," put in louise. "why, it perfectly stuns me to think you could suppose that i----" "tut-tut--can't we find something more engaging to talk about than what the weighing scales do or do not tell us?" broke in laura, gaily. "antoinette, dear, won't you see if you can attract that taxicab man's attention?" when mrs. treharne walked over to the curb to summon the chauffeur of the taxicab laura seized the moment to say to louise in a low tone. "some things have occurred to disturb your mother, dear; so don't mind if she seems a bit _difficile_ tonight, will you? she is a little annoyed over your intention not to return to the school; but i shall help you out there. i am going home with you now for a little while. you'll depend upon your old friend laura?" louise, watching her mother, furtively pressed laura's hand. "you know how i always loved you as a little girl?" she said simply. laura's eyes became suddenly suffused with tears. she knew the girl's need of affection; and she vowed in her heart, then and there, crowding back the tears when she saw mrs. treharne beckoning to them, that she would stand in the place of the girl's mother if the time ever came--and she more than dimly apprehended that come it would--when such a thing need be. laura forced the conversation and strove to give to it a note of gayety as the taxicab sped through the icy streets. once, in addressing her, louise called her "mrs. stedham." instantly laura assumed a mighty pretence of annoyed hostility. "mrs. hoity-toity, child," she said, severely, to louise. "you are not supposing, i hope, that i shall permit a woman a full two inches taller than i am to call me any such an outlandish name as 'mrs. stedham'? great heaven, am i not old enough as it is? i am laura to you, dear; flatter me at least, by making me believe that you consider me young enough to be called by my christened name; the aged have so few compensations, you know," and louise, not without initial difficulty, however--for laura had always been a woman to her--called her laura thenceforth and was pleased to imagine that the elder woman was her "big, grown-up" sister. on the ride to the riverside drive house louise, suddenly remembering, mentioned blythe. she described the incident through which he had made himself known to her, but forbore, out of a certain diffidence which she always felt in her mother's presence, saying anything about blythe's allusions to her father. she omitted that part altogether. "how extraordinary!" commented laura. "but john blythe's practice is always sending him prowling about the country on trains. everybody who knows about such things tells me what an enormously important personage he is becoming in the dry-as-dust legal world. i am sure he does astonishingly well with my hideously complicated affairs--you know he is my legal man, louise. isn't it odd that you should have met him in such a way? didn't you find him rather--well, _distingué_, we'll say, louise?" "i thought him very fine and----" louise strove for a word haltingly. "and with an air about him--of course you did, my dear; everybody does," laura aided her. "if he wasn't such a perfectly wrong-headed, wrapped-up-in-the-law sort of a person he would have fallen in love with me long ago, even if i am old enough to be his grandmother; he is thirty-two, i believe, and i am bordering upon thirty-six; but he barely notices me in that way," with an acute emphasis on the "that," "though we are no end of first-rate friends; pals, i was going to say; for i've known him ever since----" laura came to a sudden stop. she had been upon the brink of saying "ever since blythe had helped her to get her divorce from rodney stedham;" but she recollected in time that that was not exactly the sort of a chronological milestone that should be reverted to in the presence of a girl just that day out of school. "louise, did you tell mr. blythe that you were to remain with me--permanently?" asked mrs. treharne, constrainedly, suddenly joining in the conversation. louise reflected a moment before replying. "why, yes, mother, i did; he asked me about it, i recall now," she said. "did he have any comment to make?" asked her mother in a reduced tone. "why, no, dear," said louise. "in fact, he appeared to be considerably worried about something, and so----" louise felt herself being furtively prodded by laura, and she left off suddenly. opportunely, the taxicab drew up in front of an ornate house on the drive. "do you live here, mother?" louise inquired, innocently. "i wonder how i managed to form the impression that you were living in an apartment?" mrs. treharne pretended not to have heard her. the door was silently opened by a man in livery. laura was watching louise keenly as the girl's eyes took in the splendor of the foyer and hall. the magnificence was of a pittsburgesque sort, in which beauty is sacrificed to a mere overwhelming extravagance; but, for its extravagance alone, not less than for its astonishing ornateness, it had a sort of impressiveness. "why, how dazzling!" louise could not refrain from commenting. "how delightfully different from what i expected! i am so glad that i am home--home!" she lingered lovingly upon the word. it was a difficult moment for laura. but she was prepared for it. in addition to the "ameliorating knack" she had a way of being ready for contingencies. "antoinette," she said, mainly to stop louise, "i have one of my headaches coming on. can't we have some tea in your rooms?" "i was just about to suggest that," said mrs. treharne, drily, and presently the three women were in her sumptuous sitting room, overlooking the twinkling lights of the hudson. a butler spread the cloth and brought a fowl and salad and jams, while louise roamed about exclaiming over the beauty of the rooms, and laura fought desperately against her inclination to brood. laura contributed whatever of merriness there was to the home-coming feast. mrs. treharne confined herself to occasional questions directed at louise, and the girl saw that her mother was tired and out of sorts; she remembered what laura had told her at the station of her mother's state of mind "over matters," and she made the allowances that she had been accustomed to make for her mother since her earliest years. the three women were still at the table, beginning to make allusions to bed--laura had summoned her car by 'phone, for it was close upon eleven--when a great-girthed man, in a sealskin coat that fell almost to his heels, an opera hat set rakishly on one side of his bald head, and his turkey-like eyes still more reddened with the libations that his lurching gait made still more obvious, lumbered into the room without the least attempt at knocking on the door. "hay-o, folks--having a little party?" said judd, lurching toward the table. "am i in on it?" and he plumped himself drunkenly into a chair. laura rose at the first sight of him. mrs. treharne kept her seat but gazed at him vitriolically. louise looked at him quietly enough. she was intensely mystified, but quite willing to wait for any information as to the intrusion. no information, however, was forthcoming. "your mother will show you to your room, dear," said laura, placing an arm around louise's waist and guiding her to the door. under her breath she said: "no questions, dear heart. he is an--an adviser of your mother. we are going to be great cronies, are we not?" she kissed louise and went. her mother conducted louise to a sleeping room done in white and silver, and kissed the girl good night with a sort of belated rush of affection. but she said nothing to her in explanation of judd. toward midnight john blythe, after striding up and down his solitary bachelor apartment for two hours in lounging robe and slippers, went to the telephone in his study and called up laura. "is that you, laura?" he said, quietly, into the transmitter when she answered the call. "what time tomorrow forenoon will you be fit to be seen?" "by noon," laura's voice came back to him quietly. "i know what you want to see me about, john." "do you? i doubt that." "it is about louise treharne." "i'll be there by noon. goodnight." "goodnight." chapter iii heloise's intentional noisiness in rearranging the toilet articles on the dressing table aroused louise. the brilliant sunlight of a sparkling winter morning was pouring into the room. half-awake and the brightness of the room filtering through her still-closed eyelids, she was obsessed for an instant with the fear that, over-sleeping, she was late for the exercises attending the beginning of a day at miss mayhew's school. she smiled at the thought, in spite of a brooding, indefinable trouble that had burdened her sleep, when, with wide eyes, she quickly sensed the lavishness of the room and saw the invincibly trig heloise moving about. "mademoiselle is awake at last?" said heloise in french, a trace of irritation in her tone. "one considered that mademoiselle contemplated sleeping until the end of time." louise disarmed her with a laugh. "perhaps i should have," she said, lightly, but on her guard with her french in the presence of so meticulous a critic, "had i not just this moment dreamt of coffee. am i too late for breakfast?" of course mademoiselle should have her coffee instantly, said the appeased heloise, ringing. the maid mentally pronounced that louise's finishing-school french was almost intelligible to one understanding that language. mrs. treharne had sent heloise to look after louise until a maid should be obtained for her. louise, sitting up in bed, her fresh, clear-colored face aureoled by her agreeably awry mass of bronzed hair, the nocturnal braids of which she already had begun to unplait, laughed again at the thought of being attended by a maid. "i shall have to be trained for that," she said to the mollified heloise. "i never had a maid. i doubt if i should know how to behave with a maid doing my hair. i think i should find myself tempted to do the maid's instead; especially if her hair were as pretty as yours." heloise was louise's sworn, voluble, tooth-and-nail, right-or-wrong, everlasting friend from that moment. she 'phoned to the butler, demanding to know why mademoiselle's coffee had not been sent, although she had only called for it three minutes before, and she buzzed about the tractable louise, arranging her hair with expert fingers, cheerful and chirpful, nothing whatever like the austere, croaking heloise who scowled so threateningly over the slightest unruliness of her actual mistress. heloise was prepared to give an enthusiastic recommendation of louise to the maid who should be engaged to attend her mistress's daughter. and she began already to be envious of louise's unobtained maid. when heloise had finished with her louise, inspecting herself in the glass with frank approval, decided that never before had she looked so astonishingly well at that hour of the morning. but, when the garrulous maid had gone, louise, sipping her coffee, sat in the streaming sunlight of the bowed window, watching the sparkling ice floes drift down the bleak hudson, and the trouble that had weighted her sleep returned upon her, slowly taking shape with her consciousness. she had been too tired the night before to engage in much reflection, before losing herself in sleep, upon the incidents--one incident particularly--of the previous night. now she was face to face with the gravamen of her depression, with an alert morning mind to sift over its elements. it was characteristic of her that she did not seek to thrust aside her consciousness of conditions which she imperfectly understood. she understood them, however, sufficiently to grasp at least the essentials of the situation. louise, whose native shrewdness was tempered by an innate and unconquerable tendency to look upon the bright side of the world and of such of the world's people as she came into contact with, was far better acquainted with her mother than her mother was with her; which was natural enough, considering that she had the receptive mind of youth, and that her mother's major trait was a sort of all-inclusive indifference. many things in connection with her mother's manner of life, her almost hysterical love of admiration, her restlessness and her habitual secretiveness with louise during the girl's early girlhood years, had become all too plain to the daughter as she developed into womanhood at the finishing school. perhaps it may be added that a twentieth century finishing school for young women commonly is an institution wherein all of the pupils' deductions are not made from their text books nor from the eminently safe premises laid down by their instructors. the young woman who has spent four years at such a school does not step through a nimbus of juvenile dreams when she enters into the world that is waiting for her. it is true that, when she takes her place in the uncloistered world, she has a great deal to unlearn; but this is balanced by the indubitable fact she has not very much to learn. those who expect her to be utterly surprised over the departures that she sees from the rules of the social game are merely wasting their surprise. it is mere futility to suppose that several hundreds of young women of the highly intelligent and eager type who attend exclusive schools of the so-termed finishing kind, thrust constantly upon each other for companionship and the comparison of notes, are going to occupy all of their leisure in discussing the return of halley's comet, or the profounder meaning of wagner, or even the relative starchiness of their hair ribbons. louise, participating in the whispered precocities of the school, had often caught herself on the defensive in her mother's behalf. to seek to brush away imputations that seemed to fit her mother's personality and way of life had become almost a habit with her. the habit, however, was availing her little on this her first morning after leaving school in her mother's sumptuous home--"that is, if it is mother's home." she flushed when she found herself saying that. but the doubt propelled itself through her consciousness, and she resolutely refused to expel it, once it had found lodgment in her mind, merely because it caused her cheeks to burn. her mother's favorite word, in contemptuously denominating people who lived in accordance with convention, was "smug;" mrs. treharne considered that she had pilloried, for the world's derision, persons to whom she had adverted as "smug." of the smugness of the kind mrs. treharne meant when she employed the word, there was not an atom in louise's composition. her nature, her upbringing, were opposed to the thought of a narrow, restrained, buckram social rule. but here was a situation--the investiture of almost garish splendor in which she found her mother living, considered in connection with subconscious doubts as to certain quite visible flaws in her mother's character which had been forming themselves in the girl's mind for years--here, indeed, was a situation with respect to which louise's unquietude had no need of being based upon mere smugness. the girl knew quite well that, up to the time of her going away to school at any rate, her mother's income had been a limited one--some three thousand a year voluntarily contributed by the father for his daughter's support and education. it had not been, in fact, her mother's income at all, but louise's; and it had been voluntarily contributed by the father because, as he had been the plaintiff in the divorce suit, the decree had not required him to aid his detached wife or his daughter at all; the court had given him the custody of the child, and he had surrendered that custody to the mother out of sheer pity for her. how, then, had her mother provided herself, on an income which, with a daughter to educate, called for frugality, if not positive scrimping, with such a sheerly extravagant setting? and judd! louise flushed again when she remembered judd. she did not know his name. she had never seen or even heard of him before. she only remembered him--and the thought caused her to draw her negligée more closely about her, for she experienced a sudden chill--as the girthy, red-eyed individual who, with the proprietary arrogance of an intoxicated man who seemed perfectly to know his position under that roof, had lurched into her mother's apartments on the previous night without the least attempt at announcing himself. how would her mother explain these things? would she, indeed, explain to her daughter at all? in any case, louise formed the resolve not to question her mother. she possessed, what is unusual in woman, an instinctive appreciation of the rights of others, even when such rights are perversely altered to wrongs. she considered that her mother's affairs were her own, in so far as they did not involve herself, louise treharne, in any tacit copartnership; and as to this point she purposed ascertaining, before very long, to just what extent she had become or was expected to become involved. for the rest, she was conscious of a distinct sympathy for and a yearning toward her mother. in her reflections she gave her mother the benefit of every mitigating circumstance. turning from the window, louise saw her mother standing before the dresser glass studying her haggard morning face, now lacking all of the sorely-required aids to the merely pretty regularity of her features, with a head-shaking lugubriousness that might have had its comic appeal to an unconcerned onlooker. louise, however, was scarcely in a mood of mirth. "i knocked, my dear, but you were too much absorbed," said mrs. treharne, offering her daughter her cheek. "you were in a veritable trance. did you get enough sleep, child? was heloise in a scolding humor? she makes my life a misery to me with her tongue. what beautiful hair you have! and what a perfect skin! a powder puff would mar that wonderful pallor. yet you are not too white. it becomes you, with your hair. appreciate these things while you have them, dear; look at your mother, a hag, a witch, at thirty-nine! but, then, you will keep your looks longer than i; you pattern after the women of your----" she came perilously close to saying "your father's family," but adroitly turned the phrase when she caught herself in time. louise, putting on a cheerful mask, replied to her mother's trivialities and devised some of her own. her mother had not lost her banting-killed bloom when louise had last seen her at such an hour in the morning; and the girl was inwardly pained to note how all but the mere vestiges of her remembered prettiness had disappeared. mrs. treharne caught her looking at her with a certain scrutinizing reflectiveness, and she broke out petulantly: "don't pick me apart with your eyes in that way, louise! i know that i am hideous, but for heaven's sake don't remind me of it with your criticizing, transfixing gazes!" she was of the increasing type of women who, long after they have the natural right to expect adulation on account of their looks, still hate to surrender. louise quickly perceived this and provided unguents for her mother's sensitiveness. they chatted upon little matters, mrs. treharne so ill at ease (yet striving to hide her restlessness) that she found it impossible to sit still for more than a minute; she fluttered incessantly about the room, her wonderful negligée of embroidered turquoise sailing after her like the outspread wings of a moth. after many pantheress-like rounds of the room, during which louise somehow felt her old diffidence in her mother's presence returning upon her, mrs. treharne, after her evident casting about for an opening, stopped before louise and pinched her cheek between dry fingers. "at any rate, my dear," she said with a trace of her old amiability and animation, "you are not a frump or a bluestocking! there was a time when i had two fears: that you would not grow up pretty and that you would become bookish. and here i find myself towered over by a young princess, and you don't talk in the least like a girl with crazy notions of keeping up her inane school studies." then, after a slight pause: "are you religious, my dear, or--er--well, broad-minded?" louise smothered her mounting laugh, for fear of offending her mother in her mood of amiability; but her smile was eloquent enough. "is there any incompatibility between those two states of mind, mother?" she asked. "don't dissect my words, child; you quite understand what i mean," said the mother, with a slight reversion to peevishness. "your father, you know, was--no doubt still is--shockingly narrow; he hadn't the slightest conception of the broad, big view; he belonged in this respect, i think, in the middle ages; and i have been tortured by the fear that you might--might--" she hesitated. she had not meant to mention louise's father, much less to speak of him even in mild derogation; and she suddenly recalled how, years before, there had been a tacit agreement between them that louise's father was not to be mentioned. the agreement had been entered into after an occasion when louise, then a child of eleven, with the memory of her vanished father still very keen in her mind, had rushed from the room, in blinding tears, upon hearing her mother speak of him in terms of dispraise. "i did not have much time at school for self-analysis, mother," said louise, coming to her mother's aid. "i suppose i am normal and neutral enough. i am not conscious of any particular leaning." she flushed, swept by a sudden sense of the difficulty, the incongruity, of such a conversation with her mother amid such surroundings. "mother," she resumed, hastily, "i am so keen to see new york again that i am hardly capable of thinking of anything else just now. are we to go out?" "the car is yours when you wish it, louise," said mrs. treharne, absently. "i rarely go out until late in the afternoon." "the car?" said louise. "you have a car, then?" her mother glanced at her sharply. it was sufficiently obvious that she was on the lookout for symptoms of inquisitiveness on louise's part; though louise had not meant her question to be in the least inquisitive. "i have the use of a car," said mrs. treharne, a little frigidly. "it belongs to mr. judd." instinctively louise felt that "mr. judd" was the sealskinned falstaff whose unceremonious appearance the night before had startled her. but she remained silent. nothing could have induced her to ask her mother about mr. judd. her mother did not fail to notice her silence, which of course put her on the defensive. "mr. judd," she said, "is--a--" she hesitated painfully--"my business adviser. he has been very good and kind in making some investments in--in mining stocks for me; investments that have proved very profitable. he is alert in my interest. it was mr. judd, my dear, whom you saw last night. he was not quite himself, i fear, or he would not have made his appearance as he did. he has helped me so much that of course it would be ungrateful of me not to permit him the run of the place." she rambled on, as persons will who feel themselves to be on the defensive. "in fact, he--he--but of course, if you have formed a prejudice against him on account of last night, there will be no occasion for you to meet him except occasionally." louise caught the hollowness, the evasiveness, of the explanation. not one word of it had rung true. louise had never felt sorrier for her mother than she did at that moment. she noticed a certain hunted expression in her mother's face, and it cut her to the quick. she placed a long, finely-chiselled arm, from which the sleeve of the negligée had slipped back to the shoulder, around her mother's neck. "but i haven't the least use for a car, dearie," she said. it was not with deliberation that she ignored altogether what her mother had been saying as to judd; it was simply that she could not bring herself to offer any comment on that subject. "i am a walker; every day at miss mayhew's i did ten miles--even in rain and snow, and it is clouding for snow now, i think. you will not mind my going out for a long walk? i am wild for air and exercise." mrs. treharne was grateful to the girl for turning it off in that way even if, by so doing, louise indicated that she was of more than one mind with respect to what had been told her regarding judd. and mrs. treharne, careless and indifferent as she was, could not visualize her daughter in the gigantic yellow-bodied judd car without being swept by a feeling that was distinctly to her credit. * * * * * laura stedham, over her cocoa, was weaving with careless rapidity through her morning mail when john blythe arrived shortly before noon. laura's apartment overlooked the west side of the park. its dominant color scheme now was based upon a robin's egg blue; but there was a jest among laura's friends that they never had seen her apartment look the same on two visits running; they declared that every time laura left the city for as long a period as a fortnight, she left orders with her decorator to have her apartment completely done over so that even she herself quite failed to recognize it when she returned. blythe, throwing his snow-sprinkled stormcoat over the extended arm of laura's brisk maid, strolled over to a window and watched the still, unflurried flakes sift through the bare branches of the park trees. his hands were thrust deep into his pockets and his eyes were so unusually meditative that laura, used to his absorption as she was, laughed quietly as she turned from her escritoire. "yes, john, it is snowing," she said, thrusting away a heap of still-unopened letters. blythe turned to her with a twinkling look of inquiry. "i thought perhaps you might not have noticed it," chaffed laura, "seeing that you were looking right at it. you require an excessive amount of forgiveness from your friends. i believe you have not even seen me yet, although i've employed a good hour that i might have spent in bed in devising additional fascinations in anticipation of your coming." "meaning, for one thing, i suppose," said blythe with rather an absorbed smile, "that--that--" "don't you dare call it a kimono," interrupted laura. "it's a mandarin's coat--a part of the peking loot. of course you are crazy over it?" it was a magnificent pale blue, ermine-padded garment, with a dragon of heavy gold embroidery extending from nape to hem down the loose back. blythe studied it for a moment and then glanced significantly at the faint-blue walls and ceiling of the room. "i presume," he said, solemnly, "you had your rooms done this last time to match the mother hub--i mean the mandarin's coat?" they did not need thus to spar, for they were (what, unhappily, is so unusual between men and women in a world devoid of mid-paths) close friends; even comrades, in so far as blythe's hard work permitted him to assume his share of such a relationship; and they understood each other thoroughly, with no complication differing from a genuine mutual esteem to mar their understanding. nevertheless, both of them found it a trifle difficult to undertake the lead on the subject that was uppermost in their minds and the occasion of blythe's forenoon visit. laura with her customary helpfulness, finally gave him an opening. "she told us of having met you on the train," said laura, as if in continuation of a conversation already begun on the theme. "an odd chance, wasn't it? i wonder if you were so enormously struck with her as i was?" "you met her at the station, did you not?" said blythe, quietly. "that was like you; like your all-around fineness." "thanks," said laura, appreciatively. "but you evade my question. isn't she a perfect apparition of loveliness?" "i wish she were less so," said blythe, not convincingly. "no, you don't wish that," said laura. "i know what you wish; but it is not that." blythe was silent for a space and then he fell to striding up and down the room. "did you ever come upon such an unspeakable situation, laura?" he broke out, stopping to face her. "what is antoinette treharne thinking of? is she utterly lost to any sense of--" "i wouldn't say that, john," put in laura, holding up a staying hand. "it is natural enough, i know, for you to reach such a conclusion; on a cursory view the case seems to be against her; but you must remember that louise came home without warning. antoinette had no opportunity to devise a plan. she is horribly humiliated. i know that." "your usual method of defending everybody--and you know how i like you for that as for so many other things," said blythe. "but, laura, louise's mother knew that the girl must leave school in half a year at all events. she must have considered some way out of the hideous mess?" "none that she ever mentioned to me," said laura. "you know her habit of procrastination. i grazed the subject two or three times in talking with her. she dodged, or was downright brusque. she has no plan, i am sure. but she is sorely distressed over it all, now that the situation has come to a head. i am very sorry for her." "but the girl?" said blythe, a slight note of irritation in his tone. "how about her?" "i should be more worried if i were not so entirely confident that louise is amply competent to take care of herself," said laura. "she is no longer a girl, john. she is a woman, and a woman with more than her share of plain sense. her position, of course, is positively outrageous, heartrending. but i am at a loss to suggest a single thing that her friends--that you or i, or both of us--could do just now to better it." "that," said blythe, a little hoarsely, "is just the devil of it." "i should like to have louise with me," laura went on, "but i doubt if she would come, although i believe she is fond of me. not just yet, at any rate. she would not care to leave her mother after her long separation from her. louise will find out the situation herself. no doubt she already has sensed a part of its sinister aspect. i am horribly sorry for her. but, as i say, she is a woman of character. she will know what to do. all that we can do, for the present at any rate, is to be on guard for her, without seeming to be. of course she shall know that we are her friends. she already knows that i am her friend. did you, on the train--" "yes," put in blythe, apprehending what laura was going to ask. "i told her that i knew her father. the matter came about in an odd way. i wish, laura, that you'd make it clear to her, if you have the chance, that she--that i--" he halted embarrassedly. "i quite understand," laura aided him, smiling. "that you mean to be her friend, too--of course i shall tell her that," and laura looked reflective when she observed how blythe's face brightened. it soon clouded again, however, when he broke out: "she will find out, of course, sooner or later, that she has been taken care of and educated for the past five years and odd with judd's money," he said, worriedly. "you can imagine how intense her mortification will be over that discovery. judd, you know, in contempt of george treharne, forced mrs. treharne to return to me the quarterly checks that treharne sent me from hawaii for louise--for of course i sent the checks to antoinette. i explained this to treharne when i saw him in honolulu a few years ago. he was badly cut up over it but of course he was powerless to do anything about it. he refused to take the checks back, though, and directed me to deposit the money to louise's account. i have nearly fifteen thousand dollars--five years' accrued checks, for treharne has never stopped sending them--on deposit for louise now. don't you think she had better be told this?" "wait a while," advised laura. "wait until she discovers how the land lies. then she will be coming to you. if you told her now it would involve your telling her also that she had been educated with judd's money. i think it better that she discover that for herself--if she must discover it. then she will know what to do. she will be seeking you out then," and laura smiled inwardly when again she noted how blythe's face cleared at her last words. "there is only one thing to do, of course, and that is to follow your advice and let the matter stand as it is for the present," said blythe, preparing to go. "but the thing is going to sit pretty heavily upon me. i have been treharne's legal man ever since my senior partner died, as you know, and, although it isn't of course expected of me, i can't help but feel a certain responsibility for his daughter when she is thrust into such a miserable situation as this. i wonder," catching at a new and disturbing idea, "if her mother will expect louise to meet the wretched crew of near-poets, maybe-musicians and other rag-tag-and-bobtail that assemble at what antoinette calls her sunday evening 'salon?'" "antoinette's 'zoo,' i call it," laughed laura. "what if louise does meet them? they can't harm her. they, the unfortunate make-believes, will only appeal to her risibles, if i mistake not. louise must have got her sense of humor from her father. antoinette hasn't a particle of humor in her composition. if she had how long do you suppose she would continue her absurd 'salon?" laura, in extending her hand to blythe, who had resumed his stormcoat, gazed quizzically into his rugged face. "john," she said, "is your solicitude for louise solely on account of the--er--sense of responsibility you feel toward her father?" blythe caught the twinkle in her eyes. "humbug!" he ejaculated, striding out to the obligato of laura's laugh. * * * * * when they were settled in the car for their snowy ride that afternoon, mrs. treharne turned in her seat to face judd. "you will understand," she said in a tone quite as hard as it was meant to be, "that i am not wasting words. if you repeat your grossness of last night in my daughter's presence, our--our friendship is at an end. that is understood?" "now, now, shush, shush, tony," said the gargantuan judd, soothingly, and resorting to his habit of patting her hands, "not so severe, not so terrifically severe, you know. how did i know that your daughter would be there? didn't know the least thing about it--forgot, i mean, that she was coming. got a bit screwed at the club, and--" "i don't elect to listen to that sort of an explanation," interrupted mrs. treharne, with cold deliberation. "i am unutterably weary of your porcine manners. it is bad enough that i have permitted myself to endure them. you are not imbecile enough to suppose that my daughter is to endure them, too? you are to meet her only when it is absolutely necessary; be good enough to remember that. while she is with me--i don't now know how long that is to be--you are to curtail your visits; and if you come even once again in the sodden condition that you were in last night, i am done with you from that instant. i make myself plain, i hope?" "'pon honor, tony, you are horribly severe," blurted judd, whiningly. "you know very well that if you were to cut and run i'd blow my head off." he felt that he meant it, too; for judd was tremendously fond of the fading woman seated beside him, as he had been for years. he was blind to her departing prettiness; to him she was the one woman in the world--his prim, elderly wife, the mother of his family of grown children, being utterly negligible in his view; and mrs. treharne knew her complete power over him as well as she knew the lines of her face. "i wish," she said, with a cutting way of dwelling upon each word, "that you had blown your head off before ever i met you. i might then have been able to cling to at least the shreds of self-respect." judd had no reply to make to that, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. chapter iv by mid-january louise had completed her inventory of the situation. she faced her position without flinching and with no visible sign of the distress the gradually unfolding picture caused her, save a certain silent preoccupation from which laura vainly sought to rouse her by taking her on incessant rounds of the theatres, whisking her off on short up-state and long island motor tours, and providing other means of distraction and excitement. laura's heart ached for louise. her own girlhood had been clouded by trouble. orphaned at sixteen, an heiress with no disinterested advisors save those who were the legal guardians of her person and estate, she had yielded shortly after leaving school to a girlish infatuation and entered upon a surreptitious marriage with a man who, with his child-wife's large wealth at his disposal, had surrendered to one dissipation after another until, eventually becoming a drug fiend, he had, in his treatment of her, developed into such an utterly savage and irresponsible brute that she was compelled to divorce him, after which he had been put under permanent restraint. it had taken laura long years to recover her natural equipoise after her bitter disillusionment. louise's trouble, laura could not help apprehending, was even more grievous than her own had been, intensified as she knew it must be by the girl's carefully-screened feeling of humiliation. laura admired louise beyond words for her uncomplaining acceptance of her bitter bolus. "i never saw such pluck," she told john blythe time and again. "it is the pluck of a thoroughbred. i believe she thoroughly understands everything now, except that she is in judd's debt for her education. her loyalty to her mother is wonderful, beautiful; far greater than antoinette really deserves. i don't remember ever meeting a girl or woman whom i admired so much as i do louise treharne." laura could not fail to note how blythe's clear grey eyes would glisten when thus she praised the girl. "louise is like her father," he would say in reply to laura's enthusiasm. "you know what a fine, game man george treharne was and is. i'll never forget how generous he was in his treatment of me--and he tried to prevent me from knowing it, too--when, as a cub lawyer, i was first starting out on my own hook; and there wasn't the least reason in life why he should have been so decent to me, either. you remember how he never whimpered when antoinette dragged his--oh, well, no use in referring to that. but, when i first met the grown-up louise on the train--after i accidentally discovered her identity, i mean--i couldn't help but observe how her resemblance to her father--" "to whom," laura watched him with twinkling eyes, "your sense of responsibility is so great that--er--that--" whereupon blythe would flush hotly and proceed to shrivel laura with whatever in the way of polite invective occurred to him in his confusion. the thought of leaving her mother for the sake of extricating herself from a difficult and taxing situation never entered louise's mind. her mother, she felt, needed her. it was not, she considered, a problem for her interposition; she shrank from the thought of even mentioning it. she knew that it was an utterly impossible situation; she had a profound belief that it was not, from its very nature, destined to last; but she preferred that her mother should take the initiative in casting off the evil. she clearly saw how, from day to day, her mother was becoming increasingly conscious of the grave trouble she was heaping upon her daughter's young shoulders; she perceived how her mother, not inherently vicious, simply was in the bondage of an ingrained, luxury-loving selfishness, and that, having been cast out of the social realm in which she formerly had moved, she was now possessed by a sort of despair which, more than anything else, prevented her from making the attempt to extricate herself from the slough. louise, then, schooled herself to wait. it was a sort of waiting that drew heavily upon her natural store of equanimity. but she could see no other course, and hopefulness is the tandem mate of youth. "i have lived long enough," laura said to her one afternoon, when they were driving, during this trying period when louise was testing her adaptability to the utmost, "to have discovered that nothing matters very much except one's own peace of mind. if one have that, the rest is all a mirage. i don't mean the peace of mind that proceeds from a priggish sense of superiority to human weaknesses. that, i am pleased to say, is a sort of mental peace that i haven't yet experienced, and i hope i never shall. but when one's hands are just decently clean, and one at least has tried to shake off the shackles forged by one's own little meannesses, a sort of satisfying mental quiet ensues that is worth, i think, more than anything else one finds in life." "but one's worry for others?" quietly suggested louise, putting it in the form of a question. laura pressed the girl's hands between her own. "all of us, dear, must know the meaning of solicitude--often painful solicitude--for others at some period of our lives," she said, tenderly. "i know what you mean. you are carrying yourself nobly through a difficult ordeal. let that consciousness suffice. you will have the right to feel proud, in the coming time, to remember that you stood the test--as we are proud of you now." "'we?'" said louise, puzzling. "we," repeated laura, steadfastly. "i think you scarcely understand, dear, how profoundly interested--yes, and chivalrously interested, too--john blythe is in your--your problem." louise felt the blood rushing to her face. "does mr. blythe know?" she asked, her cheeks tingling. "how could he avoid knowing, dear?" rejoined laura, gently. "he is your father's lawyer. he is an occasional visitor at your--" she hesitated; "--visitor on riverside drive," she resumed. "and so of course he knows--everything. you may be glad of that, dear. there is no man in the world whose friendship i value more highly than that of john blythe. i think he would like to have you feel--i know, in fact, that he would--that he is interested in your--your concerns; that, indeed, in a way, he is standing guard for you." louise studied for a little while. "i should have understood, of course, that he knew," she said, hesitatingly. "but it did not occur to me. i am afraid that i should have been a little reluctant to meet him on those two or three occasions at your home if i had known that he--" she paused. "why, dear child, should you have such a feeling when a man of innate nobility, who knew you when you were a little girl----" "it is wrong, i know," put in louise, hastily. "but i find it so hard to regard him as--as just a lawyer, you know, laura. he is not like a lawyer at all--at least i have not found him so. he is----" laura pointed a teasing finger at her, which caused the color to reappear on louise's face. "don't try to tell me what he is, louise," said laura, smiling. "don't you suppose i know? but you don't know how intensely glad i am to hear that you can't regard mr. blythe as--as 'just a lawyer.' i shall tell him that you are going about criticizing his professional ability." "don't do that--please!" said louise in such an obvious panic that laura pinched her cheek reassuringly. the meetings with blythe to which louise referred were casual ones in laura's apartment. blythe was in the habit of dropping in occasionally for coffee--he abominated tea--and a chat at laura's tea hour in the late afternoon; and laura duly noted, not without slyly chaffing him over it, that he had made this an almost daily habit since his discovery that he stood a pretty fair gambling chance of finding louise there almost any afternoon. once, when laura and louise came in from a drive which had been prolonged rather later than usual, they entered the library quietly, to find blythe, looking decidedly glum, browsing among the books without the least seeming of being interested in any of them, for his hands were thrust deep into his pockets and they caught him yawning most deplorably. but at sight of the two women--one woman, laura said, accusingly, to him after louise had gone home in laura's car--he had brightened so suddenly and visibly that laura had to profess that her rippling laugh was occasioned by something she had seen during her drive. on these occasions laura had found it imperatively necessary to leave them together in order to confer with her servants. louise and blythe had talked easily on detached, somewhat light matters, finding an agreeable mutual plane without effort. louise, remembering his somewhat sober preoccupation on the train, had been surprised and pleased--though she could not have told why--to note his possession of a rather unusual social charm. she was pleased, too, that, except in the matter of a remarkable physique, he was not to be rated as a handsome man. his features were too rugged for that. strength, keenness and kindliness shone from his masterful countenance; but he was anything but handsome judged from the magazine-cover standard. louise had amused laura one day by saying that she found blythe's face "restful." she had not the least partiality for men of the generally-accepted straightout handsome type of features; she was, in truth, a little inclined to be contemptuous of an excessive facial pulchritude in men. but--again for a reason which she could scarcely have explained--she was glad that blythe was perhaps two inches more than six feet in height, that he was as straight as a lance, and that he found it necessary to walk sidewise in order to get his shoulders through some of laura's lesser doors. on her last meeting with blythe louise had asked him, with a certain hesitancy which he noticed, if he had written to her father. "yes," blythe had replied, simply, "and i sent him your love." he had not offered to become more communicative; and louise, concluding that his reticence on the subject might be based on a considerateness for her which it might be unfair for her to seek to fathom, did not mention the matter to him again. she had an oddly resolute confidence in him, considering how short the time had been since he had come into her life; and she felt that, if he now exhibited a taciturnity which puzzled her, it would be explained in due time. louise treharne belonged to that rare (and therefore radiant) type of women who know how to wait. * * * * * louise's life at the house on the drive quickly resolved itself into a daily programme tinctured with a monotony that could not but wear upon the spirits of a young woman of a naturally cheerful and gregarious temperament. her mother, generally in a state of feverish unrest that marked her strained incertitude over a situation which, in a way, was more intolerable to her than to her daughter because she was guiltily conscious that she was the maker of it, usually dropped into louise's room for an hour's chat during the forenoon. she was alternately affectionate, stilted, indifferent and petulant in her attitude toward her daughter. she did not seek, in her brooding self-communings, to thrust aside the keen consciousness that she was utterly and hopelessly in the wrong; but this consciousness did not serve to allay her irritation, even if it was directed against herself. like most women, she hated to be in the wrong; and she particularly loathed the thought of confessing herself in the wrong. she was less immoral than unmoral; her descent had been due to a sort of warped view as to forbidden relationships, nourished by an inborn and intense dislike for the sovereignty of convention--"the tyranny of the smug," she habitually called it--and based essentially upon her love of luxurious and extravagant living. but a consciousness of these facts only made her self-contempt the more keen. she measured and despised her sordidness. she was not, she fell into the habit of reflecting after her daughter's return, the victim of anybody but herself; her days of ardor had slipped away; she well knew that she had not even the excuse of a fondness for the man who had made her a social pariah. if she had ever experienced any such a fondness that fact might have mitigated, at least in her own self-view, the rawness of her course. but she cared nothing for judd, which made her case abominable, and she knew it. yet her weakened will, her character rendered flaccid by years of careless self-indulgence, made it acutely difficult for her to contemplate the thought of abandoning her way of living, even for the sake of her daughter. her prettiness was now purely a matter of meretricious building up; she would soon be forty; she fumed inwardly at the thought of middle age, which now, for her, was only around the corner, so to speak; she had been cast off by her own kind; and the terminal idea of her self-communings always was that, since there was no hope for her in any event, no matter what she might do, she might as well finish the scroll. she pushed aside louise's involvement in the difficulty as something that would--that would have to--adjust itself. a way out for louise must present itself sooner or later; but the way out for her daughter must be one that would not demand too great a sacrifice--if any sacrifice at all--on her own part. perhaps a good marriage could be contrived for louise; that would be the easiest and most natural solution; and she would cast about in her mind for eligibles on whose sensitive social concepts perhaps her own method of life would not grate. her dreary meditations usually terminated with futilities of this sort. louise, fighting back the oppressiveness that had clutched her ever since her return from school, was cheerful and sunny when her mother was with her. she made no allusion of any sort to the conditions of her environment. her mother, noticing this, was grateful for it, and she was conscious of a genuine and growing admiration for the mingled dignity and delicacy of her daughter's behavior. on one of her forenoon visits to louise's dressing room the mother herself, swept by a feeling of remorse in the contemplation of the girl's fragrant, pure-eyed beauty, could not refrain from touching impulsively upon the nub of her own unrest. "my dear," she said to louise, passing a white and still prettily rounded arm around her daughter, "do you hate your little mother?" louise fought back the tears that suffused her eyes. "why do you ask such a thing, dear?" she asked in a voice the hoarseness of which she strove to disguise. her mother did not reply to the question, but went on, turning her head away: "because there are circumstances, conditions that you can't have failed to notice here that maybe--" she struggled for words. "it has never been in my heart to do anything except what was right and fair by you, child, but one drifts, drifts, always drifts----" she could not proceed. louise wrapped her arms about her mother. neither spoke for a space. "nothing can ever change me, dear," said louise then in her quiet tone. "it is not for me to judge or condemn. i can--wait. we shall not speak of it again, shall we, mother?" her mother, haggard and with pain-drawn features, smoothed louise's face with her hand for a little while and went away without another word. the girl's eyes were swollen when laura came for her in her car an hour later. but laura did not ask her why. louise went nowhere with her mother. mrs. treharne made it plain from the beginning that this was her intention. louise, for her part, required no reason. she understood. nor did louise seek to re-establish the friendships she had formed with girls at miss mayhew's school, many of whom now were living in new york or visiting their homes there during the holiday vacation. one afternoon, at an opera matinée, louise, strolling out the entr'acte in the foyer with laura, came face to face with bella peyton, a girl who had been graduated from the finishing school with the class ahead of louise's. miss peyton was with her mother, a stony-eyed, granite-featured dowager who had often met louise on her frequent visits at the school; for her daughter and louise had been school inseparables. bella rushed up cordially to louise and kissed her enthusiastically. "you darling!" she exclaimed in the abandonment of her delight at coming upon the chum of her school days so unexpectedly. "when did you reach town? and why didn't you come to see me the very instant you returned?" mrs. peyton, who, at sight of louise, had purposely lagged in the rear, and whose adamantine countenance reflected intensifying degrees of frozenness with each word that her daughter was saying to louise, drew her adipose person into a posture of icy rigidity, and croaked: "bella!" mrs. peyton had not so much as nodded to louise. "why, mamma," bella broke out, "don't you remember louise treharne, my sworn and subscribed and vowed and vummed chum at miss mayhew's?" "bella!" this time it was not merely an adjuration, it was a command. bella, perceiving then that something was wrong, flushed. but she was loyal to her friend. "you are coming to see me immediately, dear?" she said, hurriedly shaking hands with louise in order to obey her mother's command. "bella! come to me at once!" mrs. peyton croaked with cutting, unconscionable rudeness, seizing her daughter by the arm and incontinently marching her off. louise, crimsoning, took the stab without a word. "the tabby!" broke out laura, her eyes flashing with indignation. "gracious heaven, is it any wonder that men privately sneer at the way women treat each other? don't you mind the shocking old cat, louise; she'll tear herself to pieces with her own claws some day;" and laura was unusually tender and kind in her treatment of louise for the remainder of the afternoon. but, after that encounter, louise learned to avoid meeting her school friends when, as occasionally happened, she saw them before they caught sight of her. she felt that they all "knew" or "would know," and she did not elect to take chances on additional snubs. her first formal meeting with judd had been a trial. it had been an accidental encounter, happening about a week after louise's return from school, and at a time when mrs. treharne was in more than one mind as to whether she would permit louise to meet judd at all. mrs. treharne and judd were stepping out of the huge yellow car at the close of their late afternoon ride just at the moment when louise, alone, was returning in laura's car. their meeting on the pavement was inevitable. for a moment louise hoped that her mother would permit her to lag behind on pretense of returning to laura's car to find some imaginary forgotten article; but mrs. treharne, suddenly deciding that the meeting had best be over with, since no way of avoiding it, sooner or later, had suggested itself, called to her; and louise, very beautiful with her cold-ruddied cheeks nimbussed by her breeze-blown hair of bronze, walked erect to where her mother stood with the bulky, red-eyed judd, who regarded louise with a stare of disconcerting admiration. "my dear louise," said mrs. treharne, obviously quelling a certain tremulousness in her tone, "permit me to present mr. judd; mr. judd, my daughter louise." judd, his mouth still unpleasantly agape, started the preliminary gesture toward extending his hand. but he made no further progress with the hand, for he was quick to notice that louise, at that very instant, was inserting her loose right hand in her muff. louise bowed and then returned to laura's car in quest of the imaginary article; she desired to give judd time to resume his place in his car before she joined her mother on the steps. "demmed handsome, that daughter of yours," judd commented on louise to mrs. treharne when he saw her the next afternoon, "but--er--uppish, what?" "i can dispense with your generalities on that subject," mrs. treharne had replied. after that louise had met judd casually in the wide, fire-lit down-stairs hall on two or three occasions, and once at the only one of her mother's extraordinary sunday night receptions--the "salon" which at once provoked and amused laura--which she attended; but she had exchanged no word with him. she was not lacking in diplomacy, but there were some stultifications that she found to be wholly beyond her; and she was conscious of a certain previously unexperienced difficulty with her neck when she even inclined her head to judd. * * * * * "would you care to meet some of my sunday night people, louise?" her mother had asked her. "i dare say laura has told you they are freaks. perhaps some of them are. but there are clever ones among them, and one must take the gifted with the mediocre. it would not harm you to meet a few of them. they are not wicked. they only think they are; some of them, that is. their wickedness is an amiable abstraction. shall you be down?" it was on a sunday morning, in louise's apartments, that mrs. treharne made the suggestion. louise was conscious of the need of a laugh, even if it were a politely smothered one; and laura had comically depicted her mother's "salon" to her. she told her mother that she had been waiting for that invitation, which caused mrs. treharne to glance sharply at her to ascertain if louise already had adopted laura's point of view as to the sunday evening gatherings. "do you entertain your people yourself, mother, or is there a--" louise stumbled on the word "host." but her mother was quick to catch her meaning. "i should not ask you down, else, my dear--you should credit me that far," she had replied, a tinge of reproach in her tone. and so, an hour or so after dinner on sunday night, louise, willowy yet full-blossomed and splendid in a simple princesse dress of white broadcloth, a gardenia nestling in an embrasure of her velvety auburn hair, and a tiny-linked chain of gold, with aquamarine pendants--a gift from laura--around her firm white neck, went, for the first time since she had been in the house, to the already crowded main floor. louise, in her inexperience, could not know that the gathering really was little less than an apotheosis of the _declasée_; she merely found some of the people agreeable, others of them unconsciously naïve in their ebullient enthusiasm over their imaginary achievements or accomplishments, still others frankly laughable for their indurated habit of self laudation. it was in the main, so far as its social side went, an assemblage of persons, men and women, who, thrust outside the genuine social breastworks for various and more or less highly-tinctured lapses, thus foregathered in response to an instinct of gregariousness--an instinct around which the "birds of a feather" aphorism no doubt was framed. having no choice in the matter, these persons were willing to accept the shadow for the reality. it might almost be said that on every uptown square of new york there is at least one common meeting point for similar assemblages of social exiles. nearly all of the figurantes in mrs. treharne's sunday evening affairs were _divorcées_ of more or less note; the "cases" of some of whom had been blazoned in huge red block type in the yellow newspapers, and "illustrated," in default of genuine portraits, with blurred "cuts" of no less benevolent or redoubtable females than the late mrs. pinkham or carrie nation. the men in the company who had not already rocketed through the divorce court were willing, it appeared from their frank method of expressing themselves, to make that by no means perilous passage; though there was a sprinkling of younger men, still factors in a social world from which there are no voluntary expatriates, who attended mrs. treharne's sunday evening affairs in a spirit of larkishness and glad of the chance to forsake, for a little while, regions more austere and still under the domination of at least a tacit repression. for the rest, there were poetasters who fidgetted until they were called upon, out of pure sympathy, to read their own verse--some of the latter obviously "lifted;" temperamental musicians, male and female, who preferred to sway at or with their instruments with the rooms darkened while they performed; manufacturers and proselytizers of personally-conducted and generally quite unintelligible cults, physical, moral or ethical, all of the cults extending a maximum of "freedom of action" to the individual; devisers of impromptu or extemporaneous religions or near-religions, none of which boasted so inconvenient a restriction as a decalogue; fashionable or striving-to-be-fashionable palmists and chiromancers, "swamis," "yogis;" burnoosed, sullen, white-robed exploiters, from the near or far east, of women who mistook their advanced symptoms of neuresthenia for a hankering for the occult; and the other unclassified, sycophantic factors of a "bohemianism" whose seams were perfectly visible to the naked eye and whose sawdust was only held in place with the all-together co-operation of the whole artificial assemblage. louise's entrance upon the scene created a stir which caused her to feel distinctly uncomfortable. she longed for laura; but laura had "sworn off" attending mrs. treharne's sunday evening parties; not from any selfish motives of caution--for laura was in keen demand in the social circle in which she had been born and reared; but simply because she had at length ceased to extract amusement from the self-idolizing vagaries of mrs. treharne's crew; more briefly still, because they bored her to extinction. when the word was buzzed around among the slowly-moving, chattering assemblage to whom the entire lower floor of the house, including the conservatory, had been thrown open--that "the tall girl with the air and the hair" was mrs. treharne's daughter--the more privileged ones adverted to their hostess as tony--there was a sudden cluttering of the passageways leading to the room in which louise was standing with her mother. in their keenness to catch a glimpse of the "just-bloomed daughter of tony" many of them even forsook the long and generously-provided buffet, than which no greater sign of a consuming interest or curiosity could be given; for not a few of the raffish guests appeared to be so patently in need of nourishment--and stimulant--that they spent the major portion of the evening at the buffet. a woman whose vision seemed to be slightly filmed from her inordinate devotion to the punch lifted her glass, after studying louise in a sort of open-mouthed daze for a moment or so, and sang out, in a tone that she apparently had some difficulty in controlling: "to tony's daughter--the empress louise!" the men and women in her neighborhood grabbed for glasses to fill from the punchbowls and took up the refrain: "the empress louise!" louise felt the blood swirling to her head, but she braced herself to stand the volleying of eyes. her mother was intensely annoyed and made not the least effort to conceal her annoyance. when the incident had been merged in a diversion afforded by a recitation of a portuguese madrigal in another room by a man with unkempt hair and untidy fingernails, mrs. treharne glided away from louise's side for a moment and found the woman who had proposed the toast. she was still absorbedly busy at the buffet. "you are to leave at once, ethel," she said in a low but determined tone to the toast-proposer, a woman whose divorce story in the newspapers had been remarkable for the detailed account of liquid refreshments she had consumed up and down the world, at foreign hotels and on board yachts, for a number of years at a stretch. "i shall never forgive you if you make another scene here." "all right, tony," the woman replied, with a vacuous smile. "not angry at me, are you, for wishing luck to your little girl--your big girl, i mean; she _is_ an empress, you know, and--" mrs. treharne guided her to the cloak room and stayed by her side until she bade her goodnight at the door. louise, in the meantime, had been approached by a man whose eyes, she had noticed with a certain vague disquietude, had been following her about since her entrance upon the scene. he was a handsome man of the florid type, with a sweeping blonde mustache and oddly-restless light brown eyes in which louise, catching him devouring her with his gaze at frequent intervals, nervously thought that she detected certain felinely-topaz glints. he was tall and a trifle over-heavy; but there was a certain slow-moving, easy air of adventitious distinction about him which might have been in part lent by the immaculateness of his evening clothes and his facile way of disposing of his hands without requiring any article to give them employment; an art in which even practiced courtiers and carpet knights occasionally are deficient. louise did not like his face; she observed, when she saw, not without a certain vague trepidation, that he was approaching her, that his over-red and over-full lips, from which the sweeping mustache was brushed away, were curved in a sort of habitual sneer which by no stretch of charity could be called a smile; though that, no doubt, was the desired intent of it. he bowed low, keeping his eyes upraised on louise's face, when he reached her side, and said: "miss treharne?" louise, used to more formal methods of meeting new men, inclined her head. "you will condone, i hope, miss treharne, my seeming breach of formality in presuming to address you without a presentation," he said, even his intensified smile failing to efface the sneering curve from his too visible lips. "but your mother is generous enough to permit her guests at times--on such occasions as these, for example--to forego formality. i have been ineffectually trying to reach her for an hour in order to--" "in order to ask me to do that which you have already done," said mrs. treharne, with quite unusual affability, coming up at that moment and catching his final words. "louise, dear, permit me--mr. langdon jesse. don't expect her to know, mr. jesse, that you are a cotton king. i doubt if her routine at school permitted her to read the newspapers, even if they interested her; which i sincerely hope they did not and will not." louise had not often seen her mother in so gracious a humor toward any man; but this fact did not in any sense serve to quell the instinctive dislike which she immediately felt for jesse, the "cotton king" of her mother's somewhat too purposely-significant introduction. she noticed that his hands were small and obtrusively white; that there was a wave in his burnished blonde hair; that his large clear-cut features were of a chiselled regularity; and her natural aversion to the merely handsome man promptly asserted itself. the sneer of his mouth, and his fixed way of gazing squarely into her eyes as if his own eyes were forming a question, disquieted her. she replied in purposed monosyllables to his rather trivial yet studied questions about her school life. she knew perfectly well that he was in no wise interested in her school life, but that he merely was seeking what he considered might be the most engaging method of capturing her attention. five minutes after his meeting with her she devised an excuse and went to her apartments. she threw her windows wide and let the wintry air bulge the curtains when she reached her sleeping room; perhaps it was her subconsciousness that told her that she needed some such a bath of purifying air to obliterate what intangible traces there might remain of her brief contact with langdon jesse. that night she dreamt persistently of a leopard with large, blazing eyes of topaz; and an hour after she awoke a large basket of superb orchids, with langdon jesse's card attached, was brought to her. laura was with her at the time. "from langdon jesse?" said laura, knitting her brow. "did you meet him last night, louise?" "yes. i disliked him intensely." "if i were you, dear," suggested laura, "i should send these orchids to a hospital. they can of course have no sinister effect upon those who have not met their donor. but i should be afraid to have you keep any flowers sent you by langdon jesse. they might poison the air. the bald impudence of him in sending you flowers at all!" a footman was carrying the orchids to a nearby hospital five minutes later. chapter v langdon jesse and his one-time associate and co-partner in lamb-shearing "deals," frederick judd, met at luncheon in a restaurant in the financial district a few days later. judd, one of the powers of "the street," was past fifty-five, and he had no great toleration for the vacuities of young men. this fact, however, placed no inhibition on the admiration--it could scarcely be called a liking--which he felt for langdon jesse; for jesse, whatever else he may have been, certainly was not vacuous in the matter of business; and it was from the angle of their success in business that judd exclusively judged men. jesse, well under forty, already was a veteran of the stock market; and on at least one occasion he had deftly "trimmed" no less a person than his former associate, mr. judd; wherefore judd, with the breadth of vision of the financial general in considering the strategy of the general who has beaten him, admired jesse, who had been virtually his pupil, all the more; resolving, at the same time, not to permit his quondam pupil to "trim" him again. jesse, accepting the nodded invitation, took a seat at the table at which judd, alone, was eating his heavy luncheon. they exchanged market talk in brief, brittle phrases, for a while. then jesse, his too-prominent lips curving, and seeming to be gazing over the top of judd's bare poll, said: "sumptious, isn't she?" judd, used to jesse's adversions to the sumptuosity of women--many women--went on doggedly eating. after a space he replied with a monosyllable: "who?" jesse did not answer for a moment; nor did judd seem to be particularly worried over that fact. "i dropped into your--er--your place on the drive on sunday night," said jesse, fastening an abnormally long cigarette into a remarkably long cigarette holder of amber and gold. judd, his fork poised in the air, looked up at jesse. there was a question in his red-rimmed eyes; but judd made it a point not to submit questions of any consequence until he had turned them over in his mind several times. "so i heard," said judd, with no obvious interest, pronging away again with his fork. "who told you," asked jesse, with a sharp glance at judd. "not----" "how the devil should i remember who told me?" replied judd in a matter-of-fact tone. "what's the difference who told me, anyhow?" but it made considerable difference, as a matter of fact, to jesse; his self-satisfaction and his serene belief in his ability to make an immediate "impression" were very great; and when judd told him he had "heard" he had been at the riverside drive house he took it for granted that judd had "heard" it from the person on whom his thoughts were dwelling; louise treharne, that is to say. "oh, no particular difference," said jesse, blowing a cloud of acrid turkish cigarette smoke at judd, which caused judd to scowl. "i thought perhaps----" judd knew perfectly well what he thought; but judd often failed even to mention things that he knew perfectly well. "you take in those bear-garden affairs at tony's--at mrs. treharne's," catching himself, "right along, don't you?" said judd. "how the devil you can endure that pack of imbecile, loquacious what-are-theys is more than i can make out. one of those sundays nights cured me." jesse, however, had not the least intention of being side-tracked. "well, she is--er--well, ripping; isn't she?" he said, after a pause. judd, perceiving the futility of evasion, gave way. "yes--if that's what you want me to say--and all ice, besides," said judd. "you're up against it there, son," he went on, judicially. "or are you looking for a death by freezing? why, i'm afraid that she's going to fracture one of her upper vertebrae even when she nods to me! and that's all the recognition she ever gives me--a nod." "she doesn't strike me as being so hopelessly arctic as all that," said jesse, inordinately proud of what he considered his keen judgment of women. "did you ever happen to meet a woman with auburn hair who possessed a--er--a frozen or freezing temperament? and, by the way, why do you dwell upon her rigidity, so to speak, when she nods 'even to you?' why 'even to you?'" judd, a little choler showing in his purpling face, broke out: "because a man naturally expects a little manners, a little common politeness, from people he's taking care of, doesn't he? she's living in my house, by god!" "that," said jesse, quietly, "is precisely what i am getting at: since she is living in your house--if she knows it is your house--she can't be so--er--well, stupendously straight-laced, can she? and, by frozen, of course you meant straight-laced." "i meant exactly what i said," replied judd, sulkily. "stop twisting my words around, will you? i said that she was ice, and that is what i meant to say. you're on a blind trail, jesse, if that's what you're getting at. take it from me. you're a hit with 'em, i know, and all that sort of rot. but this one is more than your match. she'll shrivel you good and plenty if you try anything on with her. at that, why can't you let her alone? there are plenty of the other kind--your kind. what's the matter, anyhow? have all the show girls moved out of new york?" jesse didn't relish the slap. it was not exactly a truthful slap, moreover. jesse had withdrawn his devotions to "show girls" several years before; since doing which he had quarried in entirely different quarters. "let the girl alone--that's my advice," went on judd, seized for the moment by a flickering sense of fairness. "i don't fancy her particularly--because she's so damned haughty with me, i suppose, and looks down upon me from a mountain. but she's all right. i know that, and i'm telling it to you for your information. better forget it. there isn't a chance on earth for you, anyhow." jesse didn't appear to be in the least thrown off the quest by the advice. "are you sure," he inquired of judd after a short silence, "that she knows just where you figure in the riverside drive establishment?" "well, you could see for yourself that she is more than seven years of age, couldn't you?" briefly replied judd. "but," observed jesse, obviously seeking to get hold of all of the threads of the situation, "she is only recently out of school, i understand, and perhaps she hasn't yet fully grasped----" "i don't know what she has grasped, and i don't care a damn," thrust in judd, tired of the colloquy. "she must know a good deal about the way things stand or she wouldn't treat me as if i were rubbish. i can see how i stick in her throat. when it comes to that, why shouldn't i? she's only a schoolgirl, if she is a head taller than i am. her mother made an idiotic mistake in having the girl around the place. but that's none of my affair. i take the game as it stands. only i advise you to stand clear. you might as well be decent for once in your life. unless, of course," and judd shot a glance of inquiry at jesse, "you mean to turn respectable--it's about time--and go in for the marrying idea?" jesse's somewhat waxy, excessively smooth face flushed at judd's afterthought. "i marry?" he said, with a distinctly disagreeable laugh. "well, it may come to that, some day or other. but can you see me marrying the daughter of your acknowledged----" he fumbled for the word; "mistress" was what he wanted to say, but he discarded it out of sheer timidity; "--your acknowledged companion?" he finished. "be good enough to keep out of my personal affairs, jesse," said judd, coldly. "i don't dip into your private concerns. you may take my advice or leave it. but you want to go pretty slow, if you're asking me. nobody has yet forgotten that west indian affair of yours; just remember that." with judd, one shot called for another. jesse gave a start and paled slightly at judd's allusion to "the west indian affair." judd waited only long enough to see that the shot found its mark; then, with an amused leer, he rose from the table, his luncheon finished, and lumbered away with a nod. jesse, discarding his cigarette, bit off the end of a cigar and fumed. the "west indian affair" was a sore subject with him solely because the world knew all about it. he had not the least feeling of self-condemnation over it; it was the thought that, for once, he had been found out that caused him to rage internally when the matter was adverted to; for the newspapers had been full of it at the time of the occurrence. "the west indian affair," jesse well knew, had not been forgotten, as judd had said, nor was it likely to be forgotten. it threw a raking light upon his general attitude toward and his treatment of women. a year before, after one of his periodical triumphs in the cotton market, in which, to quote the newspapers' way of putting it, he had "cleaned up millions," jesse had made a midwinter cruise of the west indies on his yacht. a girl of unusual beauty, whom he had met by accident on an automobile tour on long island, had been his companion on the cruise. she was inexperienced, of humble parentage, and he had overborne her objections by vaguely intimating something as to a marriage when they should arrive in the west indies. she had protested when, upon the yacht's touching at many ports, he had of course shown not the least inclination to make good his merely intimated promise; and, in his wrath over her attitude, he had not only committed the indefensible crime, but he had made the stupendous mistake, viewed from the politic point of view, of deserting the girl in a west indian city, without money or resources, without even her clothing, and sailing back to new york alone. the girl, thus stranded amid new and unfriendly surroundings, had but one resource--the american consul. the consul provided for her passage back to new york. the correspondents of the new york newspapers in the west indian city had got hold of the details, adding a few neatly whimsical touches of their own, and for days the newspapers had reeked with the story. there had been talk of prosecuting jesse for abduction, but he had employed the underground method, rendered easily available to him owing to his wealth, to smother that suggestion. but the grisly affair had thrown a cloud over jesse from which he knew, raging as he knew it, there was no emerging. several of his clubs--the good ones--had dropped him; men and women of the world to which he aspired, and in which he had been making progress, cut him right and left; his name had been erased from most of the worth-while invitation lists; and the hole in his armor was wide open to the shafts of the kind judd had just discharged at him. jesse sat at the table and gnawed angrily at his unlighted cigar for a long time after judd had gone; it was characteristic of him that his compunction was all for himself. he had been found out and pilloried. that was what cut him. he never gave a thought to the young woman whose life he had destroyed. jesse had been instantly struck by the beauty of louise treharne. he surmised that it was through no complaisance on her part, but purely because she had been helpless in the matter, that she had found herself living with her ostracised mother in the house on the drive. that situation, he was confident, had been thrust upon her. but this consideration, and the additional one that she was, as he could not have failed to note, nobly undergoing the ordeal, which might have aroused the admiration and excited the sympathy of a man of merely average fairness, had touched no compassionate chord in langdon jesse. adopting the trivial and far-fetched methods of analysis which are employed by men who consider themselves expert in their knowledge of women, he had calmly concluded that in all likelihood louise treharne's manner was a skillfully-studied pose. at any rate he meant to find out. he meant to "know her better." it was thus that his determination framed itself in his mind; he would "know her better." in gaining the attention of women, he believed in the gentle siege and then the grand assault; it was, in truth, the only "system" with which he had any familiarity, and it had generally proved successful. jesse returned to his office, summoned his car, went to his suite at the plaza, gave himself over to the grooming activities of his man for an hour; then, resuming his car, he went to the house on riverside drive. * * * * * louise, in brown walking suit and brown turban, her cheeks ruddy from a long and rapid walk from one end of the park to the other, had just returned when jesse's card was brought up. she was studying the card, trying to devise an excuse--for she shrank from the thought of seeing him--when her mother, ready for her motor airing, entered the room. "i just caught sight of mr. jesse's car from my window," said mrs. treharne to louise. louise observed that her mother was in the same fluttered state that she had been in when she had found jesse talking to her on the previous sunday night. "he has sent his card to you? of course you are going to see him?" "i think i shall not see him, mother," said louise, ringing for heloise with the purpose of sending word that she was indisposed, not at home--anything. mrs. treharne looked annoyed and there was irritation in her question: "why not, my dear?" "i don't care for him, mother," said louise, frankly. "in fact, i believe i rather dislike him. do you think he is the sort of man i should meet?" louise was intensely disappointed that her mother should care to have her meet jesse. she tried to assure herself that her mother did not know or realize the character of the man as she herself had heard it briefly described by laura; but she found that a bit difficult to believe. "tell me, please, louise, why you ask me such a question as that," said mrs. treharne, irritatedly. "what do you know about mr. jesse? who has been telling you things about him?" louise, remaining silent, plainly showed that she did not care to answer her mother's question. "it was laura, no doubt," went on mrs. treharne. "laura, i begin to fear, is growing garrulous. you must not permit her to put absurd ideas into your head, my dear. i must speak to her about it." "pray do not, mother," said louise, earnestly. "she is one of the dearest women in the world, and everything that she tells me, i know, is not only perfectly true, but for my good. it is not anything said to me by laura that makes me dislike the idea of receiving mr. jesse. it is simply that i don't like him. there is a boldness, an effrontery, a cynicism, about him that make me distrust him. i don't care for his type of man. that is all." "you must not fall into the habit of forming sudden prejudices, my dear," said her mother, diplomatically assuming an air of grave persuasiveness. "mr. jesse no doubt has had his fling at life. what worth-while man of his age hasn't? but he is a man of mark. he has made his way as few men have. of course you found him handsome, _distingué_? most women do, my dear. and i could see that he was greatly struck with you. you will soon be twenty, louise; and mr. jesse, perhaps i should remind you, is a great _parti_." louise felt herself crimsoning. her mother did know jesse's record, then. that was manifest from her words. and yet she was calmly exalting him as an "eligible!" the girl so shrank from having any further conversation with her mother on the subject just then that she turned to her and said: "i would not see him of my own volition, mother; but if you very much wish it, i shall see him." "for heaven's sake, louise, don't look so terribly austere and crushed over it!" broke out mrs. treharne. "the man will not kidnap you! i very much wish that you should be sensible and receive eligible men, of course. isn't that a perfectly natural wish?" louise, without another word, not stopping to remove her turban or even glance in the glass, went down-stairs to receive jesse. her mother fluttered past the drawing-room door a moment later, merely stopping for a word of over-effusive greeting to jesse before joining the waiting judd in his car. jesse, whether by accident or from foreknowledge, had timed his visit well. he was quite alone on the floor with louise treharne. she caught the gleam of his upraised eyes and noted the bold persistence of the question in them when, still in his fur overcoat, he turned from the contemplation of a picture to greet her. "ah," he said with an attempt at airiness, slipping out of the overcoat and extending his hand, "our empress already has been out?" glancing at her turban and her wind-freshened cheeks. "that is unfortunate. i was about to place my car at her disposal----" he withdrew his hand, not seeming to notice that louise had failed to see it. "yes, i have been walking," put in louise, in no wise stiffly, but with an air of preoccupied withdrawal which she genuinely felt. "as to what you call me, i believe i should prefer to be known by my name." jesse, remembering what judd had said as to the likelihood of his being frozen or shrivelled, laughed inwardly. he rather enjoyed being rebuffed by women--at first. it made the game keener. none of them, he remembered now with complaisancy, continued to rebuff him for very long. "pardon me, miss treharne," he said, with a certain languishing air which louise found even more offensive than his initial familiarity. "i thought, when the title was so spontaneously applied to you on sunday night, that perhaps you found it agreeable. but it is difficult to gauge--women." he dwelt upon the word "women," thinking that, considering how recently she had left school, it might flatter her. louise chose to talk commonplaces. her bed-rock genuineness made it impossible for her to affect an interest in a visitor which she did not feel. and her lack of interest in jesse was complicated by her growing dislike for him. "i am doubly disappointed," said jesse after a pause which he did not find embarrassing. nothing embarrassed jesse when he had his mind definitely set upon a purpose. "first, i had hoped, as i say, that, not having been out, you would honor me by accepting the use of my car. second, i am desolated because you are wearing a hat. i had been promising myself another glimpse of your superb hair. is it _banal_ to put it that way? i am afraid so. but consider the temptation! was it aspasia or cleopatra whose hair was of the glorious shade of yours--or both?" "mr. jesse," said louise, now quite _dégagé_, facing him squarely and speaking with the greatest deliberation, "i seem to find, from my two limited conversations with you, that you are suffering under some sort of a misapprehension as to me. you will discover that yourself, i think, if you will take the trouble to recur to several things you already have said to me after an acquaintanceship, all told, of perhaps ten minutes. suppose we seek a less personal plane? i am too familiar with my hair to care to have it made a subject of extended remarks on the part of men whom i scarcely know. there are less pointed themes. permit me to suggest that we occupy ourselves in finding them." "by god, a broadside!" said jesse to himself, not in the least abashed; his admiration always grew for women who trounced him--at first. "i didn't think she had it in her! and judd, the fat imbecile, called her an iceberg! she is a volcano!" aloud, he said, with a neatly-assumed air of subjection and penitence: "well delivered, miss treharne. but i merit it. i have made the error of supposing--" "that my comparatively recent return from school, and the open-mindedness naturally associated with that," louise quietly interrupted, "made me a fair target for your somewhat labored and not particularly apt compliments. yes, you erred decisively there." "again!" thought jesse, bubbling with finely-concealed delight. "she _is_ an empress right enough, whether she likes to be called that or not! what a prize!" aloud, he said with an air of chastened gravity: "you do me scant justice there, miss treharne, but that is easily passed, seeing how chagrinedly conscious i am that i deserved your rebuke in the first instance. you are fond of motoring?" changing the subject with no great deftness. "no," replied louise, sufficiently out of hand. "i don't in the least care for it." the conversation was irksome to her and she would not pretend that it was not. "i inquired," said jesse, looking chapfallen though he did not in the least feel so, "because i had been hoping you might do me the honor to accept the use--the steady use--of one of my cars. i have several," this last with an ostentation that rather sickened louise. but she could not allow the carefully veiled suggestion in his words to pass. "mr. jesse," she said, reverting to her tone of deliberation and again gazing straight at him, "aside from the fact that, as i have told you, i don't in the least care for motoring, will you be good enough to suggest to me just one fairly intelligible reason why i should accept your proffer of the use--'the steady use'--of one of your cars? it may be that you will have some reason to offer for what, otherwise, i should deem a distinct impertinence." jesse's eyes gleamed with the joy of it. "what a prize!" he thought again. "i seem, miss treharne," he said with a laugh which he purposely made uneasy, "to be stumbling upon one blunder after another. there is no reason for my having offered you the use of one of my cars--and i hasten to withdraw the offer, since it seems to offend you--other than my friendship of long standing with your mother and my desire--my hope, i was about to say--that you, too, might consider me worthy of your friendship." it was rather adroitly turned, but it completely missed fire. "i don't seem to recall that it is necessary for one to adopt one's mother's friends as one's own," said louise, without the least hesitancy. his assumption of an easily-penetrated ingratiating manner had thoroughly disgusted her; she wanted him to take his departure; and she chose the most straightout means to that end. there was no possible way for her to know that jesse enjoyed the early taunts of some women much as he relished the cocktails with which he preceded his dinners, and for very much the same reason--they were appetizers. he rose with an air of irresolution which he was far from feeling. "i fear," he said, resignedly, "that something has happened--or perhaps that something has been said--to predispose or prejudice you against me, miss treharne. it is a conclusion to which i am driven." he paused, then faced her with an appearance of frankness which he was adept at assuming. "miss treharne," he went on, cleverly adopting a tone with a tremolo note in it, "you will grant, i think, that men--men, that is to say, who cut any sort of figure in affairs"--a flourish here--"often are misjudged. without in the least desiring to pose as one who has been a victim of such misjudgment, i feel, nevertheless----" here he stopped, having carefully calculated his stopping point, and, with impulsively extended hands, he went on with a beautifully acted semblance of real feeling: "miss treharne, i merely ask you to give me a chance to prove myself; a chance at least to wear the candidate's stripes for your friendship." despite her youthfulness and her utter inexperience with men of jesse's type, louise, aided by an unusually subtle intuition, and mindful of what she had heard of jesse, caught the hollow ring in his tone, detected the false shifty light in his now furtive, eager eyes. she rose. "you are quite overpoweringly in earnest over what seems to me a very trivial matter, mr. jesse," she said with a little laugh that sounded harsh even to her own ears. "you gravely underestimate the value of your friendship in calling it trivial, miss treharne," said jesse, rising also; for at length he was ready to accept the dismissal which a less thick-skinned man, even of his type, would have taken long before. "i have not been in the habit of placing any sort of an appraisal upon the value of my friendship," she replied, succinctly. he thrust his arms into the sleeves of his greatcoat of fur and strolled, with a downcast air, to the drawing-room door. "this is not your normal mood, miss treharne," he said, turning upon her a smile that he meant to be wan. "you see what unresentful justice i do you. there are to be other days. i shall find you in a humor less inclined to magnify my candidly professed demerits. i hope to have an opportunity to prove to you that i have at least a few merits to balance the faults." the hint was sufficiently broad, but louise appeared to be momentarily obtuse. at any rate she did not extend the invitation he too patently fished for. her reticence in that respect, however, did not in the least abash jesse. "at least i have the cheering knowledge that this door is open to me," he said, entering the foyer on his way out. "have i not?" unavailingly louise strove to steady herself in order to thrust back the color which she felt mounting to her face. "it is not my door," she said in a low tone; and instantly was keenly sorry for having said it. "oh, i quite understand that," he said, with an air of lightness, though at the moment he did not dare to turn and look at her. "but it is all the same, since it is your mother's, is it not?" she made no reply. she felt that she deserved the barb for having given him the opportunity to discharge it. he bowed low, essayed the smile that he considered his most engaging one, and went out to his waiting car. for the second time after having been in the presence of langdon jesse, louise went to her rooms and threw all the windows wide; then stood in the wintry eddies and permitted the cold, sweet air to enwrap and purify her. * * * * * when mrs. treharne, after leaving louise and jesse together, stepped into the car with judd, she found that adipose man of finance chuckling softly to himself. she deigned not to inquire of him the reason for his chuckling--knowing, of course, that presently he would be volunteering that information himself. "that was jesse's car in front of the house, wasn't it, tony?" he asked her, still chuckling unpleasantly as the car pulled away from the curb. "yes," she replied, alert of a sudden, but disdaining to appear so. "jesse is calling to see--er--your daughter, eh?" judd asked, continuing his rumbling manifestations of joviality. "he is," replied mrs. treharne, carefully screening her impatience to catch judd's drift. "but i fail to see why that fact should incite you to give vent to such a harrowing series of low comedy chuckles." "quite so, quite so, my dear antoinette," said judd, soothingly, but not in the least diminishing his choppy cachinnatory performance. mrs. treharne, with an air of disgust which merely screened her worried curiosity, permitted him to continue for a while. then she said, with an air of gravity intended to drag him back to his naturally sullen state, but assumed also for the purpose of sounding him: "jesse was plainly struck with louise on sunday night last. her position now, of course, is hideous. jesse may be the solution." judd straightened himself in his seat and suddenly stopped chuckling. then he glanced with quizzical keenness out of slitted eyes at his companion. "meaning, i suppose," he said, "that you have an idea that jesse might take it into his head to marry her?" "what else could i mean?" she asked him huskily. "quite so, quite so, my dear antoinette," said judd, leaning back in his seat again. "of course. certainly. i fully understand you," and he closed his eyes as if about to lapse into a refreshing nap. mrs. treharne, distinctly wrought up, grasped one of the lapels of his seal-lined greatcoat and shook him determinedly. "be good enough to explain to me, and at once, precisely what you mean," she said rapidly, a growing hoarseness in her tone. judd, for his part, promptly relapsed into his chuckling. "it is nothing, my dear--nothing at all, i assure you," he said, between wheezes. "only it strikes me as rather diverting that anybody should consider jesse in the light of a matrimonial eligible. when, by the way, did you gather the idea that jesse was a marrying man? since that--er--somewhat widely-exploited little affair of his in the west indies last year? or more recently?" judd generally won in the little skirmishes they had in the motor car. the fact that he had won again was plainly indicated by the fact that she remained silent for the remainder of the ride. chapter vi louise, still bound by the discipline of school, was not a late sleeper. as early as seven o'clock on the morning following langdon jesse's call she was lying awake, striving to dispel, by the process of optimistic reasoning, the sinister nimbus that seemed to be enshrouding her, when the telephone bell in her dressing room began to ring persistently. louise sprang up to answer the call. "i know it is a barbarous hour, dear," laura's cheerful contralto came over the wire, "but i've just been aroused from my juvenile slumbers by the telephone, and of course i must have revenge upon somebody. listen, dear: i know that it only takes you about fifteen minutes to dress--of course you are not dressed yet? well, begin this instant. put on something for tramping and fussing around in the country. you must be over here by eight o'clock. we are going to have a romping day in the country. now, hurry, won't you?" "just you and i, laura?" asked louise, delighted. a day in the country! open fields to dispel vapors! the thought of it made her eager and excited. "no, there'll be another," replied laura. "i disregard the axiom, you know, that 'three is a crowd.' three needn't be a crowd if one of the three has a little tact and--and the knack of opportunely vanishing," and louise heard her soft laughter. "a man i know has what he calls a little tumbledown place, with some ground around it, over in jersey. he calls it sullen manor, because he says he always goes over there, in preference to all other places, when he feels the imperative need to sulk. now, there is not another moment to be wasted in 'phoning. start to dress this very instant! will you solemnly promise me to be here on the stroke of eight? very well. i shall be waiting. goodbye." louise, "very trig and complete," as laura remarked, in a suit of grey with a matching fur-trimmed grey toque, was with the astonished laura a good quarter of an hour before eight. "heaven knows how you do it," said laura, still in the hands of her maid. "go into the dining-room and have some coffee, dear. i shall be with you directly." louise, humming happily at the thought of the care-free day ahead of her, sped into the bright dining room. john blythe, sipping coffee at the table, rose to meet her. he looked fine and upstanding in his fresh, rough tweeds, his close-shaven face ruddy and his clear grey eyes showing an agate sparkle from the brisk walk to laura's apartment from his own. louise halted abruptly in her astonishment when she saw him. but she was extremely glad to see him and said so frankly, resting her hand in his muscular but gentle clasp for a moment. "laura packed me off here to take some coffee," she said. "does she know you are here? and how early you are abroad in the world. we are stirring about at this sunrise hour because we are going for a day in the country--and i am mad to get there! in my previous incarnation i must have been a milkmaid, for i dearly love the country." then she added, with a little air of disappointment: "i do wish you were coming with us!" "that," replied blythe, smiling his wide smile as he poured coffee for her, "is precisely what i am going to do." louise, in the act of taking the cup from him, looked into his face with an expression of pleased mystification on her own. "why, what is--how can--" she broke off suddenly and rose from her chair in the intensity of a pleasure which she herself, at that moment, could scarcely have analyzed. "surely," she went on in a lower tone, her face irradiated by a smile which it thrilled him to observe, "surely you are not the man who sulks?" "one of laura's agreeable fictions," he pronounced. "she calls my little place sullen manor, and declares that it is my sulking cave, because i've not had her over there to see it. i've had no chance to ask her until now. do you mean to say she did not tell you that i was the organizer of this expedition?" "the secretive creature did not even hint at such a thing," declared louise, not very successfully pretending to be miffed. "now i call that downright neglect of orders," said blythe, also striving to show a serious face. "i particularly charged laura to tell you who the party of the third part was to be in order that you might have the privilege of refusing to accompany the expedition in case you so desired. a shocking departure from discipline on laura's part." "then it was you," said louise, lighter in spirits than she had been for a long time, "who invited me?" "my dear, don't you know he would say so to you no matter whether it were true or not?" said laura, who had caught louise's question, breezing into the dining-room at that moment. "come on, children. your antique chaperone is impatient to be on her disregarded way. louise, have you had your coffee? and some toast? finish them this instant! even so ascetic and imaginative a person as mr. blythe knows that a girl must have a little breakfast before venturing upon an expedition into the jungles of jersey." laura, perfect in a walking suit of shepherd's plaid and tan walking shoes, had, on this morning, the animation as well as the beauty of a girl. blythe compared the two as they stood side by side, hastily sipping coffee. laura, with her judith-black, glossy hair and fresh, youthful color, and louise with her thick coils of vivid, velvety auburn and glowing ivory pallor--blythe thought, studying them for a moment over the rim of his cup, that he had never seen so splendid a contrast. "_allons!_" laura broke in upon his reflection. "are we to dawdle here until luncheon time? already it is," looking at her watch, "twenty-four seconds past eight!" blythe, slipping into his greatcoat, turned a solemn face upon laura when they had reached the hall, outward-bound. "there is one thing, laura, in connection with this expedition, that i am keenly sorry for," he said, assuming a sepulchral tone. "why, what is that?" asked laura, a little alarmedly, taken off her guard. "well," replied blythe, still solemn, "you'll only be away from here for about fifteen hours, and how are you possibly going to have your apartment completely redecorated, from forepeak to mizzen, alow and aloft, in that space of time?" "tush!" laughed laura. "there will be plenty of time to have the place done over--and it really does sorely need it, now doesn't it?" this with a wistfulness at which blythe and louise laughed, "--when i take louise to europe with me in may--less than three months off." "am i to go to europe with you, dear--really?" asked louise, surprised and pleased; for laura had said nothing about it before. "most assuredly you are," replied laura, entirely in earnest. "if, that is, you can make up your mind to be burdened by the companionship of one so aged." the topic was lost in the excitation of their arranging themselves in laura's car, which was to take them to the ferry. but the thought of it recurred to louise several times during the ride to the ferry. it was an alluring prospect, barring the obstacles. how could she leave her mother, even for a short time, now that she had rejoined her after a separation of years? finally she was able to dismiss such cogitations and yield herself to the enjoyment of the day ahead. it was one of those unseasonably mild days in late february that occasionally "drop in" to point an accusing finger at the harshness of winter. a brilliant sun swam in a cloudless sky, and the soft yet invigorating balminess of late april was, as they noticed when they sped by the park, deluding the buds of tree and hedge into swelling prematurely and even seducing the willows into a vague, timidly displayed elusive green. hardy, pioneering robins, advance couriers sent forth to investigate the senile endurance of winter, hopped about the park sward. school-ward bound boys, out of sight of their homes, were doffing their irksome overcoats, and thrusting them, blanket-wise, at demure little schoolgirls who, in turn, were carrying their stuffy jackets over their arms. motormen and truckmen were smothering yawns that denoted a premature spring fever. business-bound men, going more slowly than usual, glancing occasionally at the sky of sapphire, and feeling on their cheeks gusty little zephyrs from the south, thought of fishing "where the wild stream sings." belated shopgirls, sensing the morning's benign balm as they hurried through crowds, thought of hats and furbelows for the season that, they surmised, was almost upon them. in the ferry-bound automobile, john blythe was thinking about a letter hid in the pocket of his coat and wondering how the person whom the letter most concerned would regard its contents. louise was wondering if her mother would be annoyed over the word she had left with her maid that she would be with laura for the entire day and part of the evening; occasionally she glanced sidelongwise at john blythe, when there was no possibility of his catching her at it, and strove vaguely to analyze the sense of power, mingled with kindliness, which his presence diffused. laura, leaning back, emitting an occasional absurdity, studied them both and wondered, her eyes a little dreamy, if matters ever actually turned out in real life as they did in novels. they stood on the ferryboat's prow, bathing in the sun's relenting glow and blinking at the gold-tipped river crests; and it was only ten o'clock when, after half an hour's ride on the slam-bang little accommodation train, they debarked at the spick-and-span little station, at the side of which blythe's care-taker, a grinning but stolid german, had drawn up a fine and comfortable, if old-fashioned, surrey to which was hitched a pair of glossy, mettlesome sorrels. louise and laura felt like clapping their hands when, after the two-mile drive through woodlands and past neat, well-cared-for little farms the clean, sweet-smelling soil of which already was being turned up, they drove on a firm, natural road through a wide wooden gate and came in sight of the pretty colonial house, with four bright yellow pillars, topped by a balcony of snowy white, with wide-open shutters of an intense green, and a big white double door at the sides of which were little grooved columns surmounted by the inevitable corinthian capitals. the house, fresh and smart in its old-fashioned way, was roomier than it looked from the front. it was divided by a wide hall which ran its entire length on the ground floor; and a wide stairway ran from the hall in front to the second floor, where, after the colonial fashion, the balcony gave upon sleeping rooms. "sullen manor," announced laura, assuming the megaphonic utterance of the sight-seeing car's expounder. "but doesn't it beautifully belie its name and its owner's doldrumish use of it? why, it is as pretty and cheerful as a pigeon-cote snuggling under sifting cherry blossoms! how much ground is there around the place, john?" "twenty acres," replied blythe, smiling a little gravely. "i suppose i know every foot of the twenty acres, too, though i left here--it is where i was born, you know--when i was seven years old. my father lost the place, you see, through bad investments and what not, when i was at that age. we moved to new orleans, and a year later both my father and mother were swept off by yellow fever. i only remember them in a shadowy way. oddly enough, i remember this old place much better than i do my parents; its corners, clumps of trees, and that sort of thing. i had a chance to get the place back a couple of years ago, and i seized it. a good deal of the gear that was here when i was a tyke is still here, stowed in the attic; for the place has not been often occupied since we left it. i've refurnished it in a sort of a way. i hope you'll not find it so bad, laura; but i'm prepared right now to wilt under your superior, and, i might say, your inveterate knowledge of interior decoration." blythe looked a bit self-disdainful over what had been rather a long speech for him, particularly when he observed that louise had been waiting to ask him something. "you will not think me inquisitive, mr. blythe?" she prefaced. "but what you said about the--the carrying away of your people by yellow fever not only touched me but aroused my curiosity. you were only a child then, of course. what did you do then? were you taken in hand by relatives? you are not annoyed because i ask?" "why should i be?" blythe laughed. "particularly when the reply is so simple. i have no relatives--had none then. when my people died i was on the streets. i believe i hold the record yet for the number of _new orleans picayunes_ and _times-democrats_ sold in a given time. whatever else i became later, i certainly was a hustling newsboy. then i came up here and i've been working ever since. my annals, you see, miss treharne, are distinctly dry." "but your education?" louise asked, her eyes alight with an interest which caused laura to smile. "well," said blythe, "there are plenty of people living in princeton yet, i think, who will tell you, if ever you take the pains to inquire, that i was an exceptionally successful furnace-tender, tinker, chore-doer, and all-round roustabout. oh, yes, i forget. i was a persuasive peddler of soap and starch before the lord, too. likewise, i acquired the knack of mending umbrellas. not to overlook the fact that, odd times, i drove a village hack. at princeton, in short, i was virtually everything and anything you can think of except a barber and a policeman. i shied at those two occupations." "and you took your degree?" inquired louise. "just squeezed through," replied blythe. "don't you believe anything of the sort, louise," put in laura. "he was valedictorian of his class, and, worse than that, he played full-back with his eleven, and a sensational full-back too. i ought to know. i am old enough, woe is me, to have been a woman grown the year john blythe contributed a good three-fifths to the tigers' victory over yale." blythe, flushing embarrassedly, was holding up a protesting hand when the surrey drew up in front of the clean, scrubbed porch and the care-taker's wife, a freshly-ginghamed, bright-eyed german woman of middle age, appeared to receive them. then, from around the left side of the house, a terrific yipping began. two hysterically joyous fox terriers, scenting their master, came tearing around the porch and literally leaped upon blythe. then they "side-wheeled" in circles over the lawn, first listing precariously over on starboard legs and then on port, whimpering in their sheer delight as they tore around. a huge angora cat, as they entered the hall, made two bounds of it from the huge fireplace, from which a pair of smouldering logs diffused a red glow that contrasted oddly with the streaming sunlight, to rub her sides, purring almost vociferously as she did so, against blythe's trousers legs. later in the day, she was solemnly to conduct blythe and his guests to the cellar for the purpose of exhibiting a litter which kept the women chained around the basket for nearly an hour. in the lives of most men and women there are days--usually unanticipated days--so encompassed, aureoled, by a memorable happiness that, ever afterward, in hours of retrospection, they mark the beginning or denote the closing of the eventful periods. this was such a day for blythe and louise and laura. they rambled through miles of field and forest, chattering and laughing like children a-berrying; the women's hair blowing free or tumbling down altogether, their skirts caught by brambles, their deadliest fears aroused by the inevitable ruminative cow. they climbed fences, while blythe pretended that something had just dropped out of his pocket back of him. they romped with the dogs, they tossed pebbles at a mark in a garrulous little just-thawed stream, they even sat down on an inviting little mound, beneath an old elm, and played at mumblety-peg with blythe's jack-knife and quarrelled laughingly over the score of the game. when they returned to the house in mid-afternoon, they found the german woman preparing a meal for them. laura and louise insisted upon helping her. in fact, they banished her from the kitchen altogether and did it all themselves. louise announced, her features set rather determinedly, that she was going to make some biscuits, whereupon blythe, asking her if she'd learned that in the cooking class at miss mayhew's school, incontinently fled in well-simulated alarm. but he came back to the spotless kitchen to watch the two women, aproned to the neck, and their arms bared to the shoulders, breeze about with their preparations. he was repaid for his inquisitiveness by being swaddled in an apron and set to peel the potatoes. the meal was an unqualified success, including the biscuits, which, to louise's intense surprise, were superb, although blythe impertinently maintained that the german woman really had made them and that louise had merely heated them over. the light began to fall as they chatted around the table, and blythe, having no great liking for oil lamps, tossed logs on to the dining-room fireplace for the flickering glow of their light. blythe lighted a cigar with his coffee and fell into a silence of content when louise and laura began to hum, very low, snatches of old songs in unison; laura in her deep, moving contralto, with an appealing little "break" in it, and louise in a clear, sweet soprano--she had been the honor girl of her school for her singing. "more," blythe would give the repressed command when they ceased; and they would willingly obey. after a while, darkness having quite fallen, laura went to another part of the house for her after-dinner cigarette. she made it a practice not to take her cigarettes in the presence of quite young women. blythe, silent enough now, and his silence tacitly concurred in by louise, who also had become preoccupied, under the spell of the flickering fire-light and her nearness, alone, to a man who made a strong appeal to her imagination, brought up a deep leather chair before the logs and motioned to louise to take it. but she pulled an old-fashioned three-legged footstool before the fire, and blythe himself had to take the chair. thus they sat silent for a while, listening to the sputtering of the green logs. "louise." it was the first time he had called her that. but she did not even turn her head. she was sitting near him on the low stool, chin in palm, her face illumined by the fire's glow. it was agreeable to hear him call her louise. he knew her father. she had been thinking of her father while she and laura were singing softly. "yes," she said, quietly. "i am to be your guardian, louise. does that please you?" blythe, leaning back in the deep chair, did not take his eyes from the murmuring logs. louise, chin still in palm, turned to look at him calmly. then she gazed back into the fire. "yes," she replied, no surprise in her tone. perhaps, she thought whimsically, the dancing, leaping flames had hypnotized her. but she was not surprised. she was, instead, swept by a surge of deep gladness. "you have a letter from my father?" "two," said blythe. "one of them is for you." she moved her little stool close to his chair and he handed her the packet. the letter for her was under cover of the letter addressed to blythe. louise studied, in the fire's glow, the bold, clear address on the envelope. it was the first time she had ever seen her father's handwriting. her eyes became slightly suffused at that thought. her letter dropped out of the larger envelope. "if you care to, read the one addressed to me first, louise," said blythe. louise, turning a bit the better to catch the fire's glow, read her father's letter addressed to blythe--as far as she could read it. she was nearly at the end when her unshed tears blinded her. blythe's hand, which she then felt, without surprise, softly clasping both of her own as they rested in her lap, felt very cool and soothing to her. after a while, nothing having been said by either, she broke the envelope and read her father's letter to her. it was not a long letter, but it took her a long time to read it; the tears would blot out the words, try as she would to crowd them back. her father's letter to blythe was couched in the tone a man assumes in addressing his lawyer who also is his friend. it bore the postmark of lahaina, island of maui, hawaii--george treharne's sugar plantations were on that island of the hawaiian group. the letter concerned louise wholly. he was tied to his plantations, owing to labor troubles with the japanese, and there was no possibility of his visiting the states for some time. he had been surprised to hear that louise had left school. she was now a woman grown. he had looked forward to the time when, he hoped, she might feel an impulse to come to him. if that time had not yet come he trusted implicitly to blythe to see that she should be properly bestowed, placed in a fitting environment, and shielded from baneful influences. he knew that blythe, the young partner of his old lawyer, now dead, would not fail him in this. he desired that blythe should apply immediately for a court order appointing him his daughter's legal guardian. he inclosed the necessary papers for the accomplishment of that purpose. he was eager to see his daughter, and hoped to see her within a year. in the meantime he confidently committed her to blythe's watchful guardianship. his letter to louise bespoke a deep and solicitous affection. he told her of blythe, adverting to him in terms of praise as a man of exalted honor ("poor father! as if i did not know that," thought louise, when she came to that passage), and beseeching her to follow blythe's advice in all matters in which his large experience would be invaluable to her. he added that he felt that she would not find blythe's suggestions irksome. he inclosed a draft on a honolulu bank for five thousand dollars, which would suffice for her needs until she heard from him again. he hoped to see her within a year. and he was hoping that she would be glad to see her "always-affectionate father, george treharne." at length louise conquered her tears and turned a fire-illumined smile upon blythe. "i am glad," she said simply. "even before you told me, this had been the happiest day of my life. now it is beautiful. i cannot even begin to tell you how beautiful it is." "then i shall apply for the guardianship, louise," said blythe. "i wish i could say how it pleases me to know you are willing that i should." "willing?" said louise. "do you know that, aside from laura, you are the only--" she had been close to saying "friend;" but she could not leave her mother out in that way;--"the only adviser i have?" blythe, glancing from the logs into her eyes as she said that, longed to take her in his arms. laura, at the piano in the music room on the other side of the hall, began softly to play the barcarole from "the tales of hoffmann." they listened for a little while, and then blythe said, smiling gravely: "as your father says, i shall not be, i hope, an exacting guardian. there are many things upon which i shall not touch at all. i shall not affect to believe that you do not know what i mean." "i know," said louise. "your duty is that to which your heart prompts you--i know that," said blythe. "it is not for me, nor for anyone else, to seek to alter your conception of your duty. all that i ask is that you call upon me in your time of need, if that time should ever come; and i hope it never shall. for the rest, nothing is to be changed at my suggestion. the scroll is in your hands, louise. only when you need me--i shall not fail you then." "would it be unworthy," she asked him after a pause, "if i were not to tell my father--just yet--that i am living with my mother?" blythe knew what a hard question that had been for her to ask. "not unworthy, or anything like it, i think," he replied promptly, "when the motive is so pure and fine." impulsively she rose and held out both of her hands and he took them in his. "call laura," she said. "i want to tell her. i want my guardian angel to meet my guardian." laura came into the room as she spoke. she walked over to louise and placed an arm around her. "i knew it, dear," she said to louise. "john told me last night. that is why we are over here. he thought, and i agreed with him, that it would be better to tell you at the close of a happy day. and was there _ever_ such a happy day since the world began?" blythe looked at his watch and whistled. "we've half an hour to make the last new york train tonight, and a two-mile drive to the station," he said. "if we miss the train we'll have to stay here all night." laura gathered up her skirts and raced for her hat, louise after her. "stay here all night!" gasped laura. "you are making a glorious beginning as a guardian, aren't you!" it was past ten o'clock when louise, in laura's car, which had been waiting at the ferry, reached the house on the drive, laura having been dropped at her apartment. the sheer happiness of the day still absorbed her. up to the moment when the car pulled up at the curb she had been going over and over, since parting with blythe and laura, the incidents of the day that had made it such an oasis of happiness. but it all disappeared like a suddenly-vanishing mirage when, upon stepping to the pavement, she saw langdon jesse's car drawn up at the curb. chapter vii jesse's car looming suddenly upon her, instantly dissolved louise's happy absorption and aroused within her the foreboding that she was upon the threshold of something sinister; and the premonition caused her to become physically and mentally tense as she ascended the steps. the impact of the hall's stream of light slightly blinded and confused her as she entered; but she very soon discerned jesse and judd standing before the wide, brassy fireplace. both were in shaggy automobile coats and plainly were about to leave the house. judd, his burnished bald pate mottledly rosy from the heat of the blazing logs, was standing with his back to the fire, his hands thrust in the greatcoat pockets, his heavy under-shot jaw working upon an imaginary cud. jesse, towering over the other man, but his own increasing over-bulkiness made more manifest by his bulging coat of fur, was the first to see louise, who, with an inclination of the head, was for passing them to gain the stairs. neither jesse nor judd intended that this should be. the two had dined together. the blitheness of their humor, therefore, contained also a seasoning of carelessness. without the least movement of his grotesquely-paunched body, judd turned his head sidewise and viewed louise quizzically through his sharp, red-rimmed, oddly small eyes. "evening--er--daughter," he said to her in an experimental but sufficiently matter-of-fact tone. the greeting sounded so incredible that louise, coming to a sudden halt, rested her hands on the back of a chair and stared curiously at him without a word. she felt very cold, in spite of the excessive heat of the hall; but she was amazed quite beyond the power of speech. while thus she stood, staring puzzledly at judd, jesse faced her, and, bringing his heels together with a click, made her a low bow accompanied by a sweeping cross-wise gesture with his cap of fur. it is a dangerous thing for a man to attempt the grand manner unless he is very sure of his practice or at least of the indulgence of his gallery. louise, startled as she was, could not fail to notice the inadequacy of his attempt. "glad i haven't missed you, after all, lou--miss treharne," said jesse, catching himself before he had quite finished addressing her by her first name. his tone was grossly familiar; and louise, merely glancing at him, saw that the question that was always in his eyes when he looked at her now was made more searching and persistent by his potations. "i've been dallying a-purpose. i came to offer you the use of my box for 'pelleas and melisande'--it's being done at the manhattan tonight for the first time here, of course you know. they're repeating it friday night, though. mary garden's a dream in it, they say--she's a dream in any old thing--or hardly anything, when it comes to that," and he laughed boldly at the suggestiveness of the remark. "the box is yours for friday night. may i hope to join----" louise, as he spoke, had been steadying herself to make reply. now she raised a hand for him to desist. the gesture was simple, but he obeyed the implied command. perhaps it was the picture that she made in her anger that warned him. she stood straight, shoulders back, head up, eyes gazing unflinchingly into his; a moving figure of womanly dauntlessness, had there been eyes there thus to appraise her attitude. "mr. jesse," she said in a clear tone, picking her words with a cutting deliberation, "you are not, i have heard, deficient in intelligence. a very short time ago you had the hardihood to proffer me the use of one of your cars. i declined for the same reason that i now repeat in refusing your proffer of the use of your opera box. there is no imaginable reason why i should accept such favors at your hands. i told you that before. and you knew it before i told you. my acquaintanceship with you is merely casual. but, since you force me to it by disregarding what i said before, permit me to say now, explicitly and i hope finally, that i am not conscious of the least desire to become further acquainted with you." judd choked on a gloatful cough. while louise had been speaking he had been grinning malevolently at jesse, the grin saying, as plainly as words: "well, i was right, wasn't i? you're properly shrivelled, aren't you?" jesse smiled chagrinedly and, as he imagined, conciliatingly. but he evaded her direct gaze, and his wholly unconvincing assumption of the grand manner had quite departed. he was not, however, appreciably disturbed. jesse had a habit of discounting such setbacks in advance. the stock market and women required deft manipulation, he considered, and his fame as a manipulator was established. the citadel, finally scaled, would be the more inviting for the difficulty of the besiegement. he entertained no doubts as to the outcome. in the meantime louise could enjoy her schoolgirl heroics. he was not unfamiliar with that sort of thing. but in time they all sensed the glamour of the advantages he so well knew how to dangle before them. these thoughts danced agreeably before jesse's mental vision even at the moment when he felt himself, with no sense of degradation, to be the target of louise's scorn. "well, i am sorry, miss treharne, that you still seem to misunderstand me," said jesse, attempting the tone of one whose sorrow overtops his mortification. "it is because i do understand you that i speak as i do," replied louise with perfect self-possession. judd choked again in the gleefulness of his vindication and jesse shot him a malignant glance. then and there jesse began to outline a little plan whereby, by means of "market" pressure, he calculated that he could promptly and effectually change judd's attitude. "i prefer to believe, miss treharne," said jesse, "that you are indisposed and that upon reflection you will be sorry that----" "i am perfectly well," interposed louise in a tone of cold finality, "and i shall not be sorry." then she passed up the stairs to her mother's apartments. "now will you be good!" broke out judd, chuckling vindictively, when she had gone. "say, jesse, i wonder if you feel so much like a clipped and trimmed lothario as you look?" jesse, his mask off, growled something inarticulate by way of reply. then: "are you for the club?" he asked judd. he decided that he might as well test the strength of the screws upon judd at once. they went out together. * * * * * mrs. treharne, dressed for a restaurant supper party that was to assemble at midnight, was reading, with the wistfulness of one debarred, the "society news" in a chattery and generally wrong weekly publication when louise entered her sitting room. she was wonderfully coiffured, and encased in a _décolletté_ dress that somewhat too liberately exploited the chisellings of her still milky arms and shoulders. she stiffened slightly in her chair at the sight of louise; and the dimplings which had been creasing her plastic face in her enjoyment of the publication's malevolent gossip gave way to the expression of peevishness with which her daughter was becoming all too well acquainted. "well, my dear," she started to say as louise, in whose eyes the embers of the wrath jesse's words had aroused still slumbered, "i must say that you have a cool way of walking off and----" "no reproaches just now, mother, please," interposed louise, sinking wearily into a chair. "i never had a happier day until, returning here----" she paused, passing a hand before her eyes. she was loth to enter upon the topic of judd and jesse with her mother. but mrs. treharne, looking at her more closely, saw her perturbation. "oh, you met mr. judd and mr. jesse as you came in?" she asked, a note of slightly worried curiosity in her tone. "were they----?" she broke off. "men are men, my dear," she resumed, placatingly. "they had been dining--i noticed that. but of course they said nothing to----" "your business adviser," said louise--she could not bring herself to mention judd's name--"greeted me as 'daughter.' i remember now that i was too much startled to tell him that he must not repeat that." "tush, louise--a slip of the tongue, of course," said mrs. treharne, appeasingly. privately, however, she already began to contrive the things she intended to say to judd on the morrow. "and mr. jesse--did he----" "mr. jesse," interposed louise, "caught himself as he was about to address me as louise. he offered me the use of his box at the opera. several days ago--i was too chagrined to tell you--he insisted upon my accepting the use of one of his automobiles. i hope i made it plain to him tonight--and i tried hard enough to make it plain to him before--that there is not the remotest chance that i shall ever accept his sinister civilities." "why 'sinister,' louise?" put mrs. treharne, bridling. "how can you possibly put such a construction upon it when one of my friends generously extends to you courtesies that are commonly and with perfect propriety accepted by----" louise sighed wearily and held up a pleading hand. "don't ask me such a question--please, mother," she entreated. "you don't know how the subject revolts me." "but, my dear," her mother persisted, "what is it that you have against mr. jesse? i am entitled to know." "i am not sufficiently interested in the man to have anything against him," replied louise. "is it not enough that i loathe him?" "no, louise, it is not enough," pronounced her mother, plainly ready for argument on the subject. "you are too young a woman to be forming prejudices or leaping to conclusions. what do you know about mr. jesse that has caused you to form such an opinion of him?" louise hesitated. her intimacy with her mother had never been very great. there had never been any plain talk, or even mother-and-daughter confidences, between them. the theme as she had said, was revolting to her. but her mother deliberately chose to remain on that ground. there was no path around the point her mother dwelt upon. louise entertained no thought of evading it. "mother," she said, leaning forward in her earnestness, "it is natural enough, i know, that you still regard me as a child. but, before i answer your question, are you willing to grant, at least for the time, that i am a woman?" "don't be so unmitigatedly solemn about it, louise," demurred her mother, evasively. "my question was simple enough." "simple enough to put, but not so simple for me to answer," was louise's quiet reply. "but i shall answer it nevertheless. the reason, then, why i do not intend to have any further contact with langdon jesse is that he is one of the most notorious libertines in new york; a man who regards women from a single angle--as his prey. everybody seems to know that, mother, except you: and you don't know it, do you?" there was a pathos in the eagerness with which the girl asked the question; it spoke of a dim hope she yet had that perhaps, after all, her mother did not know about langdon jesse. her mother's harsh, dodging reply quickly dashed that hope. "who has been telling you such scandalous things, child?" mrs. treharne demanded. "laura stedham?" "you must not ask me that question," replied louise, quietly firm. "but if nobody had told me about langdon jesse--and i shall not deny that i was told--i am sure my instinct would have taught me to suspect him of being--precisely what he is." mrs. treharne shook her head dismally. "it is exactly as i feared it would be, louise," she said, sighing drearily. "you are narrow, restricted, pent-in; you haven't even a symptom of bigness of view; your horizon is no wider than the room in which you happen to be. i always feared they would make a prude of you. now i see that my forebodings were right." louise, very much wrought upon, rose rather unsteadily and walked over to her mother's chair. "you repel me a little, mother," she said in a low tone. "it hurts me to say that: but it is the truth. if i am a prude, then i am unconscious of it. it may be that i don't know your definition of the word." she paused and gazed about the room wearily. "if to be a prude," she resumed, "is to be conscious of the desire and the intention to be an honest woman, then, mother, i am a prude," her voice breaking a little. "and if one must be a prude to recoil from the hideous advances of a man like langdon jesse, then again i am a prude." she had been unfairly placed on the defensive. she had not meant to wound. but, while her words cut her mother like the impact of thongs, they did not arouse within her a sense of the humiliation of her position. "louise," she asked, hoarsely, moistening her dry lips, "are you saying these--these stinging things with the deliberate purpose of reflecting upon your mother?" addressed to anybody else but louise, the question would have been absurd in the opening it afforded. "i should hate to have you think that," replied louise, flushing hotly and taking her mother's hands. "you don't think such a thing, do you?" "i don't know what to think," said her mother, taking the martyred tone, "when you say such horrid things. i never heard you say such--such flaying things before. i can't think what is coming over you." "i am very lonesome, for one thing," said louise, looking at her mother through suffused eyes. "i see so little of you. perhaps i become moody. but i never mean, never meant, to say anything to hurt you, dear." "but you see enough, if not too much, of--of others, louise," put in her mother, slightly mollified. "you have been with laura ever since early this morning?" "yes; with laura--and another," replied louise, unfailingly candid. "another?" said mrs. treharne, querulously. "whom do you mean?" "mr. john blythe," replied louise, coloring. "john blythe?" said her mother, wonderingly. "you were with laura and john blythe? so that is the direction of the wind? laura is trying to----" she broke off when she saw the expression of pain on her daughter's face. "please don't say that," said louise, her face and forehead a vivid crimson. "i have often met mr. blythe at laura's. i couldn't begin to tell you how i esteem him. and, mother, he is to be my guardian." she had meant to tell her mother that at a more fitting time; but, since blythe's name had come up, she discerned that there could be no excuse for a postponement of the revelation. mrs. treharne gazed at her daughter with mouth agape. when she finally spoke her words were almost inarticulate. "your guardian?" she gasped. "john blythe is to be your guardian? at whose direction? upon whose application?" "my father's, mother." "but are you sure that you are not being tricked--that----" "john blythe is not the man to trick anybody, dear--everybody, of course, knows that," said louise, very prompt to a defense in that quarter. "moreover, i saw the letters from my father. one of them is to me. so there is no mistake about it." "what does your father say in his letter?" asked mrs. treharne, suspiciously. "does he mention me? say anything to my detriment?" "nothing of that sort, mother," replied louise, disliking exceedingly the drift of the conversation. "mr. blythe's guardianship is to be largely a matter of form. i--i am glad the arrangement has been made. there are times when i feel that i need guidance. you are so busy and i so much dislike to worry you. often, since i came home, i've found myself wishing that i had a brother." she stopped, her voice faltering. mrs. treharne started slightly, swept by the thought of how often she had wished that louise herself had been a son. now, for the moment, she repented that thought; the dignity and strength of her daughter were making their appeal to her. she had her periods of fairness, and she could not throttle her consciousness of the wretchedness of louise's position under that roof nor subdue the accusing inner voice that held her solely responsible for it. she trembled with indignation when she remembered that judd had dared to address louise as "daughter." she raged at herself for not possessing the strength to cast the judd incubus from her once and forever. and she ended, as usual, by giving way to an effusion of dismal tears and by promising herself that "some time--some day----" louise went to bed with a disturbed mind. she was trying not to face the indubitable fact that her mother was proving herself but a reed to lean upon. then her drowsy thoughts wandered to the fire-lit dining-room of the serene old house in the country in and around which she had spent a day marked by a sort of placid happiness which she could not quite analyze; and her last thought, before succumbing to unquiet dreams based upon the events at the end of the day, were of a rugged, kindly-faced man quietly watching her as she read her father's letter by the flickering light of the droning logs. * * * * * judd, still chuckling viciously, continued to taunt the rebuked but by no means cast-down jesse after the two had got into jesse's car. "not saying much, are you, old top?" he gurgled joyously as the car throbbed away from the curb. "well, i don't blame you. not, of course, that i didn't give you fair warning. i told you you'd be frozen stiff if you tried on any of your don juanish airs and graces in that quarter. but don't take it to heart--don't grieve over it. you'll thaw out again in time. right now i wouldn't dare take a chance on touching you for fear one of your arms or something'd drop off. but you'll thaw--you'll thaw," and he squirmed and wabbled around in his seat in the excess of his mirth. jesse, gnawing on an unlighted cigar as was his wont when temporarily eclipsed or engaged in blocking out a campaign, listened in silence. when it becomes the unfailing habit of a man to enjoy the last laugh he learns to pay little heed to the too-previous chirrupings of those over whom he feels confident of eventually triumphing. so he permitted judd to enjoy himself. when the chuckles of his companion gradually ceased, however, he said, drily enough: "to all intents and purposes she's a dependent of yours, isn't she?" judd parried the question. he was indifferent enough as to what might happen to louise treharne: he regarded her as an interloper, and he was disgruntled over her studiously aloof treatment of him. but it had become a habit with him to parry jesse's questions since the occasion when his over-expansiveness in replying to a few seemingly innocent and unmeditated questions from jesse had resulted in the sound "market" trouncing which his one-time pupil had inflicted upon him. "what the devil difference does it make?" was judd's reply. "she has your number all right, and that's all you need to know, isn't it?" and he chuckled again. jesse waited again until judd's glee had subsided, then resumed. "she has to look to you to make provision for her needs--clothes, hats, ribbons, furbelows, that sort of thing--doesn't she?" he inquired with the coolness of one who does not mean to be rebuffed. "oh, forget it," said judd, a little grumpily now. "don't try to pin me, jesse. i don't spout about these things. she's living under one of my roofs, is a member of one of my households. and she regards you as--well, as a considerably-drowned water-bug. why don't you let it go at that? there are more women in the world than there are red ants or railroad ties. can't you take your medicine--stand for the defeat?" "not in this particular case," was jesse's perfectly frank reply; he could be frank when there was no possibility of a "come-back." "what's more, i don't intend to. just make up your mind to that, will you?" "oho!" said judd, struck by the intentional rawness which jesse had put into his last phrase. "that's the tune, is it?" "that house of yours on the drive isn't the place for the young woman," said jesse. judd knew that he wasn't assuming any virtuous strain, but merely leading up to a point. "you ought to know that--as the father of a family." "you're becoming confoundedly erect in your ideas, aren't you?" snorted judd. "and i've told you before that i won't have you dabbling in my private affairs. just cut out your harpings, in this connection, upon my family and all of that sort of thing, understand?" "damn your private affairs," said jesse, quietly, but with a note of meaningfulness in his tone that caused judd to sit up and take immediate notice. "i am no more interested in your private affairs than i am in the transactions of the congo missionary society. but i repeat that your--er--that mrs. treharne's daughter doesn't belong under that riverside drive roof. do you understand me?" "no," said judd, "i don't," nor did he. but he no longer chuckled. "i think you've told me several times," jesse went on calmly, "that the young woman flaunts you?" judd made some inarticulate reply which jesse took for an affirmative. "that being the case," inquired jesse, "why do you keep her around the place?" "what's your idea--that i should turn her into the street?" asked judd, gradually getting a hold on jesse's thread. "oh, she wouldn't be in the street very long," said jesse with significant emphasis. "but, since on your own say-so she scarcely even nods to you, and you are paying the freight, what's the answer? doesn't she know that she's dependent upon you?" "how the devil could she help knowing it?" broke out judd impatiently. "she has eyes and what belongs to her by way of brains, i suppose." "well," said jesse, "if she cuts in on your--your game, and is such a nuisance to you, why don't you exert your authority--the authority of the provider--and----" he hesitated. "and what?" inquired judd, proddingly. "make provision for her--not necessarily luxurious provision--under some other roof?" said jesse. "in a modest little apartment, for example, with just the necessaries and that sort of thing. that would alter her demeanor toward you--and toward others. once they've enjoyed the gewgaws of life the other thing is a come-down and they feel the sordid misery of it." judd studied. "you're a deep sort of a reprobate, jesse," he said, musingly, after a pause. "i don't profess to be able to plumb some features of your scoundrelism, and yet i've never been accused of being uncommonly dense. how the devil would my planting the young woman in a miserable little six-by-eight flat help your case?" "that," coolly replied jesse, "is my affair; but you exhibit your denseness, at that, in asking such a fool question. it wouldn't take her long to begin to pine for the light and laughter and lavishness of life after she'd had a taste of the miserable little six-by-eight flat as you call it, would it?" "and when she did begin to pine that's where you'd come in, eh?" said judd. "yes, it was pretty thick of me not to catch your drift, i'll admit. but i guess i'll keep out of it. you can conduct your own damned round-ups. you've got your nerve with you to ask me to figure in any such a dirty subtle scheme as that, haven't you?" he spoke more in resentment of jesse's overbearing tone than from any profound sense of the contemptibleness of jesse's suggestion. jesse lit his cigar and said nothing for a while. then, puffing hard so that the glow of his cigar lit up his stolid waxy face, he said: "i hear you're carrying a pretty nifty line of cotton, judd, and that you're still buying. waiting for cotton to touch sixteen cents, eh?" judd cocked his ears. "well," he said, moistening his lips, "i haven't got anything on you. you're carrying ten bales when i'm only carrying one." "is that so?" lied jesse with perfect serenity. "well, you're entitled to have your dream out, of course. but it so happens that i am not carrying even one bale." judd sat up straight in his seat. "well?" he asked, huskily. "well, what?" asked jesse. "what are you shooting at?" inquired judd. "do you mean to say you're going to take the bear end of it?" "i don't mean to say anything of the sort," replied jesse. "and you don't suppose i'd go around placarding the fact if that was my intention, do you? i'm merely out of the market for the present, that's all. but you're in, eh, and waiting for sixteen cent cotton?" the screws were working all right. jesse saw that. it was chilly in the automobile, but judd was mopping a damp brow. "if i ever do break into that market," jesse went on clinchingly but in the same even tone he had been using, "you want to watch my smoke. that's all." judd, in a cold tremor, resolved to unload his line of cotton as soon as the market opened on the morrow. also he decided that it wouldn't be any impolitic thing for him to placate jesse in the immediate meanwhile. "well, if i have been dense, i'm not now," he said, reflectively. "i understand you all right." "i thought you would," said jesse, tossing his cigar out of the car window. * * * * * despite her natural reserve and the reticence, born of keen humiliation, which she maintained in respect of her mother's affairs, louise, feeling the need of an experienced woman's counsel, gave to laura stedham, her one woman friend in need, a somewhat guarded account of her meeting with jesse and judd upon her return from the day in the country. laura listened to the story in a sort of silent rage. she was not a woman to rant, and even if she had been, the recital that louise gave her, with the wretched details which laura could guess at, of her gradual hemming in at the riverside drive house, filled the other woman with a sense of anger and disgust beyond the mere power of words. louise had not previously told laura of langdon's proffering her the use of an automobile; she feared that laura's wrath and alarm over that would be directed against her mother for having made such a situation possible; and her loyalty to her mother never wavered. at the close of her story, which she gave to laura in a quiet, rather hopeless way that the older woman found pathetic to a degree, louise, in a moment of inadvertence, let fall how judd had greeted her as "daughter." laura flared at that. but she held herself in, and she asked louise, quietly enough: "my dear, there is one thing that i want to ask you. i hope you won't think me intrusive for asking it. it is this: just why are you remaining at that house? you know the--the circumstances there. i am not trying to influence you. but i want you to tell me just why, since you cannot change the conditions, you deem it necessary to go on living there?" louise replied without hesitation. "i don't lose hope that i may be able to change the conditions some time, dear," she replied. "there would be no use in my staying with my mother if i did not possess that hope." "but," asked laura, not pressingly, but with a grave, interested earnestness, "don't you think your chance to change the conditions is almost negligible? just how can you possibly expect such a change ever to come about?" "i am hoping," louise answered bravely, but coloring, "that, if i stay on with my mother, sooner or later she will become ash----"; she could not finish the word "ashamed;"----"she will come to a realization of herself," she took up the thread, "of what the conditions in which she lives mean; of what, eventually, they must bring her to, and bring me to, also. often i think that she doesn't view it as i do--as we do. she is drifting. she told me that she was. she has lost her moorings. i want to bring her back. i am the only one who could bring her back, am i not? and i can't leave her as long as there is a chance to do that." "but your own life, dear?" interposed laura. "you must consider that, you know. you are a very young woman. there is no reason why you should be dragged down." "i shall not be," replied louise. "and, if my mother is to be dragged down, if she is to continue in this way, of what use would my life ever be to me? i never could be happy with her in such surroundings, could i? there is only one thing for me to do, dear; stay with her until she sees it all. i know that she will understand sooner or later. she can't help it. she's bound to--to change. i want to help her. i don't ever say anything to her, of course. it would be impossible for me to do that. but she isn't happy as she is now. my mother and i will have a dear, cosy, happy life together yet, laura, never fear." laura pretended that some pictures on a mantel needed straightening in order to hide her suffused eyes. "all the same, louise," she said, resuming her seat after a little while, "mr. blythe is entitled to know these things that you have told me. and you should have the benefit of his advice. he not only is your guardian, but he is a man--a regular man--and your--oh, well, i do not need to say that he is your friend, do i?" smiling. "i meant to tell him," replied louise, turning to gaze out of the window. "oh, you did, dear?" said laura, teasingly. "then my advising you to tell him was superfluous, wasn't it? i wonder why you decided to tell him, louise?" "because----" louise started to reply. but she did not finish, for at that instant john blythe, in riding dress, walked into the room. chapter viii laura glanced wistfully at blythe's riding clothes. "i suppose you come here in that apparel to tantalize me, knowing that my odious, ogreish medical man has absolutely forbidden me to ride for the present," she said to him in mock reproach. "there is nothing in the least subtle about that doctor man. he wants to buy my horse. that's why he has forbidden me to ride. but i am going to thwart him by turning scamp over to louise. you ride, of course, dear?" louise smiled her gratitude. she had become a finished rider as a young girl during the periods when her mother would abandon her improvident life in the city and retire to the country to enable her income partially to catch up with her expenditures. "i've been trying the most ambitious horse i ever saw," said blythe, very much the wholesome, out-of-doors looking man, dropping into a chair. "if i buy him--and i'm going to think that over carefully--i think i shall call him the climber. he was very keen to accompany me up in the elevator, but the man on guard at the door wouldn't have it. would you have minded my fetching him up, laura? he has the true artistic sense, too. he tried all he knew to climb that statue of bobbie burns in the park. wouldn't it have been a victory for art if he had succeeded in demolishing that bronze libel on burns? then he wanted to walk--prance, i mean--into the car of some people i stopped to pass the time of day with. curious psychological study, that horse. i can't imagine where he acquired his mounting social ambition, for he's about one-half wild horse of the pampas and the other half wyoming cayuse." "louise," suggested laura, who had been meditating during blythe's raillery, "would you care for a ride now?" blythe's eyes lighted up at the words. "i must have some excuse, you see, for driving the two of you away, for my dressmaker is moaning piteously over the 'phone for me to try some things on, and i'll have to go. scamp has been eating his head off for a fortnight, but he'll behave, i'm sure. and my habit, boots, everything, will fit you perfectly." before laura had finished blythe was at the telephone, directing laura's stableman to send scamp around and laura was guiding louise to her dressing room to put her into the hands of her maid for the change into laura's riding things. half an hour later louise, well-mounted on the breedy-looking, over-rested but tractable enough scamp, was on the park bridle-path alongside blythe, who rode the mettlesome cob he had maligned with the stigma of cayuse. the two horses, adaptable striders, trotted teamwise for a while, louise and blythe silently giving themselves over to the enjoyment of the eager, tingling air and the brilliant sunshine. they reined up to cross the carriage road and for a while after that, by a sort of tacit understanding, they reduced their horses' pace to a brisk walk. it is a bromidic truism, but it is none the less true, that it is only possible for a woman to be wholly at her ease in the presence of the man in whom she is not "interested." louise, as she rode at blythe's side through the bright vistas of bare, interlacing branches, perhaps would have shrunk from being judged by the mildly accusatory terms of such an axiom; nevertheless, alone with this man, she was wonderingly conscious of being possessed by a speech-cancelling diffidence, a restraint not so much superimposed as involuntarily felt, that was wholly unusual with her in the presence of anyone else. she caught herself, not without flushing when she became aware of her own purpose, in the act of permitting her horse to drop a pace behind in order that she might be free to glance at blythe's rugged profile and the shapeliness of his head for an instant; for she was beginning to discover that it was oddly difficult for her to meet his frank, direct, generally cheerful gaze. this was, of course, from no lack of candor, but, on the contrary, because she was beginning to fear betrayal through her excessive natural candor. it would have been impossible for her to name any other human being with whom she would have preferred to be riding through the sunny park on this afternoon; yet this knowledge did not efface the other fact that she was not at her ease with him. she endeavored, in vaguely wondering about this, to assure herself that it was because of certain revelations which she intended to make to blythe concerning happenings to herself since last she had seen him; but her inner frankness informed her that she was merely searching for a pretext for her slightly provoking diffidence. blythe was the first to break the silence. "'on a hazy, brilliant afternoon in february, , a solitary horseman might have been seen--'" he began to quote, smiling, in a sing-song way, as from the inevitable beginning of an antique novel. louise laughed. "do you feel so lonesome as all that?" she asked him. "not precisely lonesome," said blythe, "but--well, a little detached from the picture. speaking of pictures, please try and steady yourself in the saddle for a moment while i say something pretty. i have been mentally browsing for a word to describe your profile. now i have it. it is 'intaglio.' the beauty of that word is that i almost think i know what it means; and also it fits. the mountain has labored and brought forth a mouse. i think that is the first compliment i ever made in my life," and his reddening features testified to the truth of it. "then i shall not deny that it pleases me," replied louise, able now to turn her head and look at him without the unwonted stealthiness which had been puzzling her. "it is what numismatists would call a 'first-minted' compliment, is it not?" "don't ask me to analyze it, louise, or it might come apart in my hands and i shouldn't be able to put it together again, being so new at the craft," replied blythe, whimsically. she found it very natural and agreeable that he should call her louise; she had been conscious, in truth, of a deep-down little fear, now dissipated, that he might resume calling her miss treharne. she felt that she would not have cared for "miss treharne" any more--from him. they fell silent again for a little while, during which blythe, infected by the furtiveness which had actuated louise a little while before, once slightly drew rein in order to steal an unobserved oblique glance at louise's gleaming auburn hair, which refused to be confined under her three-cornered continental hat of felt, but moved in rebellious, slipping coils under the impact of the occasional gusts of wind; and he wanted, too, to get the effect of her cameo face outlined against a patch of unusually dark shrubbery slightly ahead of them. his plotting, however, was a dead failure. she caught him in the very article of making this cribbed momentary inspection, and she laughed outright. "draw alongside, please," she commanded, and he noticed for the first time the all but indistinguishable slant of her full eyes when they were possessed by laughter. "you are not to criticize the fit of laura's habit on me, as of course you were doing." "of course," said blythe, more or less unconsciously delivering himself of a white one. "additionally, i was wondering--" he paused a bit abruptly. "well?" inquired louise. "you won't be annoyed?" said blythe. "i was wondering just what you used to think and do, and sing, and say, when, in your last-previous incarnation, titian was spending all of his hours painting your face and hair." "now," replied louise, smiling, "you are showing a suspicious proficiency for one who claims to have uttered his first compliment only three minutes ago. annoyed? why should i be? one might even become used, in the course of nineteen years, to the possession of green or blue or purple hair; so that i scarcely ever think of my ensanguined locks unless i am reminded of them." "i think," said blythe, musingly, "that you have the gift of cheerfulness." "oh," replied louise, purposely misunderstanding him, "it doesn't take such an inordinate amount of resignation, really, to tolerate one's own red hair." "i deny that it is red," said blythe, assuming an impressive judicial air. "in fact, to employ a perfectly useless legal term, i note an exception to that statement. it isn't red. it's--it's the tint of an afterglow; an afterglow that never was on land or sea." at that instant they emerged upon the open road, and a mounted policeman held up a detaining hand, holding up a huge yellow-bodied car to enable them to cross to where the bridle-path began again. louise, crimsoning, saw her mother leaning back in the big car, judd beside her. blythe, too, saw mrs. treharne--and her companion--and lifted his hat. louise had waved a hand at her mother; but it was a limp hand, and the sun had suddenly darkened for her. blythe noticed her immediate abstraction. he understood. he rode a trifle closer to her, in silence, for a while. louise was gazing at the pommel of her saddle, and he observed the tremulousness about her lips. at a point where the path narrowed in passing a great boulder, blythe reined yet closer, and, reaching out, pressed for an instant her gloved guiding hand. "don't worry, louise--all of these things come right in time," he said in a subdued tone, and as if they had already been speaking of that which had caused her sudden distress. "be sustained by that belief. everything works out right in time. i venture to touch upon that which pains you, not because we are to have a mere legal relationship, but because i am hoping that you view me as a friend. do you?" "you must know that i do," said louise, more moved than he could guess. the touch of his hand had strangely thrilled her. "if it were not for you and laura--" she paused, turning her head. "i know," said blythe. "it is not a matter for volunteered advice. but perhaps you have thought of some way in which i--we--can help you; make the course smoother for you. have you?" "no," replied louise, simply. "there were some occurrences--some things that happened last night--that i meant to tell you about. but i can't now. laura will tell you. you must not be too angry when she tells you. the happenings were not the fault of my mother's; she----" "i can easily surmise that," blythe helped her. "but, louise, if you had meant to tell me these things yourself, what has altered your determination? perhaps, though," reflecting, "that isn't a fair question." "the unfairness--perhaps i should call it weakness--is on my side," replied louise. "i make very brave resolutions," smiling a little detachedly, "as to the candor i am going to reveal to you when i meet you; but when i am with you--" the sentence required no finishing. "there is no weakness in that," said blythe. "or, if there is, then i think my own weakness must be far greater than yours. there are many things that i want to say to you and that i find it impossible to say when the opportunity comes. several times, for example, i have fruitlessly struggled to say that i hope my guardianship over you will erect no barrier between us." "how could it?" asked louise, meeting his eye. "it is just that," replied blythe, "which i find it so difficult to express. i fear to venture too close to the quicksands. but i might as well take the risk. i did not exactly mean to use the word 'barrier.' you make quite another appeal to me than as a ward to a guardian. my imagination is far more involved than that. perhaps i take a roundabout method, louise, of saying that, in spite of my approaching guardianship, i sometimes find myself presuming to hope that a time might come when you would be willing to accept my devotion as a man." "that time," quietly replied louise, pretending to adjust her hat so as to screen her face with her arm, "has already come." she had no _penchant_ for evasiveness, and coquetry was apart from her; she spoke words that her heart brimmed to her lips. blythe, his face transfigured, caught himself reeling a bit in his saddle. her words, so quietly and frankly spoken, had suddenly cleared what he had not hoped would be anything but a pathway of brambles. he swayed so close to her that their faces almost touched, and for a mere instant he was conscious of the fragrance of her pure breath, aware to the core of him of an intoxicating propinquity of which he had not until that moment dreamed. "perhaps i misunderstood you, louise," he said, hoarse of a sudden, reining out and settling himself sidewise in his saddle so that he could see her. "it is impossible that i did not misunderstand you." louise, gazing straight ahead, but with misty eyes, shook her head. she had no more words. and her silent negation told him, better than words, that he had not misunderstood her. they rode without speaking for the remainder of the way back to laura's. just before they drew up to the curb, where he was to assist her to dismount, blythe broke the long reverie that had pinioned them. "i only came to know the meaning of what is called 'the joy of living' an hour ago, louise," blythe said to her then. a moment later he was lifting her from her horse, and the sky swirled before his eyes as, for a rocketing instant, he held her in his strong arms and felt her warm breath (as of hyacinths, he thought) upon his face. he rode away leading her horse, and their parting was of the eyes only. louise, a happy brooding expression on her face, walked in upon laura, who was deeply snuggled on a many-pillowed couch, and sat down, pre-occupiedly tapping a gloved palm with her riding-crop, without a word. "well, dear?" said laura, glancing at her. louise continued to tap-tap her palm with the crop, but she was devoid of words, it appeared. "louise!" laura suddenly sat up straight on the couch and directed a startled, accusatory, yet puzzledly-smiling gaze at the wistful, unseeing and silent girl in the riding habit. louise turned her abstracted gaze upon laura. "what is it, dear?" she asked. "you said something, didn't you?" laura gazed at her with an absorbed smile for nearly a minute. then she settled back among the pillows. "no, sweetheart, i haven't said anything," she replied. * * * * * judd prowled about his club that night in the humor of a savage, barking at the club servants, growling at or turning his back upon cronies who addressed him civilly enough, and almost taking the head off one of them who, noticing the baleful judd mood, cheerfully inquired: "what is it, old chap--gout, liver, the market, or all three?" the market was in part responsible; the entire "list" had gone against him persistently and diabolically from opening to close. but the raking which mrs. treharne had given him during their ride on account of his "daughtering" of louise on the night before was mainly responsible for the bubbling rage which he was taking no pains to conceal and which he was adding to by extraordinarily short-intervalled stops at the club buffet. and so he'd been hauled over the coals again on account of that high-and-mighty daughter of tony's, had he? judd reflected, his thoughts swirling in an alcoholic seethe of self-sympathy. well, he was getting tired of that sort of thing--d----d tired of it. he hadn't had a minute's peace of his life on his visits at the house on the drive since the arrival there of that toploftical, sulky, ridiculously haughty daughter of tony's. haughty about what? haughty for what reason? what license had she to be haughty--especially with him, judd? wasn't she living in his house? what the d----, then, did she mean by flouting him? yes, jesse had been right; she had flouted him since the first day she'd met him. and that wasn't "coming to him;" he didn't deserve it. didn't he fairly shower money upon her mother? didn't her mother have his signed blank checks to fill out at her own sweet will and option? didn't he humor all of tony's extravagances without ever a word of complaint? well, then! what the devil did tony mean by snarling at him all the time about this daughter of hers that had come along and messed everything up? anyhow, why shouldn't he have called the young woman "daughter" if he felt like it? that wasn't going to kill her, was it? he had been drinking a little at the time, anyhow, and it was a slip of the tongue; but even if it hadn't been, what was the difference? what right did she have, anyhow, to look at him as if he were a woodtick? he couldn't understand what jesse saw in her; she was good-looking, of course, but when that was said all was said; she had an unthawable disposition, hadn't she? and a porpoise's cold-bloodedness? but jesse was entitled to his idiotic fancies; he, judd, wasn't going to interpose any obstacles in jesse's way. she needed taming, and jesse's reputation as a tamer was established. leaving all that aside, though, she wasn't going to stay around his house creating discord and giving her mother cherished opportunities to "open up" on him whenever she felt like it. she would have to go somewhere else. he'd take care of her all right. he had no idea of absolutely turning her out; tony wouldn't have that, and, besides, there wasn't anything mean about him. but he wasn't going to be flouted any longer; wouldn't have it; wouldn't endure it; wouldn't tolerate it. fact was, he intended to have it out with tony that very night. he'd go over to the house on the drive and get the thing over with. no use in postponing it. [illustration: he'd go over to the house on the drive and get the thing over with.] thus judd, fuming, and already more than half drunk. "get me a taxicab," he ordered a club servant, and, with a final libation for the tightening of his resolution, he lumbered unsteadily into the taxicab and was catapulted to the house on riverside drive. the butler admitted him and smirked behind his back with the derisiveness of english servants in american households when he saw judd hold out a miscalculating hand for the banister post and miss it by a foot, thereby almost going to his knees on the stairs. but he recovered his equilibrium, growling, and made his way into mrs. treharne's sitting room. heloise was there alone, reading a french comic weekly of extraordinary pictorial frankness with such gusto that she did not even rise when judd partly fell into the room. judd glared at her out of red eyes. "why the devil don't you get to your feet when i come in here, you jabbering chimpanzee?" he inquired of the by no means flabbergasted heloise. she had often seen judd thus and she was used to his expletives and his fondness for comparing her to the simian species on account of her french tongue. "where's your mistress?" "madame has gone to the theatre," said heloise, giving judd a view of a wide, unscreened french yawn. "oh, madame has, has she?" said judd, apeing the maid's tone with a drunken disregard for even the most ordinary dignity. "what theatre?" heloise shrugged. "what theatre?" judd bawled at her. "how should one know?" inquired heloise, disdainfully enough. "madame did not say." judd plumped himself into a deep chair, cocked his evening hat at a little more acute angle over his left ear, fumblingly loosened the buttons of his overcoat, crossed his legs with grunting difficulty, removed his gloves, revealing the enormous diamond rings which he wore on the third finger of each freckled, pudgy hand; then glared at the unruffled heloise again. "is anybody at home?" he asked her. "mademoiselle is here," replied heloise. "but she is retiring and is not to be seen." "oh, she's not to be seen, hey?" snarled judd. "who says she isn't to be seen? you?" heloise shrugged again. she knew that her shrugs enraged him, but she was a dauntless maid of france. "you tell her that i want to see her, understand?" ordered judd, thickly. "want to see her right here and right now." "mademoiselle sent her maid out for the evening and left word that she was not to be disturbed," protested heloise. "i don't care a continental hang what word she left!" raged judd. "you tell her that i want to see her, here and now. you take that message to her or out you go, bag and baggage. i'm paying your wages." heloise, bestowing upon him a parting shrug which was artistically designed to inform him as to just how little she cared for him or his "wages," left the room and knocked upon louise's sleeping-room door. louise, in a negligée and with her hair rippling silkily over her shoulders, was preparing for sleep. the afternoon's reverie still possessed her. musing dreams lingered in her eyes. she looked up, not surprised to see heloise enter. the french maid, devoted to louise from the beginning, often came in for a chat when her mistress was out, to the jealous concern of louise's own maid. now, however, louise was struck with the light of wrath and disgust in heloise's fire-darting, eloquent eyes. "what is it, heloise?" she asked. heloise broke into objurgation as to "zat jood beast"--_cochon rouge_, she called him, explosively. "he demands that you come," she said to louise. "he is not himself; that is, he is himself; he is drunk." "but what does he want with me?" asked louise, apprehensively. heloise could furnish her with no reply to that. "of course i shall not see him." heloise, finger on lip, considered. she knew judd exceedingly well, and she was acquainted with his violence when in his cups. she knew that he was quite capable of breaking in upon louise's privacy if she did not respond to his summons--even if he had to put his shoulder to her door. after a moment's reflection, heloise advised louise to go to him. he could not harm her, except perhaps with his tongue, and he would do that anyhow if she refused to answer his summons; heloise would be hovering near to see that he offered her no other harm. louise, who had the gift of becoming deliberate and cool in emergent moments, decided to take the maid's advice. she dressed hastily and heloise quickly tucked her hair up. she was very regal, very much in control of herself, when she swept swiftly into her mother's sitting room and confronted judd. judd did not rise. neither did he remove his rakishly-tilted hat. he still sat with crossed legs, and he was muttering hoarsely to himself when louise entered. when he heard her rustled entrance he dovetailed his fingers on the lower portion of his evening shirt, twiddled his thumbs, and gazed at her through his red, drink-diminished eyes. "oh, so you came, eh?" he wheezed, drily, continuing to regard her with his bleary stare. "what is it you wish of me?" louise asked him, meeting his gaze, but continuing to stand. "oh, nothing in particular--nothing in particular," said judd with the incoherency of intoxication. quickly, though, he took a tone of brazenness. "you're going to sit down, ain't you? it doesn't cost any more to sit down." "i shall stand," said louise, immovable before him. "oh, you'll stand, hey?" sneered judd. "all right, stand. i sent for you because, in the first place, i wanted to see if you'd come or not. and you're here, ain't you?" this with an air of drunken triumph. louise made no reply. "secondly," went on judd, scowling over the drink-magnified memory of his wrongs, "i sent for you to ask you what in blazes you mean by continually stirring up rows and rough-houses between your mother and me? hey? what's the answer?" there was no answer. louise, literally numb from the vulgar violence of the man, was bereft of speech. she faced him with her fingers tightly laced behind her back, and her face had grown very pale. "that's what i want to find out from you," went on judd, uncrossing his legs so that he could lean forward in his chair and wag an emphasizing finger at her. "and there are some other things i want to find out from you. one of 'em is why the devil you think you're licensed to treat me--_me!_--as if i were a flunkey?" louise retained her frozen attitude. she had the feeling of one being blown upon by icy blasts. even had there seemed to be any need for her to make reply, she could not have done so. "you've got a tongue, haven't you?" demanded judd, her silence adding to the rage into which he was deliberately lashing himself. "don't you try your infernal haughty airs on me any more, young woman. i won't tolerate it. i don't have to tolerate it. didn't they teach you manners at school? if they didn't, by god, i'll know the reason why! i paid 'em to teach you manners!" involuntarily louise pressed her hands to her temples, for she felt suddenly faint. but she conquered the faintness. the utter incredibleness of his words seemed to nerve her. "what do you mean by that?" she asked him, her voice sounding in her ears like that of someone else. "mean?" raged judd, gripping the arms of his chair and half rising. "what do i mean? i mean what i say. i paid the people who educated you, or pretended to educate you, to drill some manners into you. and now i'm going to take a whole lot of pains to find out why they took my money under false pretenses!" "are you not beside yourself?" asked louise quietly enough, though her thoughts were in a vortex. "am i to understand that you really expect me to believe that you paid for my education?" judd flopped back into his chair and stared hard at her. then he broke into a short, jarring laugh. "will you listen to that?" he croaked, looking around the room as if addressing an invisible jury. then, lowering his head and glowering upon louise, he went on: "am i to understand that you are pretending that you don't _know_ that i paid for your education?" "i did not know it," said louise in so low a tone that she could hardly hear herself. "am i to understand," brutally went on judd, now entirely out of himself, "that you are pretending not to know that i've been shovelling out money for you for nearly five years--ever since you were in pigtails? d'ye mean to stand there, with your damned outlandish haughtiness, and tell me that you don't know that every hairpin, every pair of shoes, every frippery or furbelow that you've owned in that time, hasn't been settled for by me? that you don't know that the roof over your head and the bed you've slept in has been paid for by me? that you don't know that the clothes that you've got on your back right this minute were bought for you by me?" it was the cruelest moment in the girl's life. her senses were reeling. but, by an effort of pure will, of supreme concentration, she mustered her strength to withstand the shock. "i did not know these things," she replied in a voice that sounded in her own ears like a mere distant echo. "they are true? i was not told. until this moment i had always supposed that my education and maintenance were paid for out of funds from--" she could not mention the name of her father in the presence of this drink-inflamed brute;--"from other sources." "not by a damned sight," roared judd, relentless, paying no attention to the girl's drawn features and trembling lips. "i know what you're getting at. but you're wrong. there haven't been any 'funds from other sources,' as you call it, disbursed for you for nearly five years. and that's easy to explain, too. i wouldn't have any 'funds from other sources' dribbling along to an establishment i was maintaining. that's why i chucked what you call the 'funds from other sources' back into the sender's teeth." louise, under the impact of that final cowardly blow, might have fallen prone had not her mother, eyes alight with mingled rage and compassion, swept into the room at that instant and gently pushed her daughter into a chair just as louise felt that her knees were giving way beneath her. mrs. treharne, standing stunned in the hall upon coming in, had heard judd's last few sentences; and she judged from them what he had been saying before her return. judd's jaw fell when he saw mrs. treharne, for the moment imperious in her anger and her solicitude for her daughter, sweep into the room in her trailing furs. but, after an instant, he brought his twisted teeth together with a snap and gazed at her with drunken dauntlessness. it was one of judd's hours when he was too far gone to think of surrendering even to her. "what have you done, you unspeakable brute?" mrs. treharne asked him, her voice trembling, as she stood facing him, one hand on louise's shoulder. louise looked up at her mother. "he has been telling me, mother, what i now believe to be the truth," she said; "that i am indebted to him for my schooling, my maintenance, my--" she could not go on. mrs. treharne's eyes blazed. "you low cad--you vulgar coward!" she fairly hissed at judd. but judd, for once, would have none of that. he rose unsteadily to his feet and stood swaying before her. "no more of that from you!" he thundered, the veins of his forehead standing out purplishly. "i know what i've said, and i stand for it! don't you try to come that bullyragging business over me--i'm all through standing for that! you can do as you please, go as far as you like. but this is my house--don't you ever forget that! see that you remember it every minute from this time on, will you?" and with a parting glare he strode to the door, tramped down the stairs, and went out, pulling the door after him with a crash. mrs. treharne, herself used to such scenes with judd, but hideously conscious of what a horror this one must have been to an inexperienced girl less than three months away from the serene atmosphere of school, sat upon an arm of louise's chair and began to stroke her daughter's hair. "but why did you never tell me, mother?" asked louise after a long silence. [illustration: "but, why did you never tell me, mother?"] mrs. treharne, on the defensive, tried to devise excuses, but they were very feeble ones. she had not wanted to worry louise by telling her; the girl had been too young to be told while at school, and, since her return, she had not had the courage to tell her; it would have done no good to tell her at any rate, would it? and so on. after a while louise rose. "i can't stay here, mother," she said. "i am going at once." "that is absurd," her mother replied, flutteringly. "it is after midnight. you must not be hasty, dear. he had been drinking. men are beasts when they drink. it will all pass over," she added weakly. "no, it cannot pass over," said louise in a wearied tone. "i am going. i could not remain here another hour. you must not ask me to. it is impossible." "but, my child," cried mrs. treharne, beginning to dab at her eyes, "it is out of the question--unheard of! there is no reason for it. these things happen everywhere. you must face life as it is, not as you have been dreaming it to be. sleep with me tonight and think it over. you'll view it all differently in the morning." "i am going now, mother," replied louise, and her mother knew then that the girl's decision was unalterable. "but where are you going at this hour of the night, child?" she asked, now weeping outright. "to laura's," said louise. saying it, she was swept by a sudden wave of feeling. "mother," she went on in a broken voice, "come with me, won't you? let us go together. i want to be with you all the time. i want to live with you only. i need you. we can be so happy together, just by ourselves! we can get a pretty little place somewhere and be happy together, just you and i. and i have been so unhappy, so miserable, here! won't you come with me--come now?" a beautiful hour had struck for that mother, had she but known it. but she released herself from louise's arms and shook her head, all the time dabbing, dabbing at her eyes with her little wad of a lace handkerchief. "don't ask me such an absurd thing, louise," she replied. "of course i can't do anything so outlandishly foolish." "then i must go alone, dear," said louise, bitter disappointment placarded on her drawn face. "i wanted to be always with you. i never meant to leave you. but i can't stay now. won't you come, mother?" mrs. treharne shook her head and sobbed. louise gazed commiseratingly at the weak, tempestuously-crying little woman, and then went to her rooms. she called laura on the telephone. "i am coming to you now, laura," she said. "you mean tonight, dear?" inquired laura in her caressing contralto, refraining, with the wisdom of a woman of experience, from giving utterance to any astonishment. "yes, at once," said laura. "i shall take a taxicab and be there within the half hour." "i shall be waiting, dear," replied laura. louise, in hat and coat, bent over her mother, who had thrown herself weeping on a couch, and sought to soothe her. but her mother had only wild, broken reproaches for her for going away "so foolishly, so unnecessarily," and louise saw that her efforts to calm her were futile. so she bent over and kissed her mother's tear-wet face, then walked down the stairs and out of the house to the waiting taxicab. she never put foot in the house on the drive again. chapter ix laura, her face flushed from sleep and a cheerful awakening, her burnished black hair in two great plaits that fell forward on her shoulders far below the waist of her negligée, tiptoed early next morning into the room, next to her own, where she had put louise. but her tiptoeing was a considerateness wasted. louise was wide awake. she had scarcely slept at all. the shock of her experience had been heavier than her ensuing weariness, so that, for the greater part of the night, she had lain wide-eyed, gazing into the darkness; dozing once, she had been gripped by a hideous dream, in which she had stood paralyzed by terror, awaiting the approach, from opposite directions, of two gigantic reptiles, wearing the faces of judd and jesse. laura noticed the dark rings under the girl's feverishly bright eyes, and her heart glowed at the thought that louise, quite as a matter of course, had sought asylum with her. when the girl had arrived at her apartment on the previous night laura, far from questioning her, had pantomimed, finger at lip, that louise was not to tell her anything then; and louise had been grateful for the fine delicacy of the remission. finding louise awake, laura, smiling to match the sunlight that streamed through the curtains, and exhibiting none of the curiosity or jarring glumness of manner with which a woman of less tact might easily have intensified the misery of such a situation, sat on the edge of louise's bed and began to chatter as gaily as if her listener's world had been swimming in rose. "my dear," she said, stretching her satin-smooth arms high above her head in an abandonment of waking enjoyment, "i feel as chirpful this morning as a sparrow in a wistaria vine. let's talk until we get hungry. let's make plans and things. plan number one: we are going abroad next week, instead of early in may. i can't wait for may. i need things to wear at once. i am positively in rags and tatters, the cinderella of central park west. how is that for one gorgeous plan?" it might easily have been thought, listening to her and studying her enthusiasm, that she was the girl and louise the woman. but louise, for all of her still throbbing memory of the night before, was infected with the older woman's unquenchable cheerfulness. "you talk of going to europe as if it were a run out to the bronx in your car, dear," she said, smiling. "and am i really to go with you? at any rate, of course i must ask----" she had meant to say that she must ask her mother's permission; but the thought rushed to her mind that in all likelihood her mother would be only too willing to let her go. laura divined her thought and rushed to her aid. "oh, i shall do all the asking," she interposed. "that's another of my glittering specialties--asking. i'm the most immoderately successful asker, i think, in all north america; yes, and getter, too, i verily believe. really, i can't remember when i was refused anything that i out-and-out asked for. so i'll arrange that. but with this stipulation: you'll have to ask mr. blythe yourself." "mr. blythe?" said louise, wonderingly. the sound of his name somehow gave her an immediate sense of uplift; but for the moment she failed to catch laura's meaning. "what is it that i must ask mr. blythe about, dear?" laura gazed at her with skeptical eyes. "what is it we were talking about, louise?" she asked, mischievously. "the relation of the cosmic forces to--er--mental healing? the real nub of the suffragettes' cause? child, you don't really suppose that you could gallumph off to the continent of europe with a frivolous, irresponsible, happy-go-lucky person like me without first asking the consent of your guardian--or, at any rate, your guardian-to-be?" louise's flush shone through her amused smile. "that is true, isn't it?" she said simply. "of course i must ask him." "i am in a frenzy of fear, though," went on laura, affecting an exaggerated solemnity, "that the ogre will flatly put his foot down and refuse to let you go. i know that i should if i were he." "why, laura?" asked louise with such genuine wide-eyed innocence that laura laughed outright. "why?" she repeated in louise's tone. "well, i haven't the least doubt that i should be a great deal more selfish about it than he will be. just because a man has to be such a horridly legal, dry-as-dust creature as a guardian, is that any particular reason why he should become incapable of experiencing the entirely human misery called lonesomeness?" louise had no reply for that except a little gesture of deprecation that quite failed to convince. "how could we possibly get ready to go abroad in a week, laura?" she covered her confusion by asking. "my dear," replied laura, convincingly, "i could and would start for the straits of sunda inside of twenty minutes if there were any possible reason why i should want to go there--if, for example, there happened to be a dressmaker or milliner there whose creations i particularly fancied. the voyage to europe is now a mere ferry trip. you speak as if we were still living in the victorian period. in those days folks 'made preparations' to go abroad--the dear, fussy, old-fashioned creatures! now it is like riding to staten island, with the exception of the sleeps and meals in between. one of the most delightful men i know goes to europe every year with no other impedimenta than a walking stick--he is so used to a cane that he must have it for his constitutionals on deck--and a toothbrush; he gets his changes of linen from the head steward--i believe he knows every head steward afloat; and he is such a cheerful steamer companion, because he is unhampered by luggage, that it is a delight to be his fellow voyager. once, when i was a young woman ("you are so aged and decrepit now, aren't you?" murmured louise.) i went on board a steamer to wish some friends _bon voyage_. it was rather a cheerless day in new york, with overcast skies. i thought of sunny italy. and so i went along with them, in the clothes i was standing in, and i had the most enjoyable voyage of my life." thus laura chattered on, eager to take louise's mind off the previous night's experience which, even without having heard any of the details, she well knew must have been a trying one. during the night laura had decided to start within the week on the trip to europe which she made every year. the climactic turn in louise's affairs, which had by no means been unexpected by laura, had prodded her to this decision. she had meant to take louise abroad with her early in may at any rate; now, however, that her young friend, whom she had come to regard with an encompassing affection, was in obvious distressing straits, an almost immediate withdrawal of her from painful scenes would, laura felt, be at least an attempt at a solution. a few months abroad would enable louise to shake off the bravely-borne but none the less wearing depression which had taken possession of her when she found herself so unexpectedly thrust into a horribly difficult situation--a situation which laura now blamed herself for not having actively sought to terminate before the interposition of the incident, whatever had been its nature, which had caused the girl to leave the house on the drive in the middle of the night. and laura, meditating these things as she lay awake, declared in her heart that louise should never again be subjected to a renewal of that ordeal. without any questioning, louise, after a little actual planning with laura for the early trip abroad, told the older woman what had happened at the house on the drive on the previous night. she went over the details calmly enough, grouping judd's brutal utterances into a few phrases which presented the picture almost as plainly to laura's mental vision as if she had been actually present at what she knew must have been a scene sufficiently searing in its effect upon a girl yet under twenty and fresh from school. it was only when she came to her mother's flaccid, vacillating part in the affair that louise's voice weakened a little. "she disappointed me, laura," said louise, feelingly. "i would not say that to anybody else but you. but she did. i don't know just what to think. i thought that, having returned in time to hear at least some of the things that were said to me, she would come with me when she saw how impossible it was for me to stay there. i can't even guess why she did not. that was the worst part of it--her remaining there. and now i am afraid that i did wrong in leaving her. perhaps there was something to prevent her leaving. it may be that if i had stayed on with her for a while longer she might have----" laura interrupted her with a gesture. "don't say that, louise," she put in, earnestly. "you must not do yourself injustice. that wouldn't be fair. your mother is one of my oldest friends; we were girls together. but right is right. your mother should never have permitted you to so much as set foot in that house. i am not disloyal to her in saying that. she herself knows in her heart that it is true. but, having been allowed to go there, you did your part; you played the game, as one says, without complaint; and you stayed as long as you could. you have nothing to reproach yourself for. your mother herself, i think, will be fair enough to acknowledge that. and you are never to go back there. that, of course, is settled. the situation must work itself out in some other way. i feel perfectly confident that your mother will see it all in the right light, and before very long; probably while you are abroad with me. she will miss you. and it is right that she should miss you. missing you, she will come to a realization of what she is sacrificing for--what? that, dear, is my prediction as to the way it will all come out. but you must not think of reproaching yourself for the step you have taken, nor even dream of retracing that step." during the forenoon laura telephoned blythe, giving him an outline of what had happened. "it was inevitable, of course," was blythe's brief comment over the 'phone. "since it had to come, i am glad that it is over with--better now than later. may i come up to see you?" "to see _me_--hypocrite!" laura answered, laughing--and she could hear blythe hastily and rather fumbling hanging up the receiver. blythe arrived at laura's early in the afternoon and his arrival was a signal for laura to profess burdensome housekeeping cares in a distant part of the apartment. this time louise's feeling in blythe's presence was not a mere vague shyness, but genuine embarrassment. she had thought of him a great deal during the night, particularly of that which had passed between them during the ride in the park. now she flushed at the thought that she had even passively permitted such a thing, much less have seemed to invite it. her mother's position, and the stigma which, she could not but feel, that position placed upon herself, now seemed, with the humiliating incident of the night before fresh in her mind, to forbid the continuation of any relationship between blythe and herself other than that of guardian and ward. it was purely from a sense of consideration for blythe, a man who had won his way in the world in the teeth of almost insuperable obstacles, that louise resolved that there must be an abridgement of their gradually growing intimacy. she had sighed in making that mental decision, for the relationship had been very agreeable and--and something else which she could not quite analyze; but she shrank from certain intuitive forecastings involving blythe's progress toward the goal he had set for himself, which she feared a continuation of their closer relationship might develop. blythe was quick to notice her altered manner, expressed by a reserve which, with the penetration of an alert mind, he could not but see was studied. he was puzzled by it; but he attributed it, after a moment of rapid pondering, to the effect of the shock from which he knew she must still be suffering. nevertheless he was conscious of a sudden depression which for a while he found it difficult to throw off. louise spared him the difficulty of making the first adversion to that which she knew was uppermost in his mind--her course, that is, now that she had voluntarily, but under the press of circumstance, detached herself from an impossible environment. more guardedly than she had related the incident to laura, louise told him of the affair; but he was more than able to fill in the grisly details. "what i cannot understand," she said, not in any tone of reproach, but earnestly enough, "is the fact that i was not told, particularly after i left school, that i was so intolerably indebted to--to that man. my impression always was so different. i never doubted that my father was providing for me. i was given to understand that when i was a young girl, and i never thought anything different. it would have been difficult, of course i know, to tell me any such a thing while i was at school; but i can't help but believe that i should have been told when i went to live in that house. i doubt if i could have stayed there had i known, even to be near my mother; i should have found some other way of meeting her. it is unthinkable that i should be in that man's debt. i shall not remain in his debt, at any rate, to the extent of the amount my father sent me recently. i shall use that, at all events, to help rid myself of such an intolerable obligation." blythe then explained it all to her: how her father had never ceased to make provision for her, even after blythe had informed him that his remittances were being rejected; how, when he had seen her father in honolulu, he had been instructed to deposit the remittances as a fund for louise's future use, and he named the amount which he was holding for her. louise's eyes lighted up when she heard this. "i shall send the entire amount to that man," she said, in precipitate decision, "to reimburse him for what he has expended for me." blythe was forced to repress a smile. "that decision does you credit, louise," he said quietly. "but it is out of the question. the man not only would not accept the reimbursement, but, in offering it, you would simply give him another opportunity to mortify you by returning it. that is what he would do. he is very rich, and he has the porcine pride of riches. he would keenly enjoy the flourish of thrusting back at you the offered reimbursement, just enjoy as he enjoyed--i hate to say it, but i must to make matters clear--thrusting back the quarterly remittances of your father." "but why did you not tell me these things when my father asked you to become my guardian?" louise asked him. a natural curiosity, but no reproof, marked her tone. "because i did not feel up to it," blythe replied plainly enough. "that would have involved telling you the whole miserable story. i could not do that. nor could laura. we talked it over and we found that neither of us was equal to so gruelling a task. it seemed better to let you gradually grasp the facts yourself. our telling you would not have helped matters. moreover, so far as i was concerned, i did not feel that i had the right to touch upon matters so intimate. it is different now--today. the proscription has been removed. i am now your guardian." louise gave a little start at his last words, and blythe, trained in observation, did not fail to notice the increased lustre of her wide eyes, any more than he neglected to see that she was at some pains to quell words which he felt assured would have been phrases of gladness had she permitted herself to utter them. why was she thus repressing her impulses? blythe immediately concentrated an acute mentality upon the problem. the answer, and the right one, came to him in a flash, as if by telepathic revelation: he understood the reason underlying her new restraint, which he perceived, not without pleasure, she was having difficulty in maintaining. it was from a keener realization of her mother's position: blythe felt so sure of it that he smiled inwardly and was comforted. her mother's position was nothing to him! but how to convince louise of that? he made poor progress of this factor of the problem in trying to study it while talking with louise. he told her that he had only been notified that morning that the court had appointed him her guardian. "are you prepared to be severely disciplined?" he asked her. he felt in vastly better spirits since arriving at what he felt assured was the correct solution as to louise's manifestly changed manner toward him. "i rather believe i shall insist upon your permitting me to pick out your frocks and hats. i think i shall have you change at once to quaker garb." louise could not repress a smile at that. she caught herself longing to be on her former plane with him. but her fancied ineligibility, her somewhat morbid consciousness that she was hedged in by circumstances which she had no right even to tacitly ask him to share with her, put a damper upon her temptation to resume her former manner with him. blythe walked to the window and looked out over the park for a silent moment. then he thrust his hand into his breast pocket, brought out a photograph, and handed it to her. "i came upon the picture this morning in rummaging through my safe," he said to her. louise gazed puzzledly at the photograph. it was that of a tall, distinguished-looking man with silvered hair and mustache, dressed in white linen; he was shown standing on the porch of a squat, wide, comfortable-looking bungalow, the open space in front of which was a riot of tropical verdure. louise glanced up at blythe, and her eyes filled. "you must not think it odd that i did not give it to you before this," said blythe, fighting a bit of a lump in his throat. "i've been spending at least two hours every day searching for it ever since--well, ever since i met you on the train," he admitted, his cheeks tingling with the confession. "when was it taken? and is he so--so glorious-looking as this?" asked louise, her enthusiasm over her father's photograph--the first she had ever seen of him, for her mother had resentfully destroyed the earlier ones--overcoming her hardly-maintained restraint. blythe sat down beside her and told her about the picture. he had gotten it from her father upon the occasion of his visit to honolulu nearly three years before. blythe had been summoned to california on some legal business, and, a bit run down from over work, he had made the six-day cruise down to honolulu, partly for recuperation and partly to go over some affairs with george treharne. treharne had come from his plantations on the island of maui to meet him in honolulu. louise sat rapt for more than half an hour while blythe answered her eager questions about her father. he had felt a delicacy about expanding on that subject so long as the girl was domiciled with her mother; now, however, that louise had been literally forced to the severance of at least her constant propinquity to her mother, and, now, too, that he was her guardian in fact instead of in prospect, he felt at liberty to throw off that reserve; and he keenly enjoyed the absorption with which she listened to his account of her father, nearly every detail of which was absolutely new to her. "how i should love to see him!" louise exclaimed, sighing, when at length blythe rose to leave. "i am promising myself the intense satisfaction and pleasure of taking you to see him, louise--some day," blythe said, tacking on the last two words when he caught her scarlet flush. it was not until after he had spoken that he reflected that what he had said might easily be open to one very lucid and palpable interpretation; but that interpretation so fitted in with what he meant to encompass, all conditions being fair and equal, that he refused to stultify himself by modifying or withdrawing his words. and louise's beauty was heightened when she flushed in that way, anyhow! laura, with the skillfully-assumed air of one who had been excessively busy, came in at that moment. "well, mr. ogre-guardian, are you going to be at the pier to wish us _bon voyage_?" she asked blythe. blythe stared at her. laura stared back at him. "do you mean to tell me," exclaimed laura, laughing, "that, after you've been here more than a solid hour, louise has not told you? in heaven's name, what else could you two have been talking about?" "don't keep me oscillating on this--this ten-thousand-revolutions-to-the-minute fly-wheel, please, laura," said blythe, blankly. "what are you talking about?" "then it is true that louise hasn't told you we are going abroad next week?" "next week?" blythe's jaw fell. "why, i thought surely she would have finished asking your guardianly permission--and everything by this time," said laura, shaking a finger at louise. "but i can see how it is going to be: she means to wheedle me into asking her guardian all the terribly difficult things." "but are you really going so--so scandalously soon?" inquired blythe, for a moment genuinely glum. "why, new york will seem like some miserable tank town plunged in stygian darkness without you and----" "oh, finish it!" dared laura when he came to a sudden halt. but blythe did not, for already his mind was grasping the fact that the plan was a good one, as laura's plans generally were. he did not try to convince himself that he would not miss them both sorely; laura for her cordial, unexacting friendship and _camaraderie_ and louise because----he knew equally well why he should miss louise, but there was a shyness about this man even in his self-communings, and so he did not go to the bottom of that in his summary reflection on the project. laura's keen eye detected that there was something distrait in louise's manner with blythe, and, wondering, she made another escape in order to permit blythe to make his devoirs to one instead of to two. blythe took louise's hands in his and gradually, by mere silent compulsion, drew her averted eyes into a direct line with his own, which were smiling and alight with an utter frankness. "louise," he said, going straight to the point, "i know what is in your mind and why you are holding me at a little more than arm's length. i am glad to say, although i am a little sorry that you do not already know it, that you are absolutely wrong; not hopelessly wrong, because you are going to see the matter differently when you are less troubled in mind than you now are. i wish such an idea had not entered your mind. i believe it would not have entered your mind had you known me better." louise, startled that he should have read her so clearly as his words denoted, replied, with no great conviction that what she said was exactly true: "does not the very fact that you seem to understand so clearly furnish the best evidence?" but that sounded rather inconsequential to her, and she went on flurriedly: "i don't mean just that. perhaps i do not know precisely what i do mean," averting her head again in her confusion, "now that you----" and she came to a futile end. "now that i read you aright, you were about to say," said blythe, smiling gravely. "well, i am not going to be ungenerous enough to triumph over you because you have virtually admitted that you were wrong--for you have so admitted, haven't you?" louise remained silent, her head still averted; but her hands still rested in blythe's. "haven't you?" said blythe; and she was conscious that his grasp upon her hands was tightening. blythe peered around to catch a view of her face, and he saw that she was faintly smiling. he did not let go of her hands, nor did she appear at all eager to have him do so. "i have an appointment for which i am already late, and i am keen to have a look at my watch," went on blythe, quite cheerfully, without in the least relaxing his possession of her hands. "but of course i can't look at it--i can't do anything but remain here for a week, say--until you tell me that you are wrong." louise turned her natural face upon him and nodded brightly--conquered, and willing to be; there was, she noticed, an inviting little hollow in his coat, between his left shoulder and the rise of his chest, which she vaguely imagined would be a very inviting spot upon which to rest, if even for a transitory moment, a tired head; blythe was conscious of a decided response when he pressed her hands just before releasing them; and when he went out she felt that the room, somehow, had become a little darker than it had been. she knew that he had understood, and she appraised his fineness in telling her that she had been wrong at its true value; but she was not entirely convinced, and she recoiled from the thought of permitting him to make any sacrifice for her sake. but she was glad that he had divined what had been in her mind, and her heart gave a little leap when she thought that, if ever there was to be any computation of or allusion to a sacrifice, it would be on her side, and not on his; she knew now that he was above even the thought of entertaining, much less measuring, such a consideration. her mother came to laura's late in the afternoon, very downcast, very plaintive on the subject of how terribly she already had missed louise. judd, with his customary morning penitence, had seen her at noon and made his usual abject apology; and he had endured the lash of her scornful tongue with a shaky consciousness that his conduct had been pretty outrageous even for him. he did not acknowledge how set back he was, however, when mrs. treharne, a tirade over, let fall the fact that louise had gone to laura's, and the additional fact that louise, having been placed under john blythe's guardianship at her father's direction, would be very well looked after and provided for. but judd wondered, nevertheless, just how these facts would dovetail with langdon jesse's sweet scheme to have louise relegated, under judd's provision, to the depressing and chastening surroundings of a "five-by-eight flat." louise's heart went out to her mother when mrs. treharne, in an effusion of tears, told her how hideously lonesome the house on the drive was and would continue to be without her; but the girl had difficulty in matching this with the undeniable fact that, when she told her mother that she would be sailing for europe within a week, mrs. treharne, drying her tears, offhandedly pronounced that the plan was a very wise one and would be the best imaginable thing for louise. louise, as often before, was stunned by the palpable contradiction afforded by her mother's tears over what she called her lonesomeness and, in the next moment, her dry-eyed approval of a trip that would place an ocean between them. she wanted to go with laura and she meant to go; but she was conscious of a sinking of the heart when she found that, far from seeking to deter her, her mother appeared not only willing but anxious to have her go. mrs. treharne's one thought, of course, was that the trip would give her a breathing spell, "give her a chance to think," as she futilely expressed it to herself; for her life had become one continuous procrastination. louise, she considered, would be "broadened by travel" and sheared of some of her "old-fashioned notions." and, while louise was gone, she herself could "think things over" and block out a course. a misty, intangible idea of abandoning judd already had crept into her mind, in her self-searching, self-contemning moments; perhaps, while louise was across the sea, she might be able to evolve some plan whereby----and here her musings halted when she came plumb upon the thought of the surrender of luxuries that her abandonment of judd would involve, the scrimping and saving of a "narrow, smug existence with smug, narrow people." anyhow, louise's absence from the scene would "give her time to think." that was the main point. but louise, who had been lonesome for her mother, now found herself lonesome in her mother's presence. * * * * * judd met langdon jesse at the club a few nights later. "judd," jesse sneered, "you are, all in all, about the most accomplished damned blunderer in the western hemisphere, aren't you?" "that will be about all of that from you," growled judd in reply. he had got out of the cotton market with, as he put it, an "unpunctured pelt," so that he had no present fear of the vindictive machinations of the younger man. "a civil tongue between your teeth henceforth in your dealings with me, or we don't deal. do you get that?" "oh!" said jesse, eloquently. he surrendered the whip hand with his customary deftness. "but you'll remember, i suppose," going on suavely, "that you told me that miss treharne was a virtual dependent of yours?" "well," snarled judd, "supposing i really thought so? how about that?" "oh, if you really thought so, why of course that's different," said jesse, graciously. "but you were pretty wrong, weren't you? you separated her from her mother on that presumption by bawling at her as if she had been a chambermaid; and all the time she was virtually, as she is now in fact, under the guardianship of that toploftical blythe fellow; she is living with mrs. stedham, with whom she starts for europe in a few days, and she is more than amply provided for by her father. in all candor, and between man and man, could you possibly have botched things worse than you did upon your mistaken premise?" "you mean botched the thing so far as you are concerned, eh?" growled judd. "well, things were botched for you in that direction before you ever started. you've been kicking around long enough to know when you're left at the post; but you don't know it, all the same. anyhow, count me out of your confounded woman-hunting schemes in future, understand? i've got enough to do to attend to my own game. play your own hand. but you're butting your head against a stone wall in this one instance, let me tell you that." "is that so?" inquired jesse, with no sign of perturbation or discouragement. "well, to adopt your somewhat crude metaphor, i'll play the hand out, and i'll show you the cards after i've finished. will you want to see them?" "oh, go to the devil," virtuously replied judd. chapter x late in the afternoon of the day before louise and laura were to sail, john blythe, having fled his office and a great mass of work at an unusually early hour and without any conscientious scruples whatever, strode up and down, back and forth, the entire length of his apartment--barring the kitchen--many dozens of times. he subjected his hair to an absurd hand-tousling as he paced; he kicked up corners of the rugs and then kicked them into place again on the next trip back; he stopped at tables to pick up books, glancing at their titles with unseeing eyes and then tossing them back on the tables with a bang; once he picked up an ordinary match-safe that he had owned for years, and caught himself holding it out in front of him and staring curiously at it--but really far, far beyond it--as if he had never before clapped an eye upon it, and, emerging for a moment from that trance, he replaced the match-safe on the table with a flickering smile. noticing all of which from the kitchen out of the corners of her solicitous and suspicious eyes, sarah became worried. sarah was the stout, grey-wooled colored woman who managed, not to say ruled, john blythe's bachelor establishment, including john blythe himself. she had been blythe's boyhood nurse, and, never having been entirely out of touch with him through all of his early struggles, she had returned to him when he had won his way and set up his solitary lares and penates. she was highly privileged. there were times, indeed, when she exercised the actual veto power; as for example, when blythe wanted to shift too early into lighter-weight linen, or sought to rush off to an appointment without his breakfast, and so on. now, polishing a glass to give her hands something to do, she appeared at the door of the kitchen, completely filling it, and waited for blythe to stride back that way. so intense was his absorption that he did not see her until she coughed remindfully. then he looked up and at her--still without seeing her, as she well knew. "yo' all ain't sick, is yo' mistuh john?" inquired sarah, gazing at him slantwise and showing a good deal of the whites of her eyes. blythe didn't hear her. he gazed right through her, and, thence on, through the rear wall of the kitchen. after quite a pause, however, it was borne in upon his consciousness that she had said something. "how is that, sarah?" he asked her, coming to a standstill. "ah said, is yo' tuk sick, suh?" repeated sarah. "dis heah crazy, triflin', no-'count n'yawk weathuh is 'nough tuh mek anybody tuhn ovuh an' die, an' ah got de misuhy in mah haid mahse'f. is yo' got any fevuh, suh? yo' face looks raid on de tips o' de cheeks." blythe, only half-hearing, felt tentatively of the "raid" spots on his cheeks, which, as a matter of fact, were decidedly flushed. then he thrust his hands into his pockets and resumed his up-and-down pacing, saying: "oh, i'm all right, sarah. not a bit under the weather. just--er--fixing up a case, that's all." sarah, polishing away at the glass, gazed intently at his back as he walked away. then she slowly turned and re-entered the kitchen, muttering to herself: "can't tell _me_ no sich conjingulatin' stuff--'fixin' up a case.' de case dat boy is fixin' up weahs petticoats an' puffs an' maybe one o' dese heah d'rectory dresses--ah reckon ah can tell de symptoms!" wherein, as to the main point of her suspicion, the sagacious sarah was exactly right. john blythe was indubitably, whole-heartedly, whole-mindedly in love with louise treharne. he knew that. he had known it for some time. that, however, in accordance with a by no means uncommon rule in such cases, was, he considered, an exceedingly unimportant factor in the problem. the problem, briefly stated, was this: what did louise treharne think of him? he remembered now, with impatience, his words to louise in the park, when he had hoped that she might accept his "devotion as a man," and her reply. his "devotion as a man?" that, blythe reflected, might mean anything, especially to a girl placed in a difficult position and, as a natural consequence, in need of all the devotion of any sort that might be offered her. had louise understood his words as he had meant them? blythe, with the customary self-depreciating pessimism of the lover, was afraid she had not. he reproached himself for not having made his meaning more plain--another grisly pastime in which love-possessed males indulge for the purpose of making themselves even more acutely miserable. immediately atop of this regret that he had not been more explicit, he flared at himself and decided that he would have been an inexcusable scoundrel had he done anything of the sort. it would have been taking a mean and an unworthy advantage of her in her distress. then he pondered the few words of hers that had so thrilled him. what, after all, had they amounted to? she had said that she was ready to accept his devotion. what of that? devotion, how? devotion, from whom? why, her guardian-to-be, of course! how else could her words possibly be viewed by a sane man? what right had he to seek to torture her simple utterance into anything more meaningful, more solacing to his wretched self-esteem? at this point of his cogitations blythe became quite indignant with himself. here he was (he reflected, figuratively hiding his head), a man of thirty-two who had been brushing elbows with the world's people nearly all his life, and wearing a few more than the average number of scars to show for it--here he was, actually thinking of pouncing upon a girl of nineteen, who had scarcely forgotten the discipline of school; actually contemplating the imbecility (why, worse than that--the crime!) of hurling himself and his love at her, before she had so much as had a chance to meet any other man or men, before, in fact, she had had even a chance to turn around--for hadn't he (accidentally or not) begun to vaguely form these idiotic notions on the very day she was leaving school? and what would be her natural implication? that he was seeking to take advantage of her inexperience and her helplessness, solely on the strength of his being her legal guardian! he had been all wrong (he mentally maundered on) the other day at laura's when he had attributed louise's perfectly proper restraint with him to her keener realization of her mother's ostracized status in its bearing upon her own position. what had louise's mother's status to do with louise? and hadn't he been a complaisantly self-satisfied numbskull to suppose that this was the reason for louise's obvious aloofness on that day! the truth was (still he drivelled on, never sparing himself) that she had come to a perfectly proper realization of how presumptuous he, blythe, had been in his attitude toward her, and she had distinctly meant to indicate to him in an unmistakable manner that any aspirations of that kind on his part might as well be immediately suppressed, inasmuch as they were foredoomed to fail. true (taking again for the moment his own case as plaintiff), the love of any reasonably honest and fairly successful man for a woman ought to be at least worth considering, and louise treharne was the first woman he had wholly loved; other little affairs, scattered through the flown years, had been mere inconsequentialities, the mutual amusements (and so mutually understood) of an hour, a day, a week, perhaps, at most, a month. three months before blythe would have smiled, if he had not laughed outright, if any smirking imp had whispered to him that the time was quite close at hand when he would be shamefully neglecting his decidedly important practice because of his work-disqualifying absorption in thoughts, not to say dreams, of a woman. and yet here he was, supposedly a self-contained, level-headed man of the law, a man rigorously trained in the austere school of experience--here he was, sighing like a furnace, drawing meaningless pictures on blotting pads when he should have been preparing briefs, forgetting his meals, to sarah's profound worriment and scandalization, and walking the world in a veritable schoolboy trance! blythe, in lucid moments, caught himself smiling inwardly at the thought of it. was he sorry that such a thing had come to be? he quickly beat down that trivial question, tentatively submitted by his subconsciousness. schoolboy, furnace-sigher, sentimentalist, imbecile, what not--he was glad! ceaselessly pacing the apartment, then, and mulling the matter over, first condemning himself for his presumptuousness and then wondering in a blank sort of a way if louise herself took this view of his attitude, blythe found himself on the horns of his life's dilemma. it would not be so bad, he thought with a catch at the throat, if she were not going away; but the thought of the wide atlantic rolling between them caused his heart to thump against his ribs and incited him to rumple his hair still more outrageously. at length, seized by an idea, he walked into his study, closed the door after him, sat down at his desk telephone, and called up laura. very promptly he heard her musically rising "well?" "greetings, laura," he said. "this is your insane friend, john blythe." "greetings, deserter blythe," replied laura. "you have not been to see us for an age. and how long have you been insane?" "for several months, i believe. i am hardly a competent witness as to that." "i am so distressed to hear it--when your career and--and everything looks so promising, too!" "'everything?' define 'everything.'" "i haven't the gift of being specific. you have. what, then, is the most convincing manifestation of your insanity?" "i am thinking of taking a great chance; prematurely, and therefore insanely." "you are talking rationally enough. perhaps your madness is a sort of recurrent mania, with lucid intervals?" "no, there are no lucid intervals. at this moment i am obsessed by a fear of the perils of the sea." "that is odd, considering that you are not going to sea. are you?" "no; but you are--and she. is she with you now?" "no; she is in her room writing a letter to her father, the first she has ever written to him. a little sad, is it not? i am in my dressing room, quite comfortable, thank you, with my elbows on my writing desk; and so there is no danger of interruption. what is it you wish to tell me, john? or ask me, perhaps?" "it is something both to tell you and to ask you. in about an hour from now i want to ask louise if she will marry me. that's the telling. the asking is this: would that be a fair thing to do?" "such druid-like deliberation! you speak, john, as if you were leading up to asking one for a cup of tea!" "do i? well, i am mindful of this somewhat open medium of communication. believe me, i feel anything but deliberate. but my question: would it be fair?" "how could it possibly be viewed as anything else but fair?" "because the circumstances are unusual. in the first place, i am almost the only man she knows--that she has had a chance to know. then, i am her guardian. would it not be rather presumptuous, not to say downright unfair, for me to take advantage of these things?" "that, i think, is what might be called an obliquely conscientious view, john." "then the disparity in our ages." "the difference between nineteen and thirty-two hardly constitutes a case of may and december. another wholly trivial consideration of yours. thirteen years' difference--and, by the way, haven't i heard you affirm that thirteen is your lucky number?" "finally, i haven't the least imaginable reason for supposing that she has ever thought of me in that respect." "haven't you? how perfectly unimportant! isn't that quite the rule? how many men ever believed they were considered as possibilities until they endured the travail of finding out?" "you are riotously optimistic this afternoon. i wish i were in the same humor. i think i shall be in need of a mood like that very soon." "what a glorious opportunity for me to work in that antique bromidiom, 'faint heart ne'er won,' and so forth. but i shan't. in an hour, you said?" "about an hour." "don't expect to see me. i am horribly busy packing silver and things. perhaps i may see you a moment before you leave. if not, then at the steamer in the morning." "i wish i had words to tell you what a trump you are, laura." "i wish i had words to tell you how delighted i am, john." "not prematurely delighted, i hope, good friend. at this moment i find myself believing that the perils of the sea are nothing to certain perils of the land. goodbye." "goodbye. don't lose confidence in your lucky number--even if you do call it a 'disparity!'" * * * * * it would have been the obvious thing for laura, after her telephone conversation with blythe, to at least intimate to louise that she was upon the verge of an event quite universally and correctly deemed of considerable importance in a young woman's life--her first proposal. most women in laura's place would have done so. but laura's dislike for the obvious was almost a part of her religion. she had none of the benevolent marplot in her composition. she made it a point never to interfere with symmetrical sequences. her own unhappy marital experience had by no means bereft her of sentiment; and she felt that a girl about to receive an offer of marriage should be entitled to enjoy the surprise--and in this case she knew it would be a surprise--inhering to so important an occasion. so laura, although she visited louise in her room after her telephone talk with blythe, said nothing about it; but she craftily intimated, in order that louise might look her best, that she would not be greatly surprised if blythe were to drop in. the intimation was sufficient. louise, a very human woman, promptly proceeded, as soon as laura returned to her own quarters, to correct even her most trifling disarrays; so that when blythe (astonishingly conforming to laura's prophecy, louise thought) arrived she looked very lovely in a one-piece dress of quaker-grey rajah, with a band of grey velvet, which somehow suggested to blythe the insignia of a princess, around her wonderful hair. she was at the piano, striving, soft pedal down, to extract musical sense from strauss' "salome" (impossible task!) when blythe came in. he noticed her grey dress at once. "it is a comfort to have such a tractable, obedient ward," he said, studying the dress approvingly when she rose to greet him. "here, a little less than a week after i threatened to insist upon your adopting the quaker garb, i find that you've voluntarily assumed it--the color, at any rate. i know some guardians who would envy me." louise, quickly at ease--which had been blythe's purpose in beginning with persiflage--smiled with a woman's usual deprecation of a complimented costume. "seeing that i have had this dress for more than a year," she said, "my obedience must have become an unconscious habit before i knew you." blythe, a trained hand at sparring, took advantage of the opening. "before you knew me, perhaps, louise," he said. "but not before i knew you. aren't you forgetting that i knew you when you still believed in kris kringle and hans andersen?" he sighed with rather too smiling an assumption of melancholy. "that reflection, i confess, makes me feel pretty aged." "does it?" asked louise. "you forget that, if it makes you feel aged, it should make me feel at least middle aged, don't you? and i believe in santa claus and in fairy tales yet, i think." then, resuming the first thread: "it seems singular that there should have been a time when you knew me and i didn't know you; that is, to remember you. for i didn't remember you at all on the train that day. come to think of it, you didn't remember me, either, until you were reminded--that telegram, you know. an odd chance, was it not?" "so odd," said blythe, "that i catch myself wondering what my life had been before and what it would be now if--" he paused, already groping for words;--"if i had missed that train." louise, far from missing his meaning, grasped it so acutely that blythe caught the tell-tale color mounting to her face. "and now i am wondering," he went on, gazing for comfort at his nails, "since we are on the subject, whether my having known you for such a long, long time confers upon me the privilege of--well, of being entirely candid with you?" "i should expect candor, in any case--from you," said louise, trying desperately to concentrate her mind upon something quite matter-of-fact in order to keep her color down. "why, particularly, from me?" said blythe, grasping at straws. "oh, i can hardly say--because you are the embodiment of candor, or candor itself," said louise. "aren't you?" "i don't know," he answered as if really in doubt about it--as he was. "it seems to me that if i actually possessed that quality in such a high degree, i should have proved it to you, louise, before this. proved it, for example, in the park the other afternoon." louise knew quite well what he meant. moreover, it never occurred to her to pretend that she did not know. "are you sure that you did not?" she asked him, flushing, but with a direct enough gaze. "i am afraid that i did not," said blythe, nervously rising and facing her. "perhaps it was as well, too. for the first time in my life i am in more than one mind as to whether a certain sort of candor is always desirable." having thus plunged into the domain of the purely ethical, blythe could scarcely have expected an offhand reply. as a matter of fact, he got no reply at all. "what i am striving to say, i suppose, louise," he went on, taking himself a little better in hand, "is that, after you sail tomorrow, i am going to be more lonesome than i have ever been in my life before." "is that so hard to say?" louise asked. "not when it is rewarded by so helpful an answer," said blythe, conscious of a throbbing at his temples. "i do not find it in the least hard to say that i shall miss you," said louise, frankly enough; nevertheless, to give herself countenance, she picked up from the table a little carved ivory tiger and examined it with great apparent curiosity. "miss me for--for my guardianly wisdom and ghostly counsel?" said blythe, his wide smile visibly nervous. then, when there was a pause, he pressed the point: "is that it, louise?" her silence did not imply affirmation, and, the throbbing at his temples increasing, blythe knew it. he bent over her chair, gently but firmly removed the ivory tiger from her hands, took one of them in his own, and said: "listen to me, louise. i am fearful, if i do not plunge ahead, of becoming entangled in a weave of subtleties. i don't want to be incoherent, even if my excuse would be that i became so while taking a desperate chance. i haven't the least idea what you think of me--i don't mean as your guardian and interested friend, but as a man very susceptible to human impulses. but i am not debarred from finding out. and i should have no right to ask you such a question before telling you, as i tell you now, that i love you." she rose as he spoke, her hand still tightly grasped in his, and their eyes mingled. "you have set a new light to glow within me. i am conscious of a new propulsion that i never knew before--that i did not believe existed until i met you as a woman grown. it means everything to me--the world and all. i do not know that i am fair in saying this to you. i am incapable of judging. i do know that i want to be fair. after all, there is no unfairness in my simply telling you that i love you. it would be different, i think--but you are to judge of that--if i were to ask you to marry me--yet. but that, louise, is what i came here to ask you." there is no eloquence, however ornately phrased, to compare with that of a man or a woman who is altogether in earnest. louise thrilled under the quiet, but, as she knew, deeply-felt words of this man whose clear-cut, rugged face, as he spoke, became positively handsome. she placed an impulsive hand on his arm. "i told you that i should miss you," she said haltingly, but with a womanly sweetness that moved him like a harp-chord. "and i could not miss you if i did not care for you? i do care for you--as much as i esteem and honor you; and that is a great deal. i have not yet asked myself, i think, if i love you. it may be that i do. if to miss you dreadfully when i do not see you every day--and, until now, i had not seen you for nearly a week!--is--is that, then perhaps i--" blythe, fighting, as if in actual conflict with something tangible, the temptation to take her in his arms, grasped her other hand. his face was very close to hers, and her curved, girlish lips sent his blood swirling with their maddening proximity. but he held himself in a vise, knowing that the hour had not yet struck for their contact of lips. "it is enough that you care for me, louise," he said, hoarsely fervid; and he felt as weak as a man who has successfully come through a great peril. "i could ask no more; i ask no more. your caring for me is, i know now, more than i ever hoped or dreamed. it is enough--for now. it is a start." he smiled vaguely at the homeliness of his phrase. "i scarcely know what i am saying, louise. but it doesn't much matter what a man says, does it, when he is happier than he has ever before been in his life?" she raised the hand which had been resting on his arm and took hold, with thumb and forefinger, of a button of his coat. the unconscious little intimacy set his pulses to throbbing again. "i shall know when i come back," she said to him with a simplicity that was almost quaint, "whether--whether my caring for you is more than just that. i believe that it is, but--but there are reasons--you know what they are--that restrain me from owning it, even if i knew positively; which i do not, yet, john." john! a quiver ran through the man, which, as she still was unconsciously toying with the button of his coat, she could not help but feel. "louise," he said, bending so close to her that he felt her cool, fragrant breath upon his cheek, "i want you to call me that; but not again now. there must be an interval--tonight, say--for me to become used to it. i warn you of my irresponsibility if you call me that again before tomorrow. and i am not minding, my dear, about what you do not know positively. neither am i presuming upon it. you have made me happy enough. everything else can wait. you are not committed. i wouldn't dream of holding you committed. your life is still all your unpromised own. i tell you that it is enough for me now--it will be enough for me hereafter, if nothing else is to be--to know that i am even cared for, have been cared for, by a woman like you. i am going now. my heart is raging with love and honor for you; i want to get out underneath the sky; feel the cold upon my face so that i shall know i am not dreaming. goodbye, dear, until i send you away from me--send you away, not with wretchedness and despair in my heart, but with hope, and light, and happiness--tomorrow!" and he pressed her hands, gazed at her with wide, kindling eyes, and went reeling from the room, as one who seeks a secure footing after many days at sea. laura, by design, was standing in the doorway of her sitting room when he passed unsteadily out. "well?" she said to him. "did the 'disparity' number win, john?" he stopped, gazed at her for an instant unseeingly, then shook himself together and grasped her outstretched hands. "i may be a john o' dreams, dear friend," he said to her huskily. "in fact, i am sure that i am, right now. but it is worth a little delirium to find that, after all, i am not actually insane," and he strode out, laura watching him with a dimpling face. after a while laura went in and found louise standing musing before a window, seeming to watch the twilight settling upon the vaguely greening park. laura threw an arm around the girl's shoulder and kissed her. "did he tell you, dear?" louise asked, turning. "not in words," replied laura. "but one surmises. the air has been charged with it. i know, of course, that he has been worshipping you as did the shepherd of old a distant star. and you, heart of hearts?" "i seem, somehow, to have been loving him all my life," said louise. "did you tell him so?" asked laura. "i am afraid that he, too, surmises," said louise, smiling shyly. chapter xi "american letters!" exclaimed laura, turning the packet over eagerly. "some rainy afternoon--which means, probably, this afternoon, even if the sun _is_ shining smokily now--i am going to write a brief but enthusiastic essay, 'for private distribution,' on how good american stamps look on american letters addressed to americans who are not in america--long may she wave!" and she sorted over the just-brought letters with fluttering fingers. "what a lot of america in one sentence!" said louise, her own eyes alight at the bulgy little packet of letters from overseas. "i wish," she added a little wistfully, "america were as near as your patriotism is genuine." "don't _i_!" heartily agreed laura. "could anything be better calculated to inspire patriotism in the american bosom than an occasional inspection of europe--and particularly an occasional residence in london? all americans possessed of the steamship fare should be forced by law to visit europe--particularly london--at least once. then there would be no further trouble in getting soldiers for our army. all of the tourists by mandate would become so patriotic that they would _enlist_ just as soon as they got back to the united states!" then they fell upon their united-states-stamped mail as if the envelopes had contained anxiously awaited reprieves or dispensations, and for the next quarter of an hour the only sounds in the room were the crackling of paper and the absorbed, subdued ejaculations to which women give utterance in perusing letters. the murk-modified morning sunshine of early june in london filtered wanly through the windows of their rooms at the savoy. very close to the consciousness of both women was the keen recollection of glorious junes in the united states, with over-arching skies of sapphire, unstained for days at a stretch even by the fleeciest of golden clouds. louise was confessedly lonesome. laura, who had her london almost at her fingers' ends, was lonesome, too, but not confessedly so. it would be too much to ask a seasoned londoner from new york to admit such a departure from the elemental rule of cosmopolitanism. laura, in london or anywhere else in europe, was lonesome in the abstract, so to speak. her method of giving expression to her feeling was to comment--when no europeans were of her audience, of course--upon the superior comforts and joys of life in the united states, which, to her, meant new york almost exclusively. louise shared the almost inevitable feeling of genuine lonesomeness and unanalyzable oppression which overcomes, to the point of an afflictive nostalgia, most americans of whatever degree who find themselves for the first time in european capitals. they had spent their first fortnight in london; and louise had only been saved from complete dejection during that period by the gayety--somewhat studied and reserved, but still gayety--of laura's troops of friends, english and american, in the city that, for the socially unacclimated american, is the dullest and most hopeless in all europe. paris, whence they had gone from london for a month's stay, had been made endurable to louise by her close fellowship with laura in the older woman's incessant battlings with the milliners and makers of dresses. victory had never failed eventually to perch upon laura's banners at the termination of these conflicts; but the intervening travail had given her young companion more than enough to think about and thus to ward off an ever-recurring depression. she did not call it "homesickness," even to herself; for by this time she had become, if not used, at least reconciled to the thought that she had no real home. one of the least true maxims of all of those having perennial currency is that which declares that "all good americans go to paris when they die." most americans, if the truth could be tabulated, are poignantly disappointed with paris. it is a city where american men of a certain type feel that they have almost a heaven-bestowed license to "throw off responsibility." but "the morning after" knows neither latitude nor longitude, and it is just as dismal and conducive to remorse and good resolutions in paris as it is in any other quarter of the irresponsible world. it takes an american man about a week to become thoroughly disillusioned as to paris. the american woman, who, like women the world over, must preserve her sense of responsibility at all times, even in the french capital, discovers her disappointment with and her weariness of the over-lauded paris in considerably less time than a week. louise found it unutterably tiresome, artificial, insincere, absurdly over-praised. now they had been back in london for three weeks, and she was beginning to wonder when laura would give the "pack-up signal" for the return to new york. whenever she circuitously led up to such a suggestion, however, laura told her how ridiculous it would be to return to new york in june, at the height of the london season; besides, there were thousands upon thousands of people in london whom laura wanted louise to meet; and louise (laura would go on) must fight to overcome her londonphobia, because, after all, london probably would be on the map as a sort of meeting place for peripatetic folk for quite a long time to come; whereupon, with fine feminine inconsistency, laura would round upon london for its primitiveness in the supplying of ordinary comforts, for its incurable smudginess, for the mediæval complaisance of its populace, and for a hundred other matters that made it a mere "widely-spraddled" hamlet in comparison with her beloved new york. additionally, there had been an utter absence of the querulous note, and an unwonted tone of positive sadness, in her mother's letters that gravely disquieted louise. her mother's self-revelations on paper hitherto had been characterized by a sort of acidulous recklessness; her letters to louise while the girl was at school had been long-drawn out epistolary complaints, the pages running over with the acridness of a woman at variance not only with her world but with herself. but the half dozen and odd letters which louise had received from her mother since leaving new york had been of an entirely different character. their tone denoted, not the indifference which proceeds from the callousness of surrender, but the long-deferred awakening of a maternal instinct and a maternal conscience. they were filled with reproaches, not for others, but for herself. in them, too, louise perceived a vein of hopelessness, as of one who has been aroused all too late to the evils and dangers of a self-wrought environment, a self-created peril, which sorely disturbed her daughter. louise's parting with her mother had been tender enough on both sides. the girl had said, simply enough, that she was going away for a while in the hope that there would be an adjustment, a righting, of all things awry with her mother before her return. she felt her helplessness, she added, even to make herself a helpful instrument toward such an adjustment by remaining near her mother; but she hoped and believed that before she came back--and louise had been able to progress no further. nor was there any need. her mother, troubled even beyond the relief of tears by her daughter's words, had taken louise in her arms and cuddled her as if she had been again a child; and her last words had been, "everything will be changed, dear--the slate will be cleansed, and we shall start hand in hand again--before you get back. depend upon that. it is odd, i suppose, that i am beginning to remember my duty to you as a mother before i have made a start toward seeing my duty to myself as a woman. but the two awakenings go together, louise, i find--as you shall see when you return." louise had been quick to detect the implied promise in her mother's words; and her main reason for not being insistent with laura upon an earlier return was that she wanted to give her mother plenty of time to redeem the tacit pledge bound up in her parting words. her letters from blythe had been perfervid variations--the effort at restraint being almost humorously visible between the lines--upon the one theme, the _leit motif_ of which was: "we are to be married: when?" the fact itself, it will be observed, was masterfully taken for granted; the time only remained to be mutually agreed upon, so it appeared to blythe. it was from such a letter as this that louise now looked up and gazed pensively at the reddish rays of smothered london sunshine flickering, with the movement of the curtains, upon the rug. laura herself, just having finished a far more informative letter from blythe, caught the pensive expression and not unnaturally associated it with the still open letter on louise's lap. "of course the man is impatient, dear," she said to louise, weaving without effort into the subject matter of the girl's reflections. "but you must not mind that. being impatient--at such an interesting juncture of their poor, benighted lives, i mean--is good for them. really, it is the best thing that can possibly happen to them. it chastens them, teaches them the benignities, the joys of--er--abnegation and renunciation and things. by the way, louise," veering about with diverting instability, "when do you really and privately mean to get rid of the man by marrying him?" louise, not without an effort, shook herself out of her reverie, folded her letter from blythe with an odd sort of deliberation, and looked frankly enough at laura. "it is not certain, dear," she replied, with no irresolution of tone, "that i shall ever marry him." laura regarded the girl with a gaze of perfectly unaffected stupefaction. "i wonder," she said, as if to herself, "if the acoustics of these london rooms can be so atrocious, or if i am really becoming so old that my hearing already is affected? say that again, child. it isn't possible that i could have heard you correctly." louise was unable to repress a slight smile at the extraordinary bewilderment which was visible on laura's face, but her tone was distinct enough when she repeated: "it is far from a certainty that i shall marry him at all, laura." laura rose from her deep chair, gathered her "getting-up gown" hastily about her, crossed over to where louise was sitting, placed an arm about the girl's shoulder, and gazed wonderingly into her eyes. "it is impossible," she said, "that you two are quarrelling across the wide atlantic? i shall cable john blythe this very hour! it is his fault! it must be his fault!" and she rushed to her escritoire and pretended to fumble for her cable blanks. "of course i know you haven't the least idea of doing any such a thing," said louise, earnestness showing through her composure. "won't you please stop your aimless ransacking and come over and talk with me?" "but," said laura, seating herself by louise, "i am afraid i am too anxious to scold somebody--either you, here and now, or john blythe, by a few stinging words sent under the sea, or--or anybody i can lay my tongue or pen to! really, i am baffled by what you say, louise. of course the man has asked you time and again, since we've been over here, to marry him?" "he scarcely writes about anything else," replied louise, smothering a smile over laura's intense but uninformed earnestness. "and don't i _know_," pursued laura, with a mystified rapidity of utterance, "that he made his incoherent, almost unintelligible declaration to you on the very day before we sailed--didn't i _see_ him as he left, treading on air, and _hear_ him emit the entranced gibberish that customarily mounts to a man's lips at such a time? and you received his declaration as if you had been timing its arrival, and you told me two minutes after he had gone that you loved him. then what in the wide world is the--" laura threw up her hands with a baffled gesture that was almost comic. "i confess myself completely daunted, dear. won't you tell me what it is all about?" louise regarded laura with steady, reflective eyes. "you know how i appreciate your fine, generous impulsiveness, dear," she said to the older woman. "but you must have thought, haven't you, that it would not be fair for me to marry john blythe?" another film of mystification appeared on laura's widened eyes. "fair?" she almost whispered in her amazement. "how do you mean--'fair'? fair to whom--to yourself or to john?" "to him," said louise. "of course it would not be fair to him. i cannot see how there could be two views as to that." laura, arms folded, rose and lithely crossed the room several times, knitting her brow. then she sat down again beside louise. "i think i know what you mean, child," she said. "but of course you are wrong. utterly, hopelessly, pitiably wrong. he isn't that sort of a man. you should know that, dear." "i don't underestimate him--far from that," said louise. "it is just because he isn't that sort of a man, as you say, that i shrink from the thought of being unfair with him--of permitting him to do himself an injustice." "but," said laura, "he is not a cubbish, haphazard lad. he is a man--a real man. he knows and gauges the world. more and better than that, he knows himself. i should have difficulty in recalling the name of any man who knows his mind better than john blythe does his." "i know that, laura," said louise. "but his unselfishness is too fine a thing to be taken advantage of. he has made his way unaided. he has had a long fight. he will never cease to mount. why should i hamper him?" "hamper him!" exclaimed laura. "child, how can the woman a man loves hamper him?" "your partiality causes you to generalize, dear," said louise. "my case--our case, if you will--is entirely different." she took a turn up and down the room and then confronted laura calmly. "don't you _know_ what the world--_his_ world--would say if he married me?" laura shrugged impatiently. "the 'they sayers'!" she exclaimed. "the 'they sayers' say this, they say that, they say the other thing. and what does their 'they-saying' amount to?" "it would amount to nothing at all in his estimation--i am only too sure of that," replied louise. "but a man who is making his way in the world must even take heed of the 'they-sayers,' as you call them. he cannot ignore them. his unselfish impulse would be, not only to ignore them, but to flaunt them; and all on my account. it would, i think, be simply contemptible for me to permit him to do that." laura studied for a moment, then shook her head despairingly. "my dear," she said, "you are the first girl i ever knew deliberately to erect barriers between herself and the happiness that rightfully belongs to her. what, in heaven's name, has your mother's departure from--from rule to do with you? how has it, how could it, ever involve you, or come between you and the man--the big-minded man--who loves you and whom you love? tell me that." "it could not come between _us_," replied louise. "but the world--the very 'they-sayers' you mention--could and would use it as a thong to punish him. and that is the one thing i could not have. i am the daughter of my mother. i am not very experienced, but i know how the world views these things. the world does not draw lines of demarcation where women are concerned. its ostracism is a very long and heavy whip. its condemnation does not take the least heed of mitigations. i can speak plainly to you, dear--you are of course the only living person to whom i would say these things. but, if i were to permit john blythe to marry me, can you not hear the gruelling comment--comment that, while it might not actually reach my husband's ears, he could not fail to be conscious of? they would say that he had married a girl whose mother had been openly maintained by a man--a man in the public eye--whose wife was living. they would go farther and say--which of course is the simple truth--that i had lived for a time under the roof maintained by that man. and, with such things to go upon, how could the world possibly reach any other conclusion--granting, as you must, the knack the world has for leaping at conclusions--than that john blythe, a growing man, a man destined for distinction, had made a tremendous mistake in his marriage? of course you understand. i have been wanting to say these things to you for a long time, but i could not summon the courage. i wanted to say them to john on the day before we sailed; but i _could_ not." her voice broke, and she gazed out of the window to hide the tears that stood in her eyes. laura, so strongly moved that she deliberately forced herself to think of inconsequentialities to keep back her tears, wrapped her arms about the girl. "my dear," she said, "i am not, i fear, as religious, as reverent a woman as i should be. but i do not believe that god will keep a woman like you and a man like john blythe apart. that would be a deviation from his all-discerning rule in which i simply could not believe. i don't admit that you are right. i don't say now that you are wholly wrong. but, through the very nobility of the view you take, a way shall be found. never doubt that, child. i know that in some ways--many ways--the world is awry enough. but i know, too, that there is not enough injustice in all the world to keep you from the arms of the man who loves you and is beloved by you." * * * * * there were two topics in john blythe's letter to laura that gave her more than a day's material for reflection. one of them concerned louise's mother. "mrs. treharne summoned me a few days ago, and in the evening i went to the house on the drive," blythe wrote. "there seemed to be nothing in particular as to which she wished to see me--except that she was good enough to intimate that she had noticed my 'interest' in louise. (interest!'--when that very evening i'd been cursing the slow progress of the art of aviation, which made it impossible for me to fly to london out of hand--out of wing, i mean.) really, laura, i think the depressed little woman merely wanted to have a talk with somebody about louise, which was why she sent for me. she looks in shocking health. if i read aright, i think she is at least at the beginning of some sort of a decline. better not tell louise this--just yet. there are reasons why i think it would be better for louise to remain abroad with you for a while longer. one of the reasons is this: i gather that mrs. treharne is pretty nigh through with judd. she as much as told me so. i was touched by her lack of reserve in speaking to me of this matter. louise was right. her mother, as louise prophesied to you, is undergoing the miseries of an awakening--a singularly bitter awakening in her case, i fear. i felt and feel intensely sorry for her--she was never wrong at heart, but was caught in the eddy of circumstance. "she hinted, not vaguely, but quite directly, that she was upon the verge of a complete change in her environment--and the intertwined remarks denoted that her keenly-felt humiliation in the eyes of her daughter was at the bottom of the contemplated change, whatever it is to be. i am very confident that it is to be a withdrawal from the protection, if one could call it that, of judd. it is too bad, isn't it, that this did not come just a few months earlier? but (here's a bromidiom for you!) better late than never! think what distress such a withdrawal would have spared louise if it had happened before the child quit school! "but enough of if-it-had-beens. the point is that louise, i feel very sure, has accomplished a wonderful regeneration--the regeneration of her own mother! could there be anything more unheard-of, more marvelous, than that? but it is merely of a piece with the influence which louise has upon everybody. you know that badly-batted-around modern word, 'uplift'? it applies actually, i think, to but one human being in the world: louise. i mean that everybody who comes even slightly under her influence experiences that sense of 'uplift.' i know that _i_ do! and even you, my dear laura, even you ..." ("of course the dear headlong creature is right," thought laura when she read this, "but isn't it hard to picture the self-contained, occasionally even austere john blythe _raving_ so! but they're all alike. i suppose that even alexander, cæsar, and charlemagne privately raved the same way over their sweethearts!") "so you will see," blythe went on in his letter, "why it is better that louise should remain on the other side with you until matters work themselves out here--until, in essence, her mother completely clears her skirts of the wretched judd entanglement; and that, i think, is something very imminent. it will be a joy for louise to be freely and unrestrainedly alone with her mother when she comes back. you understand, of course. so stay over there for another month at least, won't you, petrarch's laura and the laura of all of us?... "a few forenoons ago i came perilously close to getting a bit of needed exercise by throwing a man bodily out of my office--and this will seem the more startling to you when you remember my almost lamb-like non-aggressiveness. i think, though, i should have gone the length of throwing him out of the window had i not mentally visualized, in an unaccustomed access of caution, the large, rampageous red headlines in the afternoon newspapers: 'struggling young (?) lawyer hurls famous financier from fifth story window,' etc., etc. "the man was langdon jesse, whom of course you know. (sometimes i wish you did not know so many sinister persons, but perhaps you can't help it.) probably you are aware that i don't like the jesse individual. i don't believe i am a victim of a prejudice as to him, either. he is a waxy, doughy person who makes the pursuit of women a hobby as decenter men make hobbies of golf, billiards, cigars and so on. i do not lean to the condemnatory tone where men are concerned, but this man's record is too besmudged and his personality too repulsive even for my amiable, non-pharisaical (i hope) taste. i have known him in a general sort of a way for a number of years, but have always been at some pains to make it clear to him that i preferred the sight of his back. "he lounged in upon me the other forenoon, very oily and desirous of exhibiting to me his somewhat rhino-like brand of _savoir-faire_, and he told me that, inasmuch as he was leaving for europe directly, he thought he would ask me if i, as the guardian of miss treharne, would be willing that he should extend the tourist's usual civilities and courtesies to that young lady. can you imagine a more imbecile question? naturally, i was astonished to find that he had even met louise, and you may hold yourself in readiness to be very severely spoken to when you return because you did not inform me of it. seriously, i am inordinately sorry that louise ever did meet him. of course i gave the fellow what the reporters call 'very short shrift.' i can't remember ever having been more annoyed. the impudence of this loathly eden musée lothario, knowing (as he certainly must have known) that i was perfectly familiar with his record and character, coming to me on such a mission! he was upon the pin-point of hinting that a note of recommendation from me, submitting him to the fair opinion of you and louise, might enable him to offer the two of you certain somewhat prized civilities not easily obtainable--when i, without the least attempt at hinting, indicated the general direction of my door and gave him a view of my back. "i haven't the least notion as to what the fellow's actual purpose was, but if, as he claims, he really has met louise, i am perturbed to think that presently he will be in the same hemisphere with her. (i would include you in my perturbation, only i know how thoroughly well able you are to crunch such objects with a mere word, if not, indeed, a simple lifting of the eyebrows.) of course he will not now have the temerity to call upon you in london. but if he does exhibit such hardihood, and in any way attempts to annoy you or louise with his 'prized civilities,' you will let me know at once, of course--by cable, if you think it necessary. i don't know why i have permitted and am permitting myself to be disturbed by this individual's inexplicable little machinations (his whole life, in business and in private, is one huge machination), but i have been and i am. write me just how he contrived to meet louise, won't you?" laura, in reading this, felt considerable compunction over the fact that she had not told blythe of louise's unavoidable meetings with langdon jesse and of the attentions which he had attempted to force upon her. she had not done so because she had frankly feared the possible consequences of blythe's quick-blazing anger. while she would have been willing enough to commit jesse to the corporeal handling of a physically adept man like john blythe, she had no means of knowing in advance whether the story of such a chastisement, if it took place, would become public; and as louise had come under her own protection very soon after her final encounter with jesse, laura had felt that, as the jesse incubus probably had been disposed of for good and all, it would be better not to disquiet blythe by telling him anything about it. she knew that louise had not mentioned jesse to blythe out of a feeling of plain shame that she had been put in the way of meeting a man of his stamp. but laura, after re-reading that part of blythe's letter referring to jesse, found herself vaguely uneasy at the thought that even then he was on his way to london. she determined not to say anything about it to louise. she also determined that london was going to remain large enough for louise and herself and ten thousand langdon jesses; which, interpreted, means that she had not the remotest idea of bolting for it because of jesse's impending arrival. laura also concluded to obey blythe's injunction to say nothing to louise as to her mother's changing affairs. she longed to tell the girl of blythe's forecasting of the approaching dissolution of the relationship between her mother and judd; but she had learned the time-biding lesson, and she disliked to arouse hopes within louise's mind that might not, after all, have fruition. moreover, she had frequently had occasion to test blythe's judgment, and she had always found it sound. "but i wish john blythe would take a vacation of a fortnight or so and run over here," she caught herself meditating. "he would fit into the situation beautifully at the present moment and in some moments that i seem to feel approaching. but there never was a man yet who could recognize the psychological moment even when it paraded before his eyes--much less grasp it by intuition." chapter xii not alone from john blythe had langdon jesse suffered a rebuff in his attempt to gather ammunition, in the form of intimate and more or less mandatory credentials, for his european campaign, in which louise treharne figured as the alluring citadel of his sinister ambition. first he had tried louise's mother with that purpose in view; and in that quarter he had been treated to one of the surprises of his by no means uneventful life. jesse's method of reasoning, in approaching mrs. treharne on such a mission, was in no wise subtle; it was, on the contrary, as plain and pointed as a fence-paling. it all started from the outright premise that jesse "wanted" louise treharne and thoroughly meant to "have" her--for jesse had the merit (negative enough in his case) of never attempting to deceive himself as to his eventual purposes where women were concerned. louise, of course, had plainly given him to understand that she despised him. that, however, was, in jesse's view, a negligible detail. it would make his final conquest all the more satisfying. many women who had begun by disliking him and frankly questioning his motives had ended by yielding to him; whereupon, after basking in the joys of triumph, he had taken a revengeful pleasure in casting them into what, in his self-communings, he brutally termed his "discard." it would be the same, jesse thoroughly believed, in louise's case. she now represented to him a difficulty to be surmounted, a transaction to be successfully carried through. the weakness in the armor of men of the jesse type is that they have little or no imagination. they foresee merely results; and their handling of the means to an end often is singularly clumsy and unadept. in regarding all women, of whatever class, as mere palterers with virtue and self-respect, jesse considered that he was justified by his experience with women; but he made the egregious mistake of supposing that his own experience with women established a criterion, a formula, from which there could be no departure. a week or so before he contemplated going abroad, mainly for the purpose of continuing his besiegement of louise, jesse dropped in at the house on the drive one evening. he was glad to find mrs. treharne alone. he was not unmindful of his boast to judd that he would victoriously overcome what, in his b[oe]otian imagining, he really deemed louise's "prejudice" against him; and he preferred to lay his course without any judd finger on his chart. mrs. treharne, now thin and frail-looking, no longer from banting, but from the conflict with conscience that been consuming her ever since her daughter's departure, received him coldly enough. not the least of her self-scornings since louise had gone away had centered upon her complaisance in tacitly permitting her daughter to be pursued by a man of the langdon jesse type. "i am leaving for england," jesse found early occasion to announce. mrs. treharne, very languid and tired-looking, did not find the announcement sufficiently important to call for comment. "louise, i believe, is in london?" pursued jesse, sensing, without perturbation, the chill mrs. treharne was purposely diffusing. mrs. treharne gave him a level, penetrating glance. "miss treharne, i think, would not be interested in knowing that you possessed information as to her movements," she replied, with studied indifference. jesse smiled and stooped to stroke a dozing spaniel. "what have i done, tony?" he asked after a pause, looking up with a dental smile. "you have presumed to employ miss treharne's first name, after having met her, i believe, not more than three times. don't do it again," replied mrs. treharne in a tone that, while quiet enough, had a ring in it that was utterly new to jesse. jesse, seeming by his manner to take the rebuke in a chastened spirit, occupied himself again with the spaniel's silky coat. "i seem," he said, finally breaking the oppressive silence, "to have found you in a somewhat arctic humor. still, that should not be allowed to congeal an old friendship. it cannot be that you, too, are beginning to misunderstand me, as miss treharne has from the beginning?" "miss treharne should not have been allowed to meet you at all," returned mrs. treharne. "i leave you to imagine how bitterly i condemn myself now for not having at least screened her from that." "you say 'now,'" said jesse. "why, particularly 'now?'" "that," replied mrs. treharne, "is my affair." the time, of course, had arrived for jesse to make the best of a poor departure. the man, however, was of a surprising obtuseness as to such details. "and yet i came this evening," he said, adopting a tonal tremolo which was intended to convey the idea that he was sorely put upon, "to offer, through you, any poor courtesies that i might have at my command to make miss treharne's stay in england agreeable." mrs. treharne shrugged impatiently. "spare yourself these posturings, if you please," she said. "miss treharne has made it plain enough that she detests you. are you waiting to have me tell you that i applaud her judgment?" an ugly sneer flickered across jesse's features. at length the barbs were hitting home. but he effaced the sneer and twisted it into a forced smile. "what i can't understand is why you received me at all this evening, if this is your feeling--your newly-formed feeling--toward me," he said, quelling the hoarseness that proceeded from his repressed anger. "i confess to having entertained a certain curiosity, perhaps a certain uneasiness, as to your purpose in calling at all," promptly replied mrs. treharne. "it is the first time you have been here since my daughter's departure. i have been sorting over certain of my mistakes since she went away. i have been considering them, too, from a different angle than any you could possibly understand. not the least of these mistakes, as i have told you, was in permitting my daughter to exchange as much as two words with you. happily, it is not too late to rectify that mistake, at least. she is well protected. i need not tell you that if you should have the temerity to attempt to call upon her in london she would instruct the flunkeys to cease carrying her your card. i think there is no more to be said?" mrs. treharne rose and assumed the attitude of dismissal. this time jesse, also rising, did not essay to erase the sneer from his wrath-flushed features. "what is all this--a scene from some damned imbecile play?" he demanded, completely throwing off the mask. "are you trying to regale me with a rehearsal of the flighty mother turned virtuous? don't do that. that isn't the sort of thing you could reasonably expect me to stand for from fred judd's kept wo----" "say that if you dare!" exclaimed mrs. treharne, stepping close to him and transfixing him with blazing eyes. jesse, out of sheer timidity, broke off at the exact point where she had interrupted him. as she stepped to the wall to ring, he put on his hat with studied deliberation and patted it to make it more secure on his head. thus, with his hat on, he spoke to her. "i suppose your solicitude for the--er--the what-you-may-call-it of your auburn-haired daughter is natural enough, probably being based upon something that you, and you alone, know," he said, sidling, however, toward the door as he spoke. "but it is wasted solicitude, let me tell you that. she has lived here with you, hasn't she? well, that fact will about settle her, you know. there's no downing that. and after awhile she'll give up. she won't be able to stand the stigma. none of them can stand it. it would take a superwoman to endure, without herself surrendering, the ignominy of having lived under this roof. don't forget that." then the butler, answering the ring, appeared at the door. mrs. treharne raised a limp arm and pointed to jesse. "this man," she said to the butler, "is not to be admitted to the house again as long as i am in it." the butler inclined his head with butler-like gravity, detoured to get behind jesse, and jesse, patting the top of his hat again to emphasize, in the menial's presence, the insult of wearing it, stalked down the hall. the broken, faded woman tottered to her sleeping room and fell upon a couch in an agony of tears. it was on the day following this scene that jesse, inconceivably persistent in the pursuit of such a purpose as he had in mind, and now roused by obstacles to the point where he swore to himself that he would "win out," made the call at blythe's office which the latter purposely glossed over in describing it in his letter to laura. jesse's purpose in seeking out blythe was two-fold. in the first place, he wanted to measure the man who, he knew, had been appointed louise's guardian. he only recalled blythe in a general sort of a way, and he wanted to "size him up" from this new angle. he was aware that blythe was not only the guardian but an admirer of louise, and he wanted to ascertain, from the contact of an interview, whether blythe's admiration was of a piece with his own; the manifestation of a mere predatory design, that is to say; for men of the jesse type are ever prone to drag the motives of other men to a level with their own. secondly, if he found, as he hoped to find, that blythe was a mere supple and sycophantic young lawyer, eager to succeed, and therefore capable of being impressed by a call from a man looming large in the financial world, jesse prefigured that probably blythe, by means of credentials that would have the weight of a guardian's advice, might very easily aid him in his "little affair" (so he thought of it) with louise when he reached london. jesse was not in the least fearful of the consequences, so far as his standing with louise was concerned, of his unmasking in the presence of her mother. he was under the impression that louise had left the house on the drive at odds with her mother and that no correspondence existed between them. so that he felt sure that louise would not hear from her mother of his brutality toward her. it took jesse something less than thirty seconds, when he called upon blythe, to discover that that young lawyer was neither sycophantic nor supple, and that, so far from being impressed by a visit from jesse in his capacity of financial magnate, blythe was coldly but distinctly hostile toward him. the interview had terminated with startling abruptness. after having mentioned louise's name once, and been forbidden to repeat the offense, jesse had involuntarily let slip her name again. blythe, seated in his desk-chair with his hands on his knees, viewed jesse calmly, but with eyes that showed cold glints of steel. "are you going to get out now, or are you waiting for me to throw you out?" blythe inquired of him in much the same tone that he would have employed in asking for a match. jesse, it appeared, was not waiting to be thrown out. he went at once. but when he reached the street level and got into his waiting car, he was in almost as pretty a state of passion as any sepulchral-voiced stage villain. and he was quite as resolved to win the baffling battle, even under the lash of unintermittent scorn, as he had been from the hour of his first meeting with louise treharne. an hour after jesse had gone, leaving the stunned, shattered woman weltering in his litter of cowardly words, judd walked into antoinette treharne's apartments. he found her dishevelled and still weeping convulsively. he sat down and regarded her with the bewildered helplessness of the male when the woman's tears are streaming. she scarcely saw him, but lay, huddled and shaking, a mere wraith of the woman whom he had beckoned to this present disaster and despair but a few years before. judd, a gross, fleshly man not without human traits, felt sorry for her as he sat watching her. also, he felt sorry for himself. it was not agreeable that a woman--this woman--should be weeping and moaning and shaking her shoulders in her grief in such a manner. it was disturbing. it destroyed the poise of things. it created a sort of sympathy which was bad for the digestion of the sympathizer. but judd felt sorry for her. he really did. he had been watching, with a sort of mystified concern, how her health had been going to pieces lately. he wondered why that was. surely, she had everything that she wanted? well, then. anyhow, judd was sorry. he was extremely fond of tony. she had touched a certain responsive chord in him, and he knew that his chords were pretty well insulated; and here she was weeping and staining her face with tears, her hair all mussed, and all that--judd was decidedly disturbed, and sorry as well. "i say, tony, what is it?" he asked her, after keeping vigil for fifteen minutes without emitting a word. there was no reply. she did not even look up at him. gradually, though, her weeping ceased. judd walked up and down the room, smoking an enormously long, black cigar, occasionally stopping in his heavy stride to look at her. presently she sat up, blinking in the light, her face still swollen with her tears. a certain prettiness still remained to her; but it was the pathetic prettiness of the exotic the petals of which are dropping, dropping. "is it anything that i can help, tony?" asked judd in a tone that was not lacking in kindliness, as he stopped and stood before her. she shook her head wearily. "no," she answered him in a quiet, tear-hoarsened tone. "it is nothing that you can help. it is all my own fault." judd flicked the long ash of his cigar to the rug and studied her with a puckered but not scowling brow. "i don't want to stir up or start anything anew," he said, not unkindly, "but may i ask what it is that is your fault?" she crushed her wet handkerchief between her palms and looked up at him with vague eyes. "oh, everything," she replied, with a shrug of utter weariness. "few women could be found in all the world tonight, i believe, who have made such an utter mess of their lives as i have of mine. but i am not so unfair, thank god, as to blame it upon anybody but myself. it is a compensation, at any rate, to be able to see things in their true light." "you are ill, aren't you?" judd asked her, with a solicitude that was obviously genuine. "i don't know--i think so," she replied. "i am very tired--i know that. tired of myself, of everything." "you need a change," suggested judd. "you ought to go away somewhere. but i don't want you to go alone. i am pretty busy, but i'll chuck everything to go with you if you want me to, tony." she looked at him with a sort of weary curiosity. "it is just as i have said," she murmured after having made this inspection of him. "it has never been your fault. you have, in your way, been kind to me. you still are. you care for me in your way. but it is a bad way, fred. i know that now. it is too late, of course. nevertheless, i am going to make what amendment i can. i must try to preserve at least a shred of womanhood. i am sure you are not going to take it angrily or bitterly. but we have reached the parting of the ways, my friend. you have been fair enough, from your point of view, through the whole wretched business. it has been my fault, my weakness, from the beginning." judd plumped into a deep chair near her and, pondering, blew great smoke-rings at the portieres. "the thing is," he said, presently, "that you've lost your nerve. and, having lost it, why, you've gone into the camp of the folks you call the smugs. am i right?" "you are utterly wrong," she replied, spiritlessly. "i have little toleration for--well, death-bed repentances. that is too old and too unconvincing a story. a woman does as she likes, flouts the world, snaps her finger at usage, until she becomes middle aged or near it; then she begins to fumble her beads, takes on the face of austerity, and condemns, right and left, the lapses of the younger generation of defiant women. i haven't the least use for that sort of thing. it is simply that i have arrived at the knowledge that a woman is an idiot not to conform and to stay conformed. it is mere madness for a woman to suppose that she can fight so unequal a battle against the world's opinion as i have foolishly tried to fight. it makes no difference as to a man. he can do as he pleases. i suppose it was the inequality of that law that goaded me into it all in the first place. but i've lost. i see now that there never was the possibility of any other outcome." "you get a bit beyond me, you know," said judd, not argumentatively, but as one seeking enlightenment. "i am willing to grant that men have the best of it, and all that sort of thing. but women know the rules of the game. then why can't they play the game without moaning and kicking to the umpire?" "there isn't any umpire except conscience," she answered him. "there isn't any arbitration for a woman. she is what the steel-sheathed law of the ages says she is to be, or she is not. i have not been, and i have lost. that is all. i am not so futile as to complain of the game. i despise myself for having been so opaque as to suppose that i could defy the rules, win, and not be disqualified--as i have been, of course, ever since i tried it." "it's queer," said judd, reflectively, after a pause, "how these man-made laws sooner or later anchor all you women, after you've made your flights. the whole thing, you know, is an idiotic system. they try to regulate us by rote and rule, by bell, book and candle. but, after all, they only think they're regulating us that way, don't they? i wonder how many of us really follow their rules? mighty few that i know of. openly, we subscribe to all of the iron-bound tenets, privately we laugh at them and do the best we know to rip them apart. it's all a matter of being found out; of being caught with the goods. a woman, of course, has to watch out for more danger signals than a man. but they're pretty clever little watchers, believe me." "well, you can't blame them for that," said mrs. treharne. "most of them, at any rate, have the common sense not to attempt to brazen matters out, as i have." "i see what you mean," said judd, cogitatively. "your idea is that it is a woman's business to get all that she can out of life, and that the only way for her to get the most out of life is to pretend to agree to the rules as they've been made for her, and then, if she feels disposed to kick over the traces, why, to keep under cover about it. you're right in that view, of course. but, after all, what difference does it make? sooner or later, no matter how we play the string, they toss us into a box and plant us. when it comes to that, i can't see why you should permit what you call your conscience to make a wreck of you in this way. what have you done? why, you've been my companion. will you be good enough to tell me how that companionship could possibly have been made any better than it has been if, at its outset, a man in a surplice or a mouthing justice had mumbled a few so-called binding words over us? faugh! you can't believe such crass humbug. the so-called 'consecration of matrimony' is a good enough phrase and a good enough scheme to keep groundlings up to the mark. don't you suppose we'd have fought and barked at each other just the same if we'd been married according to the frazzled old rule? at that, i'd have married you years ago, just to straighten you out, if there had been the least chance of my prevailing upon my wife, who made life a hell for me with her whinings, to get a divorce from me. but, now that the thing has ambled along to this stage, what's the use of talking about quitting?" she listened to him composedly. but his words fell thumpingly enough upon her ears. he had never gone to the pains before of giving her so complete an elucidation of his doctrine. "there is as little use in our debating the world's social and ethical system," she said. "i am not thinking of myself. there is no reason why i shouldn't acknowledge to you that i don't much care how our relationship affects myself. but----" "yes, i know what it's all about," put in judd. "it's your daughter. well, i'll have to grant that you've got a big end of the argument there. i've got daughters of my own, and i know how i'd snort around if i thought there was a chance on earth for any of my daughters to inherit my doctrine, my view of the world, the flesh and the devil. that's the finest little inconsistency i possess. i might as well stick in the observation here, while we're all confessing our sins, that i've felt a good deal more like a blackguard than has been comfortable to my self-esteem ever since the night i rounded on your daughter. that, i think, was about the meanest and commonest act of my life. a pretty fine sort of a girl, your daughter." "i didn't think you had it in you to admit that, and i'm glad that you have admitted it," replied mrs. treharne. "of course your surmise is exactly right. it _is_ on my daughter's account that i have brought myself up with a round turn. it is pretty late in the day for me to do that, i know; but one must do the best one can. we can talk as we please about our opinions of morals and ethics and the world's harsh rules; but all of our talk vanishes into murky vapor when we begin to consider our children. the most contemptible act of _my_ life, since you have so unexpectedly acknowledged yours, was in permitting my daughter to come here. you know that as well as i do--now." judd lit another cigar and smoked in silence for a time. "the thing that gets me around the throat in connection with all this," he said, presently, "is that it seems all to simmer down to the fact that you are thinking of quitting me." "don't be absurd, fred," said mrs. treharne. "that consideration doesn't disturb you a whit. you know very well that you will be glad to be rid of me." "that," said judd, leaning toward her, his small eyes curiously alight, "is not true, and you know it." "but," she said, perhaps, with the unconquerable desire of the woman for affection and admiration, curious to hear his reply, "i have lost my looks; i am a mere relic of what i was when i came to you; i am not far from forty. you know these things." "yes, i know them," said judd, and there was genuine feeling in the man's tone. "but i know, too, that i care a damned sight more for you than i ever did for any other woman in all my life. i know that, if you really mean to go through with this plan of quitting me, it's going to knock me sky-high. i can't figure myself being without you. you have grown into my scheme of living. i don't profess to much when it comes to morals and all that sort of thing; but i've got a heart built upon some kind of a pattern, i suppose; i must have, and you ought to know it, for you've possessed it for years. and, that being the case--and it _is_ the case--our relationship isn't so bad as you might have been supposing it to be. don't you imagine that i am so infernally dried up as to what is called the affections. i know that my life won't be worth much to me after you go out of it." mrs. treharne, astonished and perhaps a little pleased at the earnestness of the man's self-revelation, nevertheless shook her head wearily. "yet you know very well, at this moment, that i _must_ leave you," she said broodingly. "well, i'm going to be fair with you," said judd, the latent manhood, that had been buried under the callousness of years, showing in him. "i'm leaving that part of it up to you. i wouldn't do that, either, if i didn't care for you as i do. but you've got your end of it, and a big end. you're entitled to do what you are prompted to do in consideration of your daughter. i'm not hound enough to try to block you in that. i'll go further and say that you're right about it. if i were in your place i'd do the same thing. the devil of it is that i care for you all the more when i see you moved to give your daughter the fair deal she's entitled to. i hate to have you go. i don't know what i'll do with myself without you. but you've hit me right where i live in this business--the progeny end of it. the young ones have got to be thought of. and there is, i suppose, no way whereby you could remain openly under my protection and at the same time be doing the right thing by your daughter. of course, if you cared to be more private about it, why----" "no, no--don't even suggest that," put in mrs. treharne. "that would be a pitiable evasion. you know that." "well, probably it would, but i'm putting all angles of the thing up to you," said judd, perhaps more in earnest that he had ever been in his life before. "one thing, though, you must leave to me. it's only the fair thing that i should continue to take care of you, no matter where you go." "not even that, fred," replied mrs. treharne, determinedly. "that, too, would be a dodging of the issue. i have a few thousands put by. they came from you, of course, but before i had made up my mind to--to live otherwise. i shall manage. let me have my own way this final once, won't you?" and she smiled wanly. judd rose and picked up his hat and coat. "don't take any leaps in the dark, tony, that's all," he said. "think the thing all over. don't give yourself the worst of it. you know that _i_ won't give you the worst of it. i never have, have i? maybe you'll change your mind about it all. i'll be back tomorrow night and see. goodnight." there were tears standing in the eyes of the huge-girthed man as he went heavily out of the room, and his shoulders were hunched forward as if he had suddenly passed from elderliness to old age. mrs. treharne, for almost an hour after judd had gone, sat, chin in palm, gazing into vacancy. then she rose, heavily enough for a woman so fragile as she now had become, gazed for a moment in the glass at her haggard features, and shook her head, smiling bitterly. "'_facilis descensus_,' and the rest of it," she murmured. "that, i suppose, is the truest of the maxims; it stands the wear of time better than any of the rest of them. well, i have the mournful satisfaction of knowing that i have sufficient intelligence, at any rate, not to blame anybody but myself." then she rang for her maid. "pack in the morning, heloise," she said when the maid appeared. "begin early. get one of the housemaids to help you. pack everything--all of your own things, too. we shall be leaving before noon." "everything, madame?" inquired heloise, her eyes widening, "winter costumes--everything?" "everything," repeated mrs. treharne. "i am not to return here." heloise nodded with a sage acquiescence, and began to take down her mistress's hair. "where do we go tomorrow, madame?" heloise asked when she had finished her task and mrs. treharne was in readiness for retiring. "i haven't the least idea, heloise," replied mrs. treharne, gesturing her unconcern. "i shall decide between now and morning. to the mountains, i suppose--the adirondacks, probably. i am not very well--new york stifles me. the mountains, i think it shall be, heloise." "madame feels badly?" inquired heloise, solicitously. "one has noticed that madame is _distraite_, grows thin, looks unlike herself." "sometimes i wish i were anybody but myself, heloise," said mrs. treharne, enigmatically enough, considering her audience. "goodnight." after the maid had gone mrs. treharne went to her desk and wrote to louise, telling her that she was leaving the house on the drive, not to return. it was a long, self-reproachful letter, threaded with the wistful but not outrightly expressed hope that the step she was taking would atone, if only in a slight degree, for the "wretched sin," as she called it, of having permitted her daughter to set foot within the riverside drive establishment. she did not mention langdon jesse's name. she felt a singular uneasiness over the thought that jesse's approaching visit to london in some way involved the weaving of a net about her daughter; but she dismissed that thought, as often as it recurred, when she considered louise's poise and her protection by laura stedham, an experienced woman of the world. moreover, mrs. treharne would have found it difficult, unless there were some grave actual peril, to mention jesse's name in a letter to her daughter; for it brought the blood to her face to remember how unconcernedly she had permitted louise to meet the man--how she had even chided her daughter for not having accepted jesse's attentions in a more pliant, not to say grateful, spirit. "i am leaving with heloise tomorrow, dear, but i have not decided where to go," she concluded. "i shall write or cable you an address before long. i am entirely well, though i believe i need rest and change. have out your good time--i know that you are in good hands with laura, to whom my love. i am looking forward to our new, happy life when you return to me." then she penned a little note to be left behind for judd. "don't think me unkind for going without seeing you again," she wrote. "we have gone over it all, and we are both of the same opinion as to the need for the step i am taking. i cannot quite tell you how you have advanced in my opinion for some of the things you said tonight. you have been very fair, and i am correspondingly grateful. i will not be so _banal_ as to suggest that, if there be any chance for a reconciliation, or at least a decent armistice, between you and your wife, it might be at least a solution of a sort, considering your children; i only wish that i could suggest that outright without incurring the suspicion that, having made a belated repentance myself, i am seeking to reform the world. one thing, however, i shall say outright: if i had it all to do over again, i should _conform_. there is no other way for a woman. we seek to ridicule the promptings of conscience by calling conscience an abnormality, a thing installed in us to whip us into line with age-old system. but it won't do. it is, after all, the true voice. i wish i had never closed my ears to its urgings. "time heals all. you will find yourself thinking less and less often of me as the days drift by. that is as it should be. i am sorry for the hurt--i did not know until you spoke as you did tonight that it would be a hurt--i am inflicting upon you in thus effacing myself, at such short notice, from your life. but time heals. goodbye, and all best wishes." before noon, on the following day, mrs. treharne and heloise left the house on the drive, leaving no word behind as to whither they were bound. chapter xiii langdon jesse maintained a bachelor apartment in london the year round. when he arrived there, about a fortnight after his turbulent scene with mrs. treharne and his signally unsuccessful attempt at an _entente_ with blythe, he found everything in order, quite as he had left it the year before. gaskins, factotum and general overseer of the bachelor apartments, of which there were three tiers, jesse's being the second, was a little more bald and fat, but he still rubbed his hands as a mark of subservience and cocked his head to one side in a bird-like way while engaged in conversation with his supposititious superior. he had a respectful but earnest complaint to make of one of jesse's new york cronies, a man engaged in the somewhat tempestuous task of drinking himself to death, who had occupied jesse's apartment for a month during the spring; for it was jesse's habit to extend the use of his london lodging, which was desirable mainly on account of its highly privileged character, to those of his intimates who happened to be in london while he himself was in new york. "'e was more than 'arf-seas hover hall the time, sir," gaskins told jesse, lamentingly, "which of course was 'is privilege, but 'e did give 'isself some 'orrid bumps when 'e come 'ome along o' three or four o' mornings. hi'm afraid 'e would 'ave killed 'iself, sir, falling hagainst the furniture, 'ad i not been living on the premises hand come hup hand got 'im straightened hout hin bed. hand, sir, when hi didn't come hup, 'e would halways go to sleep in the bath-tub with 'is clothes on. a swift goer, sir, but killing 'isself; killing 'isself fast." jesse laughed. he was tolerant enough of the idiosyncrasies of his intimates, and this one, the "swift goer," had been of use to him in new york as a sort of organizer and major domo of revelries. jesse's apartment was on one of the quiet squares of curzon street, set amid a row of other houses given over to the accommodation of stationary and transient bachelors who found the restraints of london hotels irksome. it was beautifully appointed, even to the culinary department which jesse himself only used on the occasions when he entertained companies of roystering americans and their companions, who were usually more or less photographed figurantes from the musical comedies. his breakfast was brought to him from the gaskins ménage in the basement, and he dined here, there and everywhere--not infrequently at the savoy. it had not taken jesse long, following his arrival in london, to ascertain that louise and laura were at the savoy. he had, in fact, within an hour after his arrival, caused a telephone canvass to be made of the london hotels mainly patronized by americans during the touring season to gain this information. now, lounging about his apartment while his japanese man unpacked his things, he began upon the devising of a method whereby he might again meet louise. he had been reluctantly forced to abandon the idea that by this time she might have "altered her prejudice" against him and might therefore be at least passively willing to meet him upon the plane of ordinary acquaintanceship, thus giving him an opportunity to exercise his fascinations upon her. but he had not the least intention of abandoning his besiegement of louise treharne--even if the besiegement had to be turned into an ambuscade. he had come to london, leaving new york at a time when the market was setting strongly against him, solely with this purpose in his mind. he furnished himself with plenty of excuses for the deliberation with which he undertook this particular quest. it was his indurated habit to doubt the continence of all women; and he made no exception of louise treharne. the fact that she had scarcely been out of school a month when he had first met her did not in the least serve to give her immunity from such a doubt in jesse's mind. his single guide in such appraisals of women was his own experience with them, and his experience, he told himself, embodied plenty of parallels to the case of louise treharne. why should she be immune from a furtiveness, and the indulgences thereof, which he had so often studied at first hand? why should she be less clever at dissimulation than many others he had known? he had not the least doubt that he was right in this view. he sought to make himself believe that otherwise he would be entirely willing to permit louise to go her way. but, being right, then it was intolerable that she should have flouted him--_him!_--as she had. it was a girlish, immature prejudice. he had not had sufficient opportunity to gain her better will. her treatment of him had sorely touched his vanity as a moulder of women to his purposes. the circumstances of his meeting with her had deprived him of a fair chance. she was young, beautiful, and, he felt sure, superbly secretive. he had not the least intention of supinely yielding to her foolish belief--it could not be other than that--that she disliked him. but how to proceed? no problem, having to do with what he would have called his diversions, had ever before so daunted him. laura, to begin with, was a stumbling block in his path. laura, with whom he had a perfunctory acquaintanceship extending over several years, had pointedly cut him, not once, but frequently, since the newspapers had flared with accounts of the one disreputable affair concerning him which had leaked out. he knew very well that there was not the least possible chance for him to regain even a nodding plane with laura stedham. and she was the barrier between himself and louise treharne. they were rarely, he felt sure, out of each other's company. if laura were out of the way, and he could reach louise alone, there would, he felt, be a chance. it was unimaginable that louise would, in such a case, be unresponsive to the allurements of his wealth, his power proceeding from wealth, his personality--jesse felt so absolutely certain of this that he smiled when a vague doubt of it passed through his mind. he had won many aloof women by bestowing upon them magnificent gifts. but he knew perfectly well that this method would not do with louise treharne. whatever else she might be, there was, he felt, not a particle of greed in her. there had even been times when jesse had not scrupled to effect his designs by putting forth the pretence that his devotions tended in but one direction--the altar. how to employ even this final method to engage the attention of a woman whose eyes, he very well knew, would flame with scorn of him even if she found herself accidentally in his presence? for several hours, while mutsu, his japanese valet, went forward with the unpacking, jesse strode up and down his apartment, going over this problem as he would have calculated the chances and mischances of a market campaign. it was inevitable that jesse, at the end of his study of the problem, should have reached but one conclusion: it must be an ambuscade. having reached this conclusion, he measured the risk and sought to forecast the aftermath. everything was in his favor. in the situation which he meditated bringing about, he knew that, in case anything went wrong, the man's word would be worth that of a thousand women, no matter how exalted their reputations. and more than likely, he calmly figured, there would be no aftermath at all. entrapped, and perceiving no possibility of escape louise would acknowledge her finely-acted furtiveness to him, and, like all women who used furtiveness as a screen, would make the best of the situation--which was all that jesse desired. the salient feature of the plan which rapidly took form in his mind consisted in discovering when louise and laura should be out of each other's company, even for a short time. jesse, not in the least balking at the idea of setting a deliberate trap because he knew that he would hold the advantage no matter what the outcome, applied himself to the solution of this by no means minor difficulty. the sight of the silent, busy mutsu, industriously stowing his master's gear in dressers and closets, furnished jesse with a suggestion. he would give his japanese man a vigil at the savoy. the vigil might be a tedious as it was sure to be a delicate one, but mutsu was both patient and discreet. he was a studious but alert man-boy of indeterminate age, as is characteristic of japanese males under fifty, who had been employed as a club attendant in new york for several years and thus had added to his natural gift for discretion. he had been with jesse for more than a year, always doing more than was ever asked of him, but studiously refraining from indicating whether he entertained any personal liking for his employer--which is another trait of a certain type of japanese in their relationships with occidentals. jesse spent a concentrated half hour in minutely instructing mutsu as to what he desired of him. the valet was to go to the savoy on the morrow, and, by liberally tipping the doorman at the ladies' entrance, or the carriage-opener, or whomsoever among the hotel's menials he found the most pliable or knowing, have mrs. laura stedham and miss louise treharne, american ladies who were guests of the hotel, pointed out to him when they should make their appearance, as they no doubt would in the course of the day, either for driving or walking. miss treharne would be the younger of the two. after having familiarized himself with the personal exteriors of these ladies, mutsu was to keep vigil, on whatever pretext he might invent, in or around the hotel, until such a time as he should see the older of the two american ladies leaving the hotel alone. whenever that should happen, the valet was instantly to telephone to jesse at the curzon street apartment. the watch on the movements of the two ladies was not to terminate until mrs. stedham should leave the hotel unaccompanied by miss treharne, no matter how many days of waiting should be required before such a thing occurred. mutsu nodded and exhibited his dental smile when jesse had finished his instructions. he understood the instructions perfectly, without, of course, in the least guessing at the purpose back of them. jesse made no mistake in appraising his japanese man's acuteness at such work. within less than two hours after ingratiating himself, by the use of unostentatiously distributed backsheesh, with certain of the savoy's flunkeys, matsu had had laura and louise pointed out to him as they left the hotel and entered a taxicab. he fixed their faces on his mental recording tablets, and called up jesse on the telephone and told him of his progress. thenceforward, for several days, the wiry little japanese valet hovered about the ladies' entrance of the savoy, forestalling suspicion as to the purpose of his loitering by the bestowal of liberal _pourboires_ upon such of the flunkeys as were in a position to notice the constancy of his vigil. jesse kept to his curzon street apartment during the day, ever on the alert for a telephone message from his valet. he chafed under the necessity--as he deemed it--which kept him indoors throughout the daylight hours and only permitted of his prowling about london at night. but he possessed a sort of luciferian determination in the pursuit of such a purpose as that upon which he was now engaged; to the successful accomplishment of which he would have passed his days in a cellar if that had been one of the requirements of the game. * * * * * laura had many friends, english and american, in london whom she received and called upon informally. she cared nothing for the "functionizing" of the anglo-american social season in london, but she keenly enjoyed the unceremonious gayeties of little groups of friends. she laughingly declared that she had "trained" the people she liked to "drop in" upon her in london in the american manner of neighborliness; and she enjoyed "showing off," as she expressed it, "the beautiful miss treharne, from the states," as some of the chatty london weeklies had alluded to louise. she liked to junket about, too, with louise; and there was no lack of agreeable men keen to take them on day-long motor tours through the country, attach them for merry afternoons to houseboat parties, and so on. for her part, louise enjoyed the contrast afforded by the shy diffidence of the young englishmen whom she met to the exuberant breeziness of laura's american men friends in london. one afternoon--it was ten days after jesse's arrival in london--laura suggested to louise, at luncheon, that, as they had a "clean slate" for the remainder of the daylight hours for the first time in a long while, a tour among the shops, including a visit to the american department store just then established in london, might fill in a part of the time agreeably. "but i am not insisting upon your going with me, dear," said laura. "i know your lack of keenness for shopping in london, and i don't blame you, considering how the tradespeople here try to positively _make_ one buy things one doesn't want. so you can very easily escape on the plea that you have letters to write, or that you are tired and want to rest up for the theatre tonight, and i shan't be in the least miffed." "i'll make it the letter-writing plea, then, laura," said louise, "and cling to the truth in spite of the temptation you offer me to fib. i really have a lot of letters to write." laura went away in a taxicab directly after luncheon, saying that she would not be gone more than three hours, and louise, at the desk in the sitting room of their suite, began a letter to her father, from whom, forwarded by john blythe, she had lately received a long and affectionate letter, expressing his anxiety to see her and the hope that he might so arrange his business affairs as to permit of his visiting new york late in the autumn. about half an hour after she had begun writing the telephone bell rang. "his this miss tre'arne?" louise heard a man's voice, "but mrs. stedham says that you are that of an upper servant," in the telephone. "yes, i am miss treharne--what is it?" she replied. "begging pardon, miss tre'arne," went on the man's voice, "but mrs. stedham says that you are not to be halarmed. mrs. stedham, miss, was taken slightly ill in a taxicab--nothing serious, miss, she hasks me to hassure you--and she is now with mrs. 'ammond, at number naught-fourteen curzon street. mrs. stedham, miss, hinsists that you be not halarmed, and wishes you to come to 'er at mrs. 'ammond's at once. this is mrs. 'ammond's butler that is speaking." "tell mrs. stedham, please, that i shall come at once," said louise, instantly aroused by the thought that something serious might have happened to laura. "what is the number and street again, please? and you are sure mrs. stedham has had no accident or is not seriously ill?" "it is naught-fourteen curzon street, miss tre'arne," came the reply, "hand mrs. stedham 'erself hasks that you be hassured that she is only slightly hindisposed." "i shall be there immediately, please tell her," said louise, making a pencilled note of the address. very uneasy, louise put on her hat and long pongee coat with fluttering fingers. she felt that something serious must have happened to deflect laura from a shopping tour to the home of a woman friend. she had not heard laura allude to any woman friend in london named mrs. hammond, but that consideration did not linger more than an instant in her mind, for laura no doubt had many london friends of whom she had not chanced to speak. within less than five minutes after receiving the telephoned summons, louise was on her way in a taxicab to the address in curzon street. she was pale and in a tremor of uneasiness when the taxicab pulled up at the curb of a neat three-story house near the end of a row of similar houses. so perturbed was she by the thought that she had not been told the entire truth as to what had happened to laura that she scarcely noticed the bald, bland gaskins when he opened the door for her and said "miss tre'arne?" "yes, yes," hastily replied louise. "where is mrs. stedham?" "if you please, miss, hi shall conduct you," said gaskins, inured by years of experience to the sort of deception he was practising; and he softly padded up the thickly-carpeted stairs in advance of her. closely followed by louise, who paid hardly any attention at all to the surroundings in her trepidation as to how she might find laura, gaskins quietly opened the front side door of the second floor apartment and held it open for her. louise stepped into the room, and gaskins, not entering himself, closed the door after her. she did not of course notice the click which denoted that the closed door was fitted with a spring lock. afterwards louise remembered having thought it odd that gaskins did not follow her into the room to announce her, instead of so suddenly effacing himself. louise quickly saw that there was nobody in the charmingly arranged room--partly study, partly living room--in which she found herself. also she noticed that it was distinctively a man's room. wondering, but not yet affected by any fear, she made a few steps toward the portieres at the rear of the room. she was about to reach out a hand to draw the portieres side, when they parted; and langdon jesse confronted her. he was trig in a big, overweight way in his lounging suit of grey; but the pallor of excitement had overspread his naturally waxy face, and his attempt at the debonair manner was proclaimed to be a mere assumption by the trembling of his hands and the huskiness of his voice when he spoke. louise had never swooned in her life. now, however, at this apparition of the one human being she had ever learned to loathe, she pressed one hand to her forehead and another to her heart and swayed slightly. she feared that she would fall; but the thought rocketed through her mind that if she yielded to the almost overpowering physical weakness of the moment she would be at his mercy. by an effort of will which she afterwards remembered with wonderment, she steadied herself as if by the process of actually forcing her blood to flow evenly. she permitted her hands to fall to her sides and regarded jesse with an appearance of calmness. in that clash of eyes, jesse, after a very few seconds of it, turned his head away on pretence of motioning louise to a chair. the impalement of her gaze was beyond his endurance. louise paid no attention to his arm-waved invitation to be seated, but stood in the spot where she had stopped when the first sight of him had almost sent her reeling. she regarded him steadily, almost incredulously; an expression of incredulity that such a thing could be. "it is unpardonable, of course, miss treharne," said jesse, with a clearing of the throat in an attempt to sweep away his huskiness. "but my madness to see you, the hopelessness of trying to see you, alone, in any other way--" he brought his sentence to a finish with a gesture meant to emphasize the excusableness of his position. "therefore you have sought to entrap me?" said louise, with no trace of scorn in her tone; her contempt for him was quite beyond such a manifestation of loathing; she asked the question as if really astonished to discover that a man would do such a thing. "what other method could i employ save a sort of strategy?" asked jesse, evading her gaze. "knowing that i was under the ban of your unreasonable dislike, that you would refuse to receive me, and wretched, despairing, under the constant castigation of your prejudice--what else could i do? what else could any man do who found himself in a state of desperation from his love for a woman?" "say anything but that, i beg of you," replied louise, experiencing a surge of disgust at the man's effrontery in professing love in such a situation. "i have no reason to expect anything savoring of manliness from you, of course; but you might at least spare yourself the humiliation--if you can be humiliated--of seeming ridiculous." "i expected harsh words from you, which, of course, is tantamount to confessing that i deserve them," said jesse. "but i think we shall have a better understanding. won't you be seated?" "i would have credited you for knowing better than to ask me that," replied louise. she stepped to the door by which she had entered, tried the knob, and of course found that the door was locked. jesse, watching her, gradually resumed his attempt at the debonair manner. all of the odds were in his favor in this adventure. he could not see where he stood a chance to lose. therefore, according to the smooth argument of cowardice, there was no reason, he considered, why he should continue his air of deference. "you did not suppose that, having been to somewhat adroit pains to get you here, i would make it so easy for you to walk out without, at least, a little interchange of ideas?" he asked her, with coolly lifting brows, when she turned from the door. she noticed his change of tone, and was conscious that she preferred it to his manner of fawning self-exculpation. "make your mind easy as to that. i have told you that i expect nothing whatever of you that befits a man," she replied with a coldness of tone from which he inwardly recoiled far more than if she had poured out upon him an emotional torrent of rebuke. for a moment jesse, studying her, was visited by the suggestion that perhaps, after all, louise treharne was wearing no mask; that she was really that anomaly--as he would have viewed such a one--a woman who was what she professed to be. but he quickly dismissed this prompting as something out of the question. she was merely a proficient in the art of acting, and she was employing her mimetic talent to the utmost upon him--thus he argued it out with himself. moreover, he decided to give expression to his belief, as being calculated sooner to bring her to the realization that he had her measured. "listen, louise," he said to her, thus calling her without even attempting to make his tone apologetic; he leaned his elbows on the back of a leather chair and forced himself to look directly at her as he spoke: "it is idle for you to seek to delude me. it might do if i were not nearly twice your age and had not had about five thousand times your experience. as the matter stands, it is simply absurd. at least give me credit for having cut my wisdom teeth as to women. you portray the part you assume with me very well. i'll have to say that for you. but, seeing that i have penetrated to the heart of the comedy, why protract the play?" louise disdained to attempt to have him believe that she did not understand him. but she was so riven by the shamefulness of his imputation that she could not have found words to reply to him if she had wanted to. "why not give me a chance to make good with you, louise?" went on jesse in a tone of arguing familiarity, coming from behind the leather chair and advancing toward her. he accepted her silence for wavering, or at least a willingness to listen to the sort of a presentation he had started. "you know that i am devilishly fond of you, else i would not have gone to all this trouble to get you here. of course you may call it a trap and all that sort of penny-dreadful rot; but what other way had i to see you? you've scarcely been out of my mind since first i met you at judd's--i should say, at your mother's house. i've been stark raving about you--am yet; and that's the truth. why can't we be bully good friends? your little pretenses are all very engaging and that sort of thing, and do you credit, of course, but you see i have penetrated them. well, then, why can't we hit it off? you don't know how good i'll be to you if you look at the thing in the sensible way. the first time i saw you i heard them hail you as empress louise. well, i'll see to it that you have the adornment and the investiture of an empress. well, is it a bargain, louise? will you shake hands on it?" he was very close to where she stood by this time, having continued to advance toward her as he spoke. a sudden flush had appeared on his features, and his enunciation was choppy, muffled, indistinct from the huskiness of passion. "don't come any closer to me than you are," she said to him when, within an arm's length of her, he stopped and held out his hand to bind the pact his words had attempted to frame. she spoke quietly, stood her ground, looked straight at him, and placed her hands behind her back. "and allow me to say this: i feel sure no coward of your kind ever yet escaped some sort of retribution. you will repent what you have said to me. but you will repent far more if you put your hands upon me. will you open this door and let me go?" she looked her innocence, her perfect purity, as she stood before him. but jesse was blind to what even the most ordinary, uncultivated man might have seen at a glance. his prominent, protrusive eyes had become bloodshot, and, instead of breathing, he was almost gasping. "so you're going to keep on your white domino of pretense, eh?" he sneered. "open the door? do you think i'm going to let you treat me as if i were some credulous cub just turned loose from school? open the door? don't, for heaven's name, take me for an imbecile!" suddenly he reached forward and twined his arms about her waist and crushed her to him, making for her lips. she gave no outcry, but, raising her right forearm, pressed it under his chin, thus holding his head back and keeping his face from hers. but he did not relax his powerful embrace. louise strove with all of her unusual woman's strength to break his hold upon her, but his hands were clasped back of her, and her exertions only caused the two of them to sway and change ground; and his embrace remained that of a python. "you might as well drop this damned ground-and-lofty business and behave yourself like a sensible girl, you know," panted jesse, speaking in a choked tone because her forearm remained wedged under his chin. "you're game, and all that sort of thing, and you're all kinds of a good actress, too; but, by god, you're not quite clever enough to pull the wool over my eyes! you're antoinette treharne's daughter, and you're some other things besides that i don't exactly know the details of but have a pretty good guess at; and you're going to rest quiet in these arms today, if you never do again!" they struggled back and forth, louise, quite conscious that she stood in the greatest peril she was ever likely to know, holding her own with a strength which jesse, even in the madness of the moment, told himself was almost preternatural in a young, slender woman. "you are simply wasting your strength, you know," jesse went on, putting forth all of the power of his arms and holding her so close to him that for a moment she could not move. "i have no taste for this sort of schoolboy and schoolgirl tugging and hauling. but you force me to it. you haven't a chance on earth of getting out of here, even if i release you--which i shall, as soon as i have taken a little harmless toll of your lips. now, are you going to be sensible and quit this idiotic business?" louise did not answer him. she had said no word, made no plea, since he had seized upon her. she knew that words would be useless, and she could not have framed a beseeching phrase to address to him had she tried. she was taking her chance, doing all she could to make the chance better. but she could not and would not implore him to release her. she thought of screaming; but, remembering how the man who had conducted her upstairs had let her into the room and then obliterated himself, she reasoned it out, even in the intensity of the struggle, that this man no doubt was a flunky accomplice who would pay no attention to her screaming. nevertheless she did decide that, as a last resort, she would scream, taking the chance that whomsoever happened to be on the floor beneath or the one above might come to her assistance. she had relaxed a little, for rest, as he spoke to her, and, catching her off her guard, jesse suddenly put forth all of his power and swung her, slipping and almost falling as he did so, partly through the portieres from which he had emerged when she came in. when the portieres thus were thrust apart, louise saw, standing in the middle of the room which they screened off, a surprised-looking, somewhat scowling little japanese. jesse caught sight of mutsu at the same instant that louise did. "what the devil are you doing here?" jesse demanded of the valet. "get out and stay out till this evening, do you hear?" mutsu first lowered his head, then shook it with a most decided negative. his lips were pulled back from his teeth; mutiny shone all over him. "what you do?" he demanded of jesse, falling into a pidgin vernacular which he rarely used except when excited. "she no like to be crushed in embrace? she is of an innocence. she is of an honorable. i saw that at savoy hotel when first i see her. why you no let go?" "get out of here, i say, you damned chattering monkey!" jesse raged at him, relaxing his hold upon louise, and leaping at the little japanese. mutsu, retreating not an inch, met the charge of his employer with lowered head, and when jesse thrust out a hand to grab him the japanese, revealing a perfect adeptness at jiu-jitsu which jesse never had known he possessed, seized the thrust-out hand between both of his own sinewy ones; and in an instant jesse's face was drawn with pain. then the japanese made a sudden dart behind jesse, pulling back the hand to which he still clung and the arm to which it was attached in such a way that the big, bulky man could not move without breaking the arm; he felt the tendons stretching to the breaking point as it was. "now you go, miss innocent honorable lady," said mutsu, without visible excitement, to louise. "go through next back room and out door there. i see you at savoy tonight after i get fired-dismissed from valet position here." jesse, his face red with the torture of the accomplished jiu-jitsuing he was receiving, stormed at and cursed the japanese in fo'c'sle terms as he saw louise pass toward the rear door the japanese had indicated. she nodded affirmatively to mutsu when he told her that he would be at the savoy that evening to see that she had arrived there safely; then she passed through the rear door leading into the hall, went down the thickly-padded stairs without awakening the bald and bland gaskins, who dozed in a hall chair; and had the luck to hail a taxicab almost in front of the house. * * * * * laura was at the hotel, and in a panic of worriment about louise, when the girl got back. louise told laura what had happened in a few words, then fainted, falling back heavily upon a couch, for the first time in her life--after the danger was all over, with the usual feminine whimsiness. that night the following cable message to john blythe was flashed under the sea: "come immediately. you are needed here. laura." chapter xiv the mutiny of mutsu, culminating at so opportune a time for louise, was the result of an enmity for his employer which had been slumbering for a long time in the mind of the japanese valet. it had its origin in jesse's treatment of several women and girl victims for the entrapment of whom jesse had invoked the unwilling services of his japanese man. mutsu had been employed as an attendant at new york clubs long enough to know the meaning of the word "thoroughbred" in its vernacular application to men; and he knew very well that the "thoroughbred" man did not go in for the sort of women-corraling machinations to which jesse devoted more than half of his time. thus formed and grew mutsu's contempt for his employer as a coward who preyed upon the defencelessness of inveigled women; and his contempt had reached a focal point when, after having been made the instrument to accomplish the enmeshment of louise treharne, he had returned to the curzon street house to find her in a peril with which he had become all too familiar since entering jesse's service. louise's beauty and palpable purity had touched a sympathetic chord in the japanese; so that, after accomplishing his vigil, his knowledge, based upon experience, of the indignities and perhaps worse to which she was bound to be subjected by his employer had impelled him, in a sudden surge of oriental wrath, to follow her after he had seen her start for the curzon street house. mutsu had no difficulty in making a leisurely departure from jesse's establishment and service after having released louise from his employer's toils. he retained his tendon-stretching jiu-jitsu hold on jesse until he was sure that louise had reached the street, while jesse, literally foaming at the mouth in his rage, cursed him with an almost arabic variety and profusion of epithets. then mutsu, suddenly releasing his employer, darted to the center of the room and faced jesse with a teeth-exhibiting smile that was also half a snarl. "now i quit," said mutsu, briefly. "i am glad for a quit. i despise-hate your typical. you not come near me--" as jesse, rubbing his sorely-stretched arm, made a step toward him--"or i break your two-both arms. i pack. you pay me. i quit permanent-forever." jesse came to a full stop at the threat of being treated to a pair of broken arms. he was twice the size of the japanese, but the difference in their sizes was more than compensated for by his own cravenness and the valet's mastery of the bone-breaking art. mutsu, never taking his eyes off jesse, got out his two suit-cases and packed them carefully and deliberately. jesse, striding up and down and storming, seized a heavy jade ornament from a mantel, when mutsu was about half through with his packing task, and drew it back as if to heave it at the valet; but mutsu, making two agile backward steps, grabbed one of jesse's pistols which lay on top of the tray of an open trunk, and thus waited for the missile. jesse replaced the jade ornament on the mantel and resumed his striding up and down. when the japanese had finished his packing, he consulted a little notebook and, totting up a column of expenditures, found that jesse owed him fifteen pounds. "you pay now and permanent i quit," the japanese said to jesse, and the latter threw his wallet on a table. "take it out of that, you dirty little mandril," he growled to mutsu, "and be on your way before i have you handed over on the charge of being a thief." "just that you try," replied mutsu, breathing hard, as he counted over the money that was due him, "and i--you see where you get off--just that you try! your name like fertilizer i would make!" then mutsu stuffed the amount that was due him into his pocket, tossing the rest of the money on to the table, clapped on his hat, picked up his pair of suit-cases, and walked out, flying the gonfalon of victory. he went straight to the savoy, and was taken into the service of laura stedham the instant he made his appearance before her. jesse, wearing a thoroughly whipped look, huddled in a deep chair for hours after mutsu's departure. the chair was close enough to his brandy bottle to enable him to apply himself to it at startlingly frequent intervals. the first "transaction" of his life, having to do with women, had gone flatly against him. he ground his teeth as he drunkenly pondered that irrefutable fact. he had no fear of the consequences of his attempt to enmesh louise treharne. her only male protector, he knew, was on the other side of the sea. but it was the knowledge that he had utterly and finally lost out in the most diligent and ingenious attempt he had ever made upon a feminine citadel that enraged him. he did not even have the satisfaction of framing reprisals. what reprisals could he attempt? and they could avail him nothing even if he succeeded in setting such revengeful machinery in motion. jesse was considerably more than middling drunk when, his brandy having receded to the lees, he summoned the obsequious gaskins. "anybody above or below me here now?" he inquired of gaskins. "no, sir," replied gaskins. "the gentleman that 'as the hapartment below is abroad, hand the gentleman that 'as the hapartment above only comes 'ere occasionally, sir, for a little hamusement--'e's married now, sir." "well, that's good," said jesse, reeling about. "that'll let me have the whole damned outfit for my parties for the next ten days or so, eh?" "hat your service, sir," replied gaskins, familiar with jesse's prodigality in devising and settling for his diversions. "i'm going to have a series of rough-houses here," said jesse, minus even a crumb of dignity in the presence of a man who had been a flunky all his life, "to celebrate a defeat--or make me forget a defeat; it all comes to the same thing. fellows have been defeated before my time, haven't they? yes, and they'll be defeated after i'm dead, by hell! you've got your work cut out for you, gaskins; i'm going to paint this sheltered little corner of london a luminous red for a week or so, and then damn your england! i'll have you fix up the suppers and that sort of thing. engage all the help you want, and right away. and, say, get me another man, will you? i've fired that dirty little japanese chimpanzee--he's a thief." "you may leave heverything to me, sir," said gaskins, rubbing his hands. "hi quite understand, sir." the saturnalia in the curzon street house began that very night. certain london stage managers of musical comedies still remember that week as one during which, for several nights running, they had to present their extravaganzas with mere apologies for feminine choruses, and, in some instances, with many of the female principals' shrill understudies doing their dismal best with only half-learned lines and songs. * * * * * john blythe, making the _mauretania_ a quarter of an hour before that leviathan started on one of her east-bound record-breaking voyages, reached london on the sixth day after having received laura's cablegram. he surmised why he had been summoned. so sure was he that his surmise was correct that, when he walked in upon laura and louise at the savoy, he did not even inquire why so urgent a summons had been sent to him. he preferred to postpone that question until he had an opportunity to be alone with laura. laura had told louise that blythe was coming. but neither of the women had been expecting him so soon. when he was announced by telephone from the hotel desk louise flushed and paled alternately. laura watched her amusedly. "such hardened unconcern is dreadful to see in one so young, louise," she was beginning to chaff when blythe was ushered in by a diminutive buttons. louise gave him both of her hands. he held them, looking into her eyes with his wide smile. "may i?" he asked her, a little unsteadily. "as louise's chaperon, i shall never forgive her if she refuses--nor you, if you accept her refusal," said laura. louise upraised her face to his. it was a simple but eloquent confession that she knew her lips were for him. "not as your guardian, i hope, louise?" said blythe, putting it in the form of a question. her face still upraised and her eyes partly closed, she shook her head; and blythe, drawing her to him, kissed her full on the lips. then he quickly released her and took laura's outstretched hands. it was the luncheon hour, and laura had luncheon served in the rooms. they chatted upon little intimate matters quite as if they had been lunching in laura's new york apartment. blythe, in fact, mentioned laura's apartment. "i met your decorator the other day," he said, "and he wore a very puzzled expression. he told me that you had charged him by cable to do your place over in tyrian purple, and he was afraid that color would be too dark, or too obtrusive, or something--i forget his exact words." they knew, however, that his banter was simply a device. both of the women, taking blythe's manner as their cue, and observing how pointedly he refrained from asking why he had been sent for, knew at once that he had formed his surmise. louise, for her part, was awaiting laura's signal for her to withdraw. when she had gone, blythe turned a suddenly-sobered face upon laura. "it's jesse, i suppose?" he said to her. "yes," said laura, and she told him of what had happened at the curzon street house. also she told him of jesse's attempted advances upon louise in new york. "i reprove myself now, of course, that i did not tell you at the time about how the man sought to force his attentions upon her in new york," she said, "but you will understand, i know, why i hesitated to tell you. i felt that you would have found it too hard to keep your hands off of him, and i feared to put you to the test. of course i should have known that you would do nothing, no matter how sorely tempted, that would have involved louise; but my timidity, i suppose, is of a piece with that of other women in such circumstances." "don't worry about that part of it, laura," said blythe, consolingly. "you've atoned, if any atonement were necessary, by getting me here now. after all, i could scarcely have taken it upon myself to chastise him in new york. the blackguard did not go quite far enough there, as i understand it, to permit of me getting out on the firing line, even if i had known about it. it is just as well that you waited, for that and some other reasons. there is everything in having a good case," and his face wreathed in a dry sort of a smile which laura analyzed as boding little good for the man of whom they were speaking. "what are your plans, john?" laura asked him presently. "london, you know, is quite as fruitful a field as new york for the achieving of an unmerited and distorted notoriety. i lean upon your judgment, of course." "you are not supposing that i am going to call the cur out, or tweak his nose in public, or any such yellow-covered thing as that, are you, laura?" blythe asked her with another of his reflective smiles. "i know that you are going to punish him," replied laura. "i want you to punish him. heaven knows that i am not bloodthirsty, but i should dearly love to be by while you are in the article of punishing him. only it is an affair that must be handled with extreme caution. i promise not to say that again. but, really, john, you must----" "the only thing i am afraid of," interrupted blythe, meditatively, "is that he might have left london. where did you say his place is? i'll have to devise some way to find out if he is still there." "mutsu can do that," said laura. she had told blythe of the japanese valet's fine part in saving louise from jesse, and now she summoned him. blythe, studying the wiry little man, who wore a distinctively agreeable smile when he made his appearance, commended him warmly for his conduct and asked him if he knew whether jesse still remained at the curzon street house. mutsu replied that he did not know but that he could find out; and he went to the telephone and called up gaskins, representing himself to be a club servant who had been directed to ascertain if mr. jesse still remained in town. gaskins replied that he was, and mutsu gave that word to blythe. "you go there, sir?" inquired mutsu, evidently sensing that blythe's contemplated visit to the curzon street house was not to be in the nature of a peace errand. "let it be that i shall go with you, sir? i can the help-assist you." blythe laughingly told the japanese that he considered that he had done his share and that he would not be needing any help-assistance; and mutsu withdrew. "shall we all dine together here?" blythe asked laura, rising after the japanese had gone. "i am staying at the carlton, and i want to run over there to----" "listen, john: are you going to see that man at his place now, at once?" laura asked him, with an expression of mingled worriment and curiosity. "you know you are!" "oh," said blythe, "i have a bit of running about to do, and----" "but listen, please: supposing the coward were to try to use some weapon on you and----" "tush, laura. what became of louise? but stay: make my devoirs to her, won't you, please? i am off to keep an appointment. we are dining here this evening then? you may expect me by eight o'clock," and off he rushed. he had, in fact, been "straining at his leash," as laura thought, watching him, ever since he had found that jesse still was in town. louise came back a few moments after blythe's departure, and she looked rueful when she saw that he had gone. "don't take it so excessively to heart, dear," laura said to her. "he left all sorts of messages of apology for going without seeing you, but he had an appointment--er--i mean he had to go to----" laura came to a somewhat feeble pause, and louise, moreover, had noticed that her tone was a bit forced. louise, trembling slightly, placed her hands on laura's shoulders. "dear, he has gone to curzon street, has he not?" she asked the older woman. "of course he has!--why shouldn't he?" replied laura, with a bravado which immediately gave away to tears. louise promptly followed her example. it was merely another repetition of the age-old story wherein women weep when men go forth. and, although they of course did not know it at the time, no doubt both women enjoyed their tears quite as heartily as if they had been justified in feeling the least fear for the safety of john blythe. * * * * * jesse, his fiesta "in celebration of a defeat" at an end, was supervising the packing of his trunks by the young english valet obtained for him by gaskins. his face was puffed and there were purplish pouches under his restless eyes. three new york men, two of them somewhat youngish, the third of about jesse's age, who had been drawn into the current of the recent gayety at the curzon street house, lounged about, smoking rather dismally, glancing occasionally into the mantel glass at their furred tongues and shaking their heads in the spirit of self-accusation which comes with the aftermath. "back to little old new york and at least a year's exemplary conduct for mine," observed the eldest of jesse's three visitors, jermyn scammel, a stock broker widely known in new york for the catholicity of his views as to his associates. "the veil for me," chorused the two younger men, sepulchrally. jesse accepted their vows of amendment as tributes to his lavishness as an entertainer and smiled flaccidly. the self-gratulating smile still flickered on his face when there came a knock, and gaskins, grown unceremonious during the recent gay proceedings, opened the door without waiting for a "come in" and said: "gentleman with an happointment with you, sir." blythe had told gaskins that he had an appointment with jesse and that therefore there would be no need to announce him. jesse's smile congealed, his jaw fell, and he stood with mouth agape, when john blythe stepped into the room. blythe bestowed a mere nod upon him and then glanced around at the other men. he knew scammel. "hul-lo!" exclaimed that now repentent _bon vivant_, advancing upon blythe with outstretched hand. "john blythe it is, but too late for the doings! but who'd have thought you ever participated in doings, old man!" something in blythe's eye, as well as the panic-stricken appearance of jesse, stopped scammel's airy greeting when he had got that far. "why, what the devil----" he muttered, looking first at blythe and then at jesse, whose face had taken on a sickly, chalky pallor. the two younger men, seated a-straddle of chairs, watched the scene with curious eyes. blythe rather liked scammel, in spite of the latter's excessively careless way of living. the man was genuine, at any rate, and blythe was not displeased to find him there; he knew that scammel would be a trustworthy witness as to anything that might happen. blythe bowed to the two younger men, and turned to the still agape jesse. "would you prefer to see me privately, or do you elect to have these gentlemen remain?" he asked jesse in a quiet tone. "i have nothing to see you about," spluttered jesse, "and you are intruding upon----" "you know what i have crossed the atlantic to see you about," blythe broke in upon him in an even tone. "this is no place for a clergyman's son--i can see that!" ejaculated scammel, picking up his hat and stick, the two younger men doing likewise; the fact having become very obvious by this time that something unusual between blythe and jesse was in the wind. "don't you people go!" gasped jesse, and they all saw, not without a certain immediate disgust, that the man was in positive terror. "i want all of you as witnesses! this man," staring with protrusive eyes at blythe, "has no appointment with me. he wasn't asked to come here, and he has no right here. he is intruding upon my----" "easy has it, jesse," put in scammel, putting off his airiness of a sudden and assuming the dignity which belonged to him. "i know blythe. he doesn't intrude anywhere. this is a quarrel between you two. i am your guest and i'll stay if you want me to and if blythe is agreeable. how about it, blythe?" "i would a little prefer that you and these other gentlemen remain," replied blythe, quite at his ease. "i think it fair to tell you in advance, however, that you are to witness the chastisement of your host." jesse gave an audible gasp, and scammel looked at him and then at blythe. "well, since you both want us to stay, there is no other way for it, is there?" turning to the two younger men, who nodded acquiescently. "but it's a bit unusual, isn't it, blythe? coming to a man's house with a chastising programme?" "you won't think so, scammel, nor will your friends here, when i explain the reason," replied blythe, no trace of excitement in his tone; "and, since you are going to remain, you are of course entitled to an explanation." "it's all a put-up job!" broke out jesse, hoarsely. "i've had no affair with this man. he's meddling, that's what he is doing--meddling! i swear it, by god!" "just a moment, jesse," put in scammel, squarely facing the man he addressed. "blythe doesn't meddle. i know that as well as i know that i wear a hat. he wouldn't be here with any such purpose as he announces unless he had some pretty good reason. don't try to prejudice his case in advance. that isn't the square thing." "but," almost screamed jesse, "he is picking up other people's affairs and trying to make them his----" "stop that, jesse!" broke in scammel, raising an authoritative arm, a trace of anger in his tone. "good god, man, can't you play the game? you've got a man's gizzard, haven't you? what the devil are you trembling and quaking about? is your case so bad as all that? go ahead, blythe. it's your say now, and we're listening." jesse, knowing that the verdict of this court of arbitration could not but be against him, glanced at the portieres as if upon the point of bolting for it. scammel, noticing this, passed behind jesse and took his stand at the parting of the portieres. the two younger men rose from their straddled chairs and viewed the proceedings standing, their eyes slitting perceptibly when they perceived jesse's manifest cravenness. "gentlemen," said blythe, glancing from scammel to the younger men and not even seeming to see jesse, "i don't think it will be necessary to pledge you to secrecy as to what happens here, even if no names are to be mentioned. if the affair involved a man it would be different. but it does not. it involves a young new york lady, now in london, who has been out of school less than half a year. the young lady is my ward. moreover, she is to be my wife." "but i didn't know that!" broke in jesse with a hideous shrillness of tone. "i swear to god that i did not know that, or----" scammel glared jesse into silence, and blythe went on. "it makes no difference, as you will discover, whether he knew it or not," he said, speaking of jesse as if he had not been present. "the thing that he did, in this place, a week ago, was a thing so incredibly base that my account of it might well tax your credulity. but that it happened precisely as i am going to tell it to you is of course true, else i should not be here. the young new york lady of whom i speak is in london under the protection of a chaperon, a friend of her mother's. a week ago, by means of a trick, this man enticed my ward, who is wholly lacking in experience, to this house. he caused a telephone message to be sent to her at her hotel, informing her that her chaperon, who had left the hotel on a shopping tour, had been overtaken by an illness and had been brought to this house. this house was represented in the telephone message to be the home of a 'mrs. hammond,' an imaginary friend of my ward's chaperon. the young lady came here with all haste to see, as she supposed, her chaperon and protectress. this man, waiting for her, not only insulted her grossly, subjecting her to indignities and physical violence which i can scarcely speak of in the presence of gentlemen, but he told her, virtually in so many words, that it was his deliberate purpose to deflower her. his own valet, a japanese, appeared in her moment of peril; and it was the valet's physical intervention alone that saved her from the fate this man had ingeniously and malignantly planned for her." blythe paused. he had spoken quietly, but there was a menacing timbre in his voice. jesse, looking like a hunted animal, had attempted several times to break in upon blythe's recital, but each time scammel had stopped him with a warning gesture. now scammel, with gathered brows, stepped in front of jesse and inquired of him: "what have you to say to this, jesse?" "i didn't know, i tell you," jesse broke out in a voice that was choked with terror, "that she was to be married to blythe, or----" "wait!" commanded scammel, thrusting up a staying hand. "that convicts you, jesse. you're a damned scoundrel on your own say-so. what difference does it make as to the main facts of your dirty bit of work whether you knew that or not? i am not unmindful of the duties of a guest; but, for all that, if i were blythe i'd whale the everlasting hell out of you, here and now, and i reckon he will; and i, for one, am going to stick around to see fair play!" "same here" and "that goes for me, too," put in the two younger men. blythe stepped forward, and, drawing back his right arm, left the quickly-crimsoning imprint of his palm upon jesse's waxy cheek. jesse received the blow, merely meant to be introductory, with a shriek, and wriggled back and sought to huddle in a corner of the room. "why, damnation take it, jesse," exclaimed scammel, reddening with the shame of seeing a man he had been on terms with performing so cravenly, "you're going to put up your hands, aren't you? you're not going to be such a cur as to----here, none of that, you know!" and he leaped at jesse and wrenched from his grasp the heavy teakwood tabouret which the man, at bay and with no sense of fairness, had suddenly reached down and grabbed from beneath the jardiniere which it supported. "keep out, scammel, please," quietly enjoined blythe, and he stepped over to jesse, pulled him to the center of the room by the lapel of his coat, and then brought his right fist crashing to the point of jesse's jaw. jesse, seeing the blow coming, squeaked like a rat; then he went down like a log and lay unconscious before the fireplace. blythe and the three other men stood looking at him with wonderment mingled with disgust. [illustration: he squeaked like a rat; then he went down like a log.] "well, by st. george and the dragon, that gets me--a man weighing two hundred if he weighs an ounce, and well put together, too, even if he may be not exactly fit--a man like that standing up and letting another fellow bang away at him without ever so much as sticking up his hands-- damn such carrion in a man's shape, i say! i consider that you've been cheated, blythe. i know that you'd a thousand times rather he had taken at least one healthy swing at you!" "i feel as if i had hit a woman," replied blythe, a lump of loathing in his throat. one of the younger men went to the head of the stairs and called to gaskins to come up. gaskins viewed the prone man imperturbably enough, then dashed a glass of water in his face. presently jesse's eyelids fluttered and after a moment he sat up, rubbing his chin, and staring about confusedly. then the four men left the house, scammel and his two companions lashing out at themselves for having even unwittingly permitted themselves to become the guests of a man of such monolithic cowardice. blythe, sickened by the spinelessness of the man whom he had called to account, went to his rooms at the carlton to dress for dinner at the savoy. louise and laura, neither of them in a conversational humor, had just finished dressing when blythe, ushered by the pompous three-foot buttons, walked in upon them, very "tall and wide" in his evening clothes. as he came under the light of the electrolier both women surveyed his face keenly and nervously for marks of a conflict. "of course he has been there," thought laura, "but----" just then blythe, in removing his right glove in rather a gingerly fashion, pulled with it a piece of white sticking plaster, and laura perceived that the skin was missing from the middle knuckle of his right hand. then she knew that he had "been there." but she did not hear what had happened that afternoon at the curzon street house until scammel, whom she had known all her life, told her several months later in new york; scammel, while blythe had been making his explanation, having correctly guessed, being acquainted with nearly all the americans in london, as to the identity of the chaperon of blythe's ward. chapter xv before louise had risen on the following morning laura entered her bedroom and handed her an unopened cablegram. louise tore open the envelope with trembling hands. she had no means of surmising the character of the message. blythe had been purposely evasive in replying to louise's questions as to whether her mother had looked ill when he had last seen her, for he disliked to be the bearer of disquieting news. his private report to laura, however, as to the obvious state of mrs. treharne's health had been sufficiently alarming to cause laura to lie awake a good part of the night, meditating as to whether she should tell louise. laura had read mrs. treharne's letter to louise, announcing her departure from the house on the drive for an undetermined destination; and this complicated the situation and was the reason why laura withheld from louise what blythe had told her about her mother's gravely-declining health. since the receipt of that letter no message had reached louise from her mother, giving her address; and laura had not elected to alarm the girl needlessly while mrs. treharne's address remained unknown. the cablegram took the problem out of laura's hands. it was dated from saranac, in the adirondacks, and read: "am ill. come immediately. mother." louise handed the message to laura and rose at once. she found it very natural that, at such a moment, she should lean upon the resourcefulness of john blythe. "i suppose john can arrange for our passage?" she said to laura. "john," replied laura, confidently, "can do anything, i think, even to obtaining accommodations on a new-york-bound steamer in july, which is next to impossible." laura immediately telephoned to blythe at the carlton, telling him of the summons louise had received from her mother. "of course i am to go with her," said laura, "and equally of course we shall have a dreadful time getting steamer accommodations at this season." "probably i can manage," was blythe's prompt reply. "the _mauretania_, which brought me over, is returning day after tomorrow. i know she is booked to the gun'ls--but i'll see what can be done. of course i am going, too. i'll see you by noon and let you know." jermyn scammel and his two companions who had been witnesses of blythe's meeting with jesse at the curzon street house were staying at the carlton, and blythe knew that they had reserved accommodations on the _mauretania_. blythe found them at breakfast in scammel's rooms and he told them of the quandary in which two american ladies found themselves owing to the extreme difficulty of securing passage on board west-bound steamers at that season. "anybody i know, blythe?" scammel asked him. "i think so," said blythe. "mrs. laura stedham is--" "laura stedham? known her all my life--tried my infernallest to marry her when i was a cub, but she wouldn't so much as look at me," said scammel, cheerily. "she can have my cabin if i have to stay over here for the remainder of my natural life. how about you fellows?" addressing his companions. it was all one to them, it appeared. if scammel was willing to remain in london for a while longer, why-- "but i haven't the least idea of remaining in london," put in scammel when they had got that far. "the night train for paris for mine, now that i can't get away on the _mauretania_. no use talking, blythe, fate is against me. i want to be good, but i'm not allowed to be. i'll leave it to you or anybody else if i had the slightest idea of making paris this trip. i've been fighting the temptation to hit up paris ever since i've been over this time. now, you see, i'm positively driven to it. man comes along and grabs my homeward-bound cabin away from me. what else is there for it but paris? are you cubs going along with me?" turning to the two younger men. the "cubs," it appeared, were quite willing to defer their meditated repentance until such time as scammel might be ready to repent with them, and they proclaimed that paris sounded good to them. thus it was that blythe was able to appear at the savoy long before noon with the announcement that he had contrived to obtain three highly-desirable staterooms on the _mauretania_. "what should we ever have done without him?" said laura to louise, while blythe lounged about--making occasional discreet exits--during their packing operations. "without jerry scammel and the two apt and obliging young new york pupils he is breaking in over here, you should say," observed blythe. "john! was it dear old jerry scammel who did this for us?" asked laura, blushing. "well, i shall certainly bake him a cake or crochet him a pair of pulse-warmers or ear-laps or something as soon as he gets back to new york. he's a dear, and always was, and i always fight tooth and nail for him when the catty old dowagers call him the most dissipated man in new york. jerry, to this day, declares to me, every time i meet him, that he holds the world's record for proposals to the same girl within a given time. i was the girl. i believe i was somewhat under sixteen and jerry was not yet nineteen. he swears that he proposed to me forty-four times within one month. of course he is wrong. it was only twenty-three." laura and blythe purposely kept up this sort of small talk to divert louise's thoughts from her mother's illness. louise, heavy-hearted as she was, quite understood their kindly purpose, and successfully strove to appear entertained by their banter. but her foreboding was not easy to dispel. she knew that her mother would not have summoned her if her illness had not been of the gravest character; for in her last letter--the one she wrote on the night before leaving new york--she had insisted upon louise having her london visit out. the girl had been filled with an intense happiness upon reading her mother's announcement of her departure from the house on the drive. she had pictured a happy reunion with her mother and had begun immediately to make plans for the home which they should have together upon her return to new york. so that her mother's summons and louise's certainty that the summons would never have been made had her mother's condition not been very serious, bore heavily upon her. "i begin to fear that i have found my mother only to lose her again," she had said to laura in talking over the cable message; and laura, while professing to be shocked at louise's premonition, had turned away to hide her tears; for the same premonition, better-grounded than louise's on account of what she had heard from blythe as to the visible decline into which mrs. treharne had seemed to be falling, was depressing laura. * * * * * the steamer made an unseasonably squally and heavy passage of it, and laura, who had never been intended for a vikingess, as she expressed it, kept to her stateroom almost throughout the voyage. louise and blythe were among the few on board the crowded steamer who did not shrink even once from mess call, which is the test of the born voyager. they kept pace with the most hardened constitutional-takers on deck every day, and were together almost constantly. louise treharne and john blythe already knew that they loved each other. on board the steamer, and for five days running, rarely out of each other's company, both found that, humanly speaking, they also genuinely liked each other. even men and women entirely devoted to each other quite commonly develop a certain pettishness often verging upon actual irascibility when they find themselves incessantly in each other's company on board a steamer. louise and blythe, despite the unfriendliness of the elements and the consequent discomforts of the passage, both felt quite lost and miserable when they were separated from each other even for short periods during the voyage. louise, in her inexperience, did not seek to analyze this phenomenon. but blythe did. "she is as fine-grained as she is beautiful, laura," he said to that ever-receptive confidante, when he found himself alone with her for a moment one day toward the end of the voyage. "i have, as of course you know, no particular amount of sweetness of disposition at sea or anywhere else. but, somehow, i have been a marvel of beatific mildness and contentment ever since we left england. there's only one way to account for that. louise is temperamentally perfect." "charming, but wholly wrong," replied laura. "louise is magnificently deficient in the thing called 'temperament'--thank heaven! did you ever happen to encounter a female who delighted in calling herself a 'woman of temperament,' john blythe? then you know how hopelessly impossible a woman of that sort is, considered as a companion for any normal human being of either sex. if louise had been temperamental--_any_ kind of temperamental--i am certain that you two would be passing each other on deck without even nodding by this time. but the dear is just a sweet girl-woman with a wholesome imagination and human impulses, and i myself, a woman (and a fussy one, too, sometimes!), could live with her forever without a symptom of friction. you are a very lucky rising young legal person. i don't know what i shall do without her." "without her--when?" said blythe, his surprise genuine. "you are going up to the adirondacks with her, aren't you?" "to be sure," replied laura. "i mean that i don't know what i shall do without her when--" she broke off in momentary confusion. "oh, you are impossibly opaque today, john," she finished, smiling illuminatingly. "oh--that!" said blythe, enlightened, yet a bit rueful. it was precisely "that" which, as the steamer drew near new york was causing blythe no little disquietude. he knew that he would miss louise acutely after the delightful intimacies of the voyage. no word as to their tacit relationship had been spoken by blythe since they had thus been thrown almost constantly together. a natural delicacy had deterred him from touching upon that subject at a time when louise was hurrying to the bedside of her mother. but, now that the steamer was less than half a day from new york, he began to draw a desolate picture of his lonesome state when he should bid goodbye to louise at the station. her vigil at her mother's bedside might be a protracted one. he remembered, not without a shock of astonishment, that he had never asked louise to be his wife. when he mentally retraced the path, he found it easy enough to understand why he had not put this question to her. nevertheless, the fact that she was by no means plighted to him had caused him a vague uneasiness since the beginning of the voyage; and, now that their separation, for an indeterminate period, impended, he found himself swept by a desire to make their mutual understanding--if such, indeed, he thought nervously, louise really took it to be--more explicit, if not more binding. it chanced that louise herself furnished him his opportunity to speak. she had written a wireless message of greeting to her mother, to be transmitted from new york to saranac, and they watched the operator as he flared the message over the waste of tumbling waters. "i told her in the message that you are with us," louise said to him. "and of course she shall know, when i see her, that laura and i might have had to remain in england indefinitely had it not been for you." "there is something that i want your sanction to tell your mother when i see her," said blythe as they set out for a stroll on the long deck. "yes?" she said, with a quick sidewise glance at him. she understood perfectly well what he meant; had, indeed, been waiting for him to assume that direction; but women are not expected to make such admissions. "i think you will be ready to admit that i have striven to practise self-restraint," said blythe, with a smile in which there was a touch of nervousness. "but there is a point beyond which i cannot go. are you to tell your mother that i have asked you to marry me, or am i to tell her when i see her?" "have you asked me that?" inquired louise, a little mischievously; but she asked the question in order to gain time. blythe laughed in self-deprecation. "if i have been guilty of so stupid an omission, i can rectify it by asking you now?" he said; and louise noticed the flush that overspread his features. "i have, i know, a habit of taking too much for granted. but i really supposed you knew that my life is bound up in yours, louise." "and mine in yours," she replied with a perfect candor that thrilled him. "if i did not love you dearly--and i do--perhaps i should not so keenly feel that i would be doing you an injustice to marry you." blythe could scarcely credit his ears. her first words had set him to soaring, but, when she had finished, he was conscious of as stunned a feeling as if he had received a physical blow. involuntarily he stood stock still and faced her; but the need to keep moving in order not to block the progress of the other deck pedestrians quickly flashed upon him. when he moved forward again at her side, however, listening to her quiet, earnest words, he was conscious, for a while, of a certain numbness, almost approaching languor, which he found it difficult to throw off. louise, more reservedly but with no lack of clearness, touched upon the points which she had made in going over the same ground with laura. surprised as he was, blythe, whose mind had never been visited by any of the considerations which she named, nevertheless had an immediate and acute understanding of the ordeal through which the girl must be passing in thus presenting her analysis of the situation to him. "it would be the logical thing for me to say that you have wholly misjudged me, louise," he said to her when she had finished. "but i am not going to do that, because i know that you have done nothing of the sort. you are simply the victim of a perfectly natural supersensitiveness. i know how difficult you have found it to say such things. i blame myself for having pressed you to the point where you considered it necessary to say them. it is scarcely less hard for me to talk of such a matter--harder still because nothing that you have touched upon has even once occurred to me. i know that you are the woman my heart craves for. nothing that you have said, or ever can say, will change that. and if you care for me--" "i do," louise interrupted him. "you are never out of my thoughts. i find it hard to believe that there ever was a time when i did not know you and love you." the beautiful spontaneity and frankness of the avowal sent the blood pounding at blythe's temples. "then do you suppose, louise," he said to her, in a vibrant voice of enthrallment, "that anything in this world of god can ever keep us apart? everything gives way--must give way--to the love of a man for a woman, of a woman for a man. you speak of my ambition, my career. what would they be worth to me without you? vain things--things that i would thrust away from me! i tell you it has come to pass that my life is inseparably bound up in yours. all the rest would be a futile striving without you. the great miracle of life has come upon me. there was a time when i feared that it would pass me by. you are the woman of all my dreams--the dreams of boy and man. how can anything stand between us?" "i have thought that, too, often," said louise, no less moved by his fervor than he had been by her avowal. "but the thought that i might be the means of throwing a shadow upon your path--" "shadow!" broke out blythe. "there would be no _path_ for me without you!" "but, dear," said louise, conscious that her ground was giving way beneath her, "we cannot always do that which we want to do, can we? we owe each other unselfishness at least, if only on account of our love? and if you were to be swept by a regret in the time that is to come, how--" "don't say that, louise," said blythe. "it is too impossible. it is too inconceivable." they came to a pause in their stroll and stood, hands on rail, gazing over the billowing expanse of sun-sparkling sea. "you will give me time to think it all out, dear, won't you?" said louise. "my experience has been so small that i do not often presume to feel very sure of my ground." "when you speak of how small your experience has been, louise," said blythe, a symptom of a smile flickering around his eyes, "i am revisited by a kind of self-condemnation that i have known ever since i became aware that i loved you. even now i wonder if i am really guilty of having pounced upon you, when you were barely out of school, and before you had your rightful chance to enslave and then appraise your cluster of suitors--" louise, smiling, placed a hand upon his arm. "please don't continue that," she said. "all the 'clusters of suitors' in the world would have made no difference to me. always, i think, john, i should have been gazing beyond them--if they had appeared, which of course is merely your polite assumption--to see your face. and then the poor 'enslaved' ones would have disappeared in a sudden mist, and i should have seen only you." hands resting upon steamer rails may be furtively pressed, no matter how many deck strollers there may be. "how royally you grant absolution!" said blythe. "but, for all that, it is not as a sister confessor alone that i need you. if now you have made the path so clear for me, then it is your own fault, heart of dreams. it is as wife, mate of me, that i need you--and shall have you." wife and mate of the man beloved! they were new words--even expressing a new thought--to louise, and they sang tumultuously in her heart. * * * * * mrs. treharne, very white and with the spiritual delicacy of an illness already far-advanced upon her features, was propped up in bed, gazing with a sort of vacant wonderment at her almost transparent hands, which she held up to the light, when the faithful heloise entered the room with louise's wireless message from the _mauretania_. she read it eagerly and then suffered the message to flutter from her fingers to the coverlet. "my little girl will be here day after tomorrow morning," she said to the maid, smiling wanly with the happiness of it. "do you think she will know her mother, heloise?" "know you, madame?" said the maid, half grumblingly, half soothingly, as she raised her mistress and patted the pillows. "madame must not be morbid. the doctor said that. i, too, say it. why should not mademoiselle louise know her mother?" "because, good heloise, her mother is a spectre, a wraith, a lingering ghost," said mrs. treharne, taking the maid's hand in both her own and patting it; whereupon heloise promptly produced a handkerchief from the pocket of her tiny apron with her free hand and began to dab at her eyes. the mistress studied the maid with surprise. "why, heloise, i did not know you cared so much," she said. "but i have noticed that you do not scold me any more. that is because you do care, then, heloise?" "madame does not need to be scolded any more," said heloise, brokenly. "before, one was obliged to scold her; that is, one thought so." the girl turned away her face and gazed blankly out of the window at the swaying trees. "but now, madame, one is sorry ever to have scolded at all." they occupied a pretty hotel cottage on the outskirts of the bright little town of saranac in the adirondacks. it is a town transiently inhabited mainly by victims of pulmonary affections. but mrs. treharne's illness was not of that character. she had been obliged to take to bed a few days after reaching saranac. her medical men had told her that she was suffering from a gradual disintegration of the vital forces. "i quite understood that before i came here," mrs. treharne had said to them. "you express in terms of politeness a fact that i have been perfectly familiar with for a long time: that i am simply worn out. there are reasons, aside from any consideration of myself, why i should like to have you gentlemen inform me as to one point at once." "and that is?" the physicians had asked her. "am i to get well, or am i to die?" mrs. treharne had asked them out of hand. very naturally the medical men had paused under the impact of so unusually direct a question. then they had begun to tell her that her case presented certain complications of a somewhat grave character, and that-- "i understand," mrs. treharne had interrupted, smiling up at them with a bravery which the physicians later commented upon glowingly. but they had not sought to disabuse her of the inference which their halting words and manner had caused her to derive. mrs. treharne had turned the matter over in her mind for days before cabling to louise. before sending that message she had, in her perplexity, turned to her maid for advice. "heloise," she had said to the devoted french girl, "tell me something, won't you? the doctors have given me to understand that--oh, well, that i am not to be here very long. do you think it would be well for me to send for my daughter?" heloise, thus hearing of the physicians' pronouncement for the first time, had given way to a torrent of tears; but, upon becoming calm under her mistress's cheerful words, she had replied that it would be an everlasting pity if louise were not sent for in any case. "i am not so sure about that," mrs. treharne had replied. "i recall very easily how i myself, when i was of louise's age, recoiled from the thought of death--though i do not at all now, oddly enough. i should have hated to be at the bedside of my mother when she died--i was only a child in arms and did not know anything about it. louise, i think, must feel the same way. why should she not? she is my daughter. would it not be quite as well for her to return to this country and find me gone, as it would be to send for her now and subject her to the distress of seeing me pass? i am not considering myself, heloise. every minute i am longing to see her. but i want to be fair now, at least, and do what is best." heloise had found no difficulty at all in withstanding this sort of reasoning. "if madame does not send for her daughter," heloise had replied, "i myself shall do so, in my own name." "very well," mrs. treharne had replied, "i shall cable her at once, and god speed her over the sea to me!" * * * * * on the second morning--sunny and beautiful--after mrs. treharne had received louise's wireless message, she and heloise heard the grinding of carriage wheels on the short gravel road leading to the cottage porch. the doctor already had paid his visit and departed, so they knew that the sound was not that of his buggy. heloise raced on tiptoes to the window and looked down. then she turned a delighted face upon her mistress, whose hair she had been arranging with unusual care in expectation of louise. "it is mademoiselle!" cried the maid. there was a sound of hurried tripping up the stairs; and louise, flushed from the drive, regally beautiful, swept softly into the room and, kneeling by the bed, took her mother in her arms and held her tight, rocking back and forth on the pillows, and restraining her tears by sheer effort of will. laura found an excuse to remain on the porch for a moment, giving directions to the driver of the carriage, while mother and daughter met. louise had schooled herself to withstand the shock of finding her mother looking badly. but her first glance at the white-faced invalid had caused her heart to beat with agonized trepidation. it would have been obvious to an uninterested stranger that mrs. treharne was fast approaching the end of her days. louise perceived it at a glance. but she would not yield to her almost overwhelming woman's impulse to weep. her mother's penetrating mind quickly sensed the girl's struggle and the victory; and she raised louise's head from where it nestled on her shoulder and held her face in her hands and looked at her with a smile. "it is fine of you not to cry, dear," she said, stroking the girl's face. "it means a good deal to me to know that my daughter is a thoroughbred--and you are always that, sweetheart. and how superb you have become! what a commotion you and laura must have made in london! where is laura--she is with you, of course?" "here i am, tony dear, as unlosable as the proverbial bad penny," said laura, entering the room just then and bending over from the other side of the bed and taking her old friend in her arms. "isn't louise looking superb? i can say it before her, because the child hasn't a groat's worth of vanity. and she has behaved extraordinarily well. i haven't had to tie her to the bedpost once." "you are looking dazzling yourself, laura," said mrs. treharne with a little sigh. "did you know that i always was just a little jealous of you, dear?" and she laughed more merrily than she had for a long time. "not that i ever had any reason to be, for it was the design of providence that you should outshine me. you and louise are to spend hours with me, are you not, telling me of your conquests in europe? and where is john blythe?" turning to louise. "is he not with you? i judged from your wireless message that--" "oh, yes, he returned with us on the steamer, but he remained in new york, mother," louise put in, a quick flush overspreading her features. "did you wish to see him? i know he would come if i were to--" mrs. treharne glanced, smiling, at laura, who returned the smile. "would he, dear?" asked mrs. treharne. "i haven't the least doubt of it. but there will be time. later i should like to see him. he has a compelling way." she paused, then added with a smile at louise: "but he is very lucky, all the same." louise, marveling at her mother's penetration in discerning, with so little to go upon, the bond between blythe and herself, nevertheless was glad that the relationship had thus been read; for there still remained enough of her habitual shyness with her mother to have caused her to shrink slightly from making even so natural and simple a revelation. laura left the room presently to attend to the disposal of the arriving baggage, and louise, removing her hat and travelling wrap, arranged her mother's pillows and then sat beside her on the bed. "i do not ask you, you see, dear, to try to conceal the fact that you find me so greatly altered," said her mother, holding the girl's hand. "i am ashamed to recall how petulant it used to make me when you seemed to be tracing, with your big, wide eyes, my new wrinkles--which you were not doing at all; i know that now, dear heart." "when does your doctor come today, mother?" asked louise, a little haltingly. "he has been here and gone," replied her mother, discerning what was in louise's mind. "but there is no need for you to see him privately, daughter. your little mother will tell you, for you have shown how brave you can be. i am quite as ill as you suppose me to be, louise, and entirely beyond the help of medical men. cry, dear, if you feel like it; i shall not mind; and there are times when tears do help one." louise, yielding at last, knelt beside the bed and buried her face on her mother's shoulder in an agony of quiet weeping, while her mother stroked her hair and murmured phrases of endearment that had not visited her lips since louise had been a child. "take heart, girl of mine," she said after a while, when she observed that louise's sobs were gradually abating. "i am resigned. it was to be--but i shall not distract you with phrases of that kind, which, after all, are not so consoling as they are supposed to be. i am glad that i have lived to know and to understand and to appreciate so fine and sweet a daughter as i have. and, louise: listen." "yes, mother: i am listening." "it is a gift of god, i know, that i have a daughter who, when my very soul was in peril, regenerated, recreated me. you have done that for me. i confess it without shame. my little girl summoned me, raised me from the depths. thank god i answered the summons before i knew that my life was slipping away from me, so that i am at least open to no charge of hypocrisy or of repenting in mere grovelling fear of the judgment. my little louise, grown to sweet, serene, pure womanhood, did this thing for me. it is something to have brought your mother to the foot of the cross, my dear; and that knowledge, i know, will ennoble and exalt you during all the years that are to come." when heloise entered the room, hours later, she found her mistress asleep, and louise's head still pillowed upon her mother's breast. chapter xvi a tall, bronzed man, erect and broad of shoulder, strode slowly, meditatively, hands clasped behind him, back and forth on the wide porch of a rambling, palm-shaded one-story hawaiian bungalow. he had the unlined countenance of a man of forty-five who had lived most of his life in the open; but his silvered, almost white, hair and mustache, might well have given at first glance, the impression that he was older. he was clad in white linen, although it was the day before christmas. december in hawaii! there is nothing in the whole world to compare with it. the sun shone in serene splendor from a cloudless sky of the intensest indigo. the fronds of the towering palms stirred with a soothing sibilance under the light touch of fragrant whispering zephyrs. surrounding the bungalow were many unfenced acres rioting in the myriad hued flowers of the tropics; thence, from where the welter of blossoms ceased, on all sides, as far as the eye could see, stretched miles of sugar-cane in growing, with its unmatchable tint of young, tender yet vivid green. it was the island of maui; and maui, next to the main island of hawaii, is the most beautiful of all the sugar-cane islands in the world. in the still air the chattering of hundreds of japanese workers among the cane reached, mitigated by distance, the porch of the bungalow, attached to one of the stanchions of which was a telephone at which the bronzed man occasionally stopped to reply to the questions of foremen scattered over the plantation. from the rear came the softer tones of the kanaka household servants; at intervals the voices were raised in fragments of the melodious but curiously melancholy hawaiian folk songs. but george treharne, accustomed to the beauty of his surroundings, was giving little heed, as he paced unceasingly back and forth, to the sights and sounds of his marvelous investiture. his mind was upon the snowy christmas eves of the flown years. he had not heard from his daughter, nor even from blythe, a punctilious correspondent in matters of business, since receiving louise's announcement of her mother's death, in the early part of september. and he had been unable to make his contemplated visit to "the main land," as americans living in hawaii call the united states. after one born and reared in temperate zones has passed many christmases in tropic lands, the approach of that memory-hallowed day never fails to arouse longing for the keen bite of the cutting, north wind, the sight of drifting snow, the sound of sleigh-bells, the holiday activities of the icy winter lands; nor does the flowery, fragrant beauty of the tropics, after long familiarity, compensate the native of the winter-knowing lands for his severance from the holiday spirit to which his youth made him accustomed. george treharne was more lonesome on this day before christmas than he had ever been in his life. he came to a pause in his stride, stopped by the telephone and began to devise the terms of a christmas greeting by cable to louise. he could telephone the message to lahaina, the nearby seaport of the island of maui, whence it could be transmitted by telephone to honolulu for the cable. he was taking down the receiver, when he happened to glance down the long white road to the entrance gate, nearly three-quarters of a mile away. in the clear air he could discern that the horse trotting up the road was ridden by a woman. many tourists visited the treharne plantation and were received with solicitous hospitality by its owner in person. knowing that this presumable tourist would reach the bungalow before he could finish his message to lahaina, george treharne deferred taking down the receiver of the telephone. he resumed his strolling back and forth on the porch, and, when horse and rider were within a hundred yards or so of the bungalow, he summoned a kanaka boy to take charge of the horse. he himself descended the steps and went to the edge of the road, where, with bared head, he waited to assist the visitor from her horse. the sunlight was blindingly in his eyes, so that he scarcely saw her face when he lifted her from the saddle. after a few words of courteous greeting he led the way, his vision still slightly obscured by the after-effects of the sun's direct rays, to the wide palm-shaded porch. when she stood beside him on the porch, rather nervously switching her riding crop, he observed that she was a very lovely, unusually tall young woman with a great coil of auburn hair flowing from beneath her wide-brimmed soft hat; and he had noticed, too, when she spoke, that she possessed a singularly sweet, rather subdued voice. but he did not know her. he was about to conduct her through the open door into the long, cool hall, when, turning his head to speak to her, he was struck by something in her face and attitude. she was not following him. that was what he noticed at once. instead, she was standing quite still in the middle of the porch, her riding crop now at rest, and holding up the skirt of her habit with the other hand. there was a half-smile on her face; but, in odd contrast to this, he noticed that her eyes were filmed with tears; that, in truth, two tears at least already had fallen. halting, then, in the doorway, he turned full around upon her. a tremor ran through his frame. he reached her in two bounds which were as sudden and springy as the bounds of a wrestler. he crushed her to his heart without a word. he knew that he was incapable of speaking. he kissed her over and over again and devoured her with his eyes. "my little girl louise!" he was finally able to say in a broken voice. "my beautiful, woman-grown little girl--god forever bless her!" and he held her out at arm's length, his powerful, bronzed hands gripping her shoulders, and gazed avidly at her until once again he clasped her to his heart. * * * * * after a time, when father and daughter were able to speak collectedly, louise walked over to the railing of the porch and raised her riding crop high in the air. her father saw the signal. the man for whom it was intended saw it as quickly. instantly, from behind the superintendent's house at the gate of the plantation road, a horse, ridden by a man in khaki, emerged and quickly swung into a gallop, making for the bungalow. when john blythe, with his wide smile, leaped from the horse and tossed the reins to the waiting kanaka boy, george treharne, recognizing him at once, glanced wonderingly from his face to the smiling, flushed face of louise. then his own bronzed features were creased by a smile of warmth and happiness. "then i have a son, too, louise?" he asked his daughter. but he knew how needless her brightly nodded answer was when, an instant later, he saw her clasped in her husband's arms. [a hand-writted note, transcribed below, appeared on the first page of this copy of the book. the etext transcriber cannot attest to its authenticity.] my dear mr. norris: owing as i do so very much to your earliest and most unqualified approval of this story in manuscript form it is my determination to inscribe a copy to you whether you will or no. that it reaches either you or the public "under cover" so soon is due entirely to you. therefore refuse not a corner on the family table to the off-spring you so generously fostered; neither attempt to deny in the future that your sins do find you out. with the most grateful remembrances i am, sincerely yours dreiser sister carrie sister carrie by theodore dreiser new york doubleday, page & co. copyright, , by doubleday, page & co. to my friend arthur henry whose steadfast ideals and serene devotion to truth and beauty have served to lighten the method and strengthen the purpose of this volume. sister carrie sister carrie chapter i the magnet attracting: a waif amid forces when caroline meeber boarded the afternoon train for chicago, her total outfit consisted of a small trunk, a cheap imitation alligator-skin satchel, a small lunch in a paper box, and a yellow leather snap purse, containing her ticket, a scrap of paper with her sister's address in van buren street, and four dollars in money. it was in august, . she was eighteen years of age, bright, timid, and full of the illusions of ignorance and youth. whatever touch of regret at parting characterised her thoughts, it was certainly not for advantages now being given up. a gush of tears at her mother's farewell kiss, a touch in her throat when the cars clacked by the flour mill where her father worked by the day, a pathetic sigh as the familiar green environs of the village passed in review, and the threads which bound her so lightly to girlhood and home were irretrievably broken. to be sure there was always the next station, where one might descend and return. there was the great city, bound more closely by these very trains which came up daily. columbia city was not so very far away, even once she was in chicago. what, pray, is a few hours--a few hundred miles? she looked at the little slip bearing her sister's address and wondered. she gazed at the green landscape, now passing in swift review, until her swifter thoughts replaced its impression with vague conjectures of what chicago might be. when a girl leaves her home at eighteen, she does one of two things. either she falls into saving hands and becomes better, or she rapidly assumes the cosmopolitan standard of virtue and becomes worse. of an intermediate balance, under the circumstances, there is no possibility. the city has its cunning wiles, no less than the infinitely smaller and more human tempter. there are large forces which allure with all the soulfulness of expression possible in the most cultured human. the gleam of a thousand lights is often as effective as the persuasive light in a wooing and fascinating eye. half the undoing of the unsophisticated and natural mind is accomplished by forces wholly superhuman. a blare of sound, a roar of life, a vast array of human hives, appeal to the astonished senses in equivocal terms. without a counsellor at hand to whisper cautious interpretations, what falsehoods may not these things breathe into the unguarded ear! unrecognised for what they are, their beauty, like music, too often relaxes, then weakens, then perverts the simpler human perceptions. caroline, or sister carrie, as she had been half affectionately termed by the family, was possessed of a mind rudimentary in its power of observation and analysis. self-interest with her was high, but not strong. it was, nevertheless, her guiding characteristic. warm with the fancies of youth, pretty with the insipid prettiness of the formative period, possessed of a figure promising eventual shapeliness and an eye alight with certain native intelligence, she was a fair example of the middle american class--two generations removed from the emigrant. books were beyond her interest--knowledge a sealed book. in the intuitive graces she was still crude. she could scarcely toss her head gracefully. her hands were almost ineffectual. the feet, though small, were set flatly. and yet she was interested in her charms, quick to understand the keener pleasures of life, ambitious to gain in material things. a half-equipped little knight she was, venturing to reconnoitre the mysterious city and dreaming wild dreams of some vague, far-off supremacy, which should make it prey and subject--the proper penitent, grovelling at a woman's slipper. "that," said a voice in her ear, "is one of the prettiest little resorts in wisconsin." "is it?" she answered nervously. the train was just pulling out of waukesha. for some time she had been conscious of a man behind. she felt him observing her mass of hair. he had been fidgetting, and with natural intuition she felt a certain interest growing in that quarter. her maidenly reserve, and a certain sense of what was conventional under the circumstances, called her to forestall and deny this familiarity, but the daring and magnetism of the individual, born of past experiences and triumphs, prevailed. she answered. he leaned forward to put his elbows upon the back of her seat and proceeded to make himself volubly agreeable. "yes, that is a great resort for chicago people. the hotels are swell. you are not familiar with this part of the country, are you?" "oh, yes, i am," answered carrie. "that is, i live at columbia city. i have never been through here, though." "and so this is your first visit to chicago," he observed. all the time she was conscious of certain features out of the side of her eye. flush, colourful cheeks, a light moustache, a grey fedora hat. she now turned and looked upon him in full, the instincts of self-protection and coquetry mingling confusedly in her brain. "i didn't say that," she said. "oh," he answered, in a very pleasing way and with an assumed air of mistake, "i thought you did." here was a type of the travelling canvasser for a manufacturing house--a class which at that time was first being dubbed by the slang of the day "drummers." he came within the meaning of a still newer term, which had sprung into general use among americans in , and which concisely expressed the thought of one whose dress or manners are calculated to elicit the admiration of susceptible young women--a "masher." his suit was of a striped and crossed pattern of brown wool, new at that time, but since become familiar as a business suit. the low crotch of the vest revealed a stiff shirt bosom of white and pink stripes. from his coat sleeves protruded a pair of linen cuffs of the same pattern, fastened with large, gold plate buttons, set with the common yellow agates known as "cat's-eyes." his fingers bore several rings--one, the ever-enduring heavy seal--and from his vest dangled a neat gold watch chain, from which was suspended the secret insignia of the order of elks. the whole suit was rather tight-fitting, and was finished off with heavy-soled tan shoes, highly polished, and the grey fedora hat. he was, for the order of intellect represented, attractive, and whatever he had to recommend him, you may be sure was not lost upon carrie, in this, her first glance. lest this order of individual should permanently pass, let me put down some of the most striking characteristics of his most successful manner and method. good clothes, of course, were the first essential, the things without which he was nothing. a strong physical nature, actuated by a keen desire for the feminine, was the next. a mind free of any consideration of the problems or forces of the world and actuated not by greed, but an insatiable love of variable pleasure. his method was always simple. its principal element was daring, backed, of course, by an intense desire and admiration for the sex. let him meet with a young woman twice and he would straighten her necktie for her and perhaps address her by her first name. in the great department stores he was at his ease. if he caught the attention of some young woman while waiting for the cash boy to come back with his change, he would find out her name, her favourite flower, where a note would reach her, and perhaps pursue the delicate task of friendship until it proved unpromising, when it would be relinquished. he would do very well with more pretentious women, though the burden of expense was a slight deterrent. upon entering a parlour car, for instance, he would select a chair next to the most promising bit of femininity and soon enquire if she cared to have the shade lowered. before the train cleared the yards he would have the porter bring her a footstool. at the next lull in his conversational progress he would find her something to read, and from then on, by dint of compliment gently insinuated, personal narrative, exaggeration and service, he would win her tolerance, and, mayhap, regard. a woman should some day write the complete philosophy of clothes. no matter how young, it is one of the things she wholly comprehends. there is an indescribably faint line in the matter of man's apparel which somehow divides for her those who are worth glancing at and those who are not. once an individual has passed this faint line on the way downward he will get no glance from her. there is another line at which the dress of a man will cause her to study her own. this line the individual at her elbow now marked for carrie. she became conscious of an inequality. her own plain blue dress, with its black cotton tape trimmings, now seemed to her shabby. she felt the worn state of her shoes. "let's see," he went on, "i know quite a number of people in your town. morgenroth the clothier and gibson the dry goods man." "oh, do you?" she interrupted, aroused by memories of longings their show windows had cost her. at last he had a clew to her interest, and followed it deftly. in a few minutes he had come about into her seat. he talked of sales of clothing, his travels, chicago, and the amusements of that city. "if you are going there, you will enjoy it immensely. have you relatives?" "i am going to visit my sister," she explained. "you want to see lincoln park," he said, "and michigan boulevard. they are putting up great buildings there. it's a second new york--great. so much to see--theatres, crowds, fine houses--oh, you'll like that." there was a little ache in her fancy of all he described. her insignificance in the presence of so much magnificence faintly affected her. she realised that hers was not to be a round of pleasure, and yet there was something promising in all the material prospect he set forth. there was something satisfactory in the attention of this individual with his good clothes. she could not help smiling as he told her of some popular actress of whom she reminded him. she was not silly, and yet attention of this sort had its weight. "you will be in chicago some little time, won't you?" he observed at one turn of the now easy conversation. "i don't know," said carrie vaguely--a flash vision of the possibility of her not securing employment rising in her mind. "several weeks, anyhow," he said, looking steadily into her eyes. there was much more passing now than the mere words indicated. he recognised the indescribable thing that made up for fascination and beauty in her. she realised that she was of interest to him from the one standpoint which a woman both delights in and fears. her manner was simple, though for the very reason that she had not yet learned the many little affectations with which women conceal their true feelings. some things she did appeared bold. a clever companion--had she ever had one--would have warned her never to look a man in the eyes so steadily. "why do you ask?" she said. "well, i'm going to be there several weeks. i'm going to study stock at our place and get new samples. i might show you 'round." "i don't know whether you can or not. i mean i don't know whether i can. i shall be living with my sister, and----" "well, if she minds, we'll fix that." he took out his pencil and a little pocket note-book as if it were all settled. "what is your address there?" she fumbled her purse which contained the address slip. he reached down in his hip pocket and took out a fat purse. it was filled with slips of paper, some mileage books, a roll of greenbacks. it impressed her deeply. such a purse had never been carried by any one attentive to her. indeed, an experienced traveller, a brisk man of the world, had never come within such close range before. the purse, the shiny tan shoes, the smart new suit, and the air with which he did things, built up for her a dim world of fortune, of which he was the centre. it disposed her pleasantly toward all he might do. he took out a neat business card, on which was engraved bartlett, caryoe & company, and down in the left-hand corner, chas. h. drouet. "that's me," he said, putting the card in her hand and touching his name. "it's pronounced drew-eh. our family was french, on my father's side." she looked at it while he put up his purse. then he got out a letter from a bunch in his coat pocket. "this is the house i travel for," he went on, pointing to a picture on it, "corner of state and lake." there was pride in his voice. he felt that it was something to be connected with such a place, and he made her feel that way. "what is your address?" he began again, fixing his pencil to write. she looked at his hand. "carrie meeber," she said slowly. "three hundred and fifty-four west van buren street, care s. c. hanson." he wrote it carefully down and got out the purse again. "you'll be at home if i come around monday night?" he said. "i think so," she answered. how true it is that words are but the vague shadows of the volumes we mean. little audible links, they are, chaining together great inaudible feelings and purposes. here were these two, bandying little phrases, drawing purses, looking at cards, and both unconscious of how inarticulate all their real feelings were. neither was wise enough to be sure of the working of the mind of the other. he could not tell how his luring succeeded. she could not realise that she was drifting, until he secured her address. now she felt that she had yielded something--he, that he had gained a victory. already they felt that they were somehow associated. already he took control in directing the conversation. his words were easy. her manner was relaxed. they were nearing chicago. signs were everywhere numerous. trains flashed by them. across wide stretches of flat, open prairie they could see lines of telegraph poles stalking across the fields toward the great city. far away were indications of suburban towns, some big smoke-stacks towering high in the air. frequently there were two-story frame houses standing out in the open fields, without fence or trees, lone outposts of the approaching army of homes. to the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly untravelled, the approach to a great city for the first time is a wonderful thing. particularly if it be evening--that mystic period between the glare and gloom of the world when life is changing from one sphere or condition to another. ah, the promise of the night. what does it not hold for the weary! what old illusion of hope is not here forever repeated! says the soul of the toiler to itself, "i shall soon be free. i shall be in the ways and the hosts of the merry. the streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me. the theatre, the halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of song--these are mine in the night." though all humanity be still enclosed in the shops, the thrill runs abroad. it is in the air. the dullest feel something which they may not always express or describe. it is the lifting of the burden of toil. sister carrie gazed out of the window. her companion, affected by her wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in the city and pointed out its marvels. "this is northwest chicago," said drouet. "this is the chicago river," and he pointed to a little muddy creek, crowded with the huge masted wanderers from far-off waters nosing the black-posted banks. with a puff, a clang, and a clatter of rails it was gone. "chicago is getting to be a great town," he went on. "it's a wonder. you'll find lots to see here." she did not hear this very well. her heart was troubled by a kind of terror. the fact that she was alone, away from home, rushing into a great sea of life and endeavour, began to tell. she could not help but feel a little choked for breath--a little sick as her heart beat so fast. she half closed her eyes and tried to think it was nothing, that columbia city was only a little way off. "chicago! chicago!" called the brakeman, slamming open the door. they were rushing into a more crowded yard, alive with the clatter and clang of life. she began to gather up her poor little grip and closed her hand firmly upon her purse. drouet arose, kicked his legs to straighten his trousers, and seized his clean yellow grip. "i suppose your people will be here to meet you?" he said. "let me carry your grip." "oh, no," she said. "i'd rather you wouldn't. i'd rather you wouldn't be with me when i meet my sister." "all right," he said in all kindness. "i'll be near, though, in case she isn't here, and take you out there safely." "you're so kind," said carrie, feeling the goodness of such attention in her strange situation. "chicago!" called the brakeman, drawing the word out long. they were under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already beginning to shine out, with passenger cars all about and the train moving at a snail's pace. the people in the car were all up and crowding about the door. "well, here we are," said drouet, leading the way to the door. "good-bye, till i see you monday." "good-bye," she answered, taking his proffered hand. "remember, i'll be looking till you find your sister." she smiled into his eyes. they filed out, and he affected to take no notice of her. a lean-faced, rather commonplace woman recognised carrie on the platform and hurried forward. "why, sister carrie!" she began, and there was a perfunctory embrace of welcome. carrie realised the change of affectional atmosphere at once. amid all the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her by the hand. no world of light and merriment. no round of amusement. her sister carried with her most of the grimness of shift and toil. "why, how are all the folks at home?" she began; "how is father, and mother?" carrie answered, but was looking away. down the aisle, toward the gate leading into the waiting-room and the street, stood drouet. he was looking back. when he saw that she saw him and was safe with her sister he turned to go, sending back the shadow of a smile. only carrie saw it. she felt something lost to her when he moved away. when he disappeared she felt his absence thoroughly. with her sister she was much alone, a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea. chapter ii what poverty threatened: of granite and brass minnie's flat, as the one-floor resident apartments were then being called, was in a part of west van buren street inhabited by families of labourers and clerks, men who had come, and were still coming, with the rush of population pouring in at the rate of , a year. it was on the third floor, the front windows looking down into the street, where, at night, the lights of grocery stores were shining and children were playing. to carrie, the sound of the little bells upon the horse-cars, as they tinkled in and out of hearing, was as pleasing as it was novel. she gazed into the lighted street when minnie brought her into the front room, and wondered at the sounds, the movement, the murmur of the vast city which stretched for miles and miles in every direction. mrs. hanson, after the first greetings were over, gave carrie the baby and proceeded to get supper. her husband asked a few questions and sat down to read the evening paper. he was a silent man, american born, of a swede father, and now employed as a cleaner of refrigerator cars at the stock-yards. to him the presence or absence of his wife's sister was a matter of indifference. her personal appearance did not affect him one way or the other. his one observation to the point was concerning the chances of work in chicago. "it's a big place," he said. "you can get in somewhere in a few days. everybody does." it had been tacitly understood beforehand that she was to get work and pay her board. he was of a clean, saving disposition, and had already paid a number of monthly instalments on two lots far out on the west side. his ambition was some day to build a house on them. in the interval which marked the preparation of the meal carrie found time to study the flat. she had some slight gift of observation and that sense, so rich in every woman--intuition. she felt the drag of a lean and narrow life. the walls of the rooms were discordantly papered. the floors were covered with matting and the hall laid with a thin rag carpet. one could see that the furniture was of that poor, hurriedly patched together quality sold by the instalment houses. she sat with minnie, in the kitchen, holding the baby until it began to cry. then she walked and sang to it, until hanson, disturbed in his reading, came and took it. a pleasant side to his nature came out here. he was patient. one could see that he was very much wrapped up in his offspring. "now, now," he said, walking. "there, there," and there was a certain swedish accent noticeable in his voice. "you'll want to see the city first, won't you?" said minnie, when they were eating. "well, we'll go out sunday and see lincoln park." carrie noticed that hanson had said nothing to this. he seemed to be thinking of something else. "well," she said, "i think i'll look around to-morrow. i've got friday and saturday, and it won't be any trouble. which way is the business part?" minnie began to explain, but her husband took this part of the conversation to himself. "it's that way," he said, pointing east. "that's east." then he went off into the longest speech he had yet indulged in, concerning the lay of chicago. "you'd better look in those big manufacturing houses along franklin street and just the other side of the river," he concluded. "lots of girls work there. you could get home easy, too. it isn't very far." carrie nodded and asked her sister about the neighbourhood. the latter talked in a subdued tone, telling the little she knew about it, while hanson concerned himself with the baby. finally he jumped up and handed the child to his wife. "i've got to get up early in the morning, so i'll go to bed," and off he went, disappearing into the dark little bedroom off the hall, for the night. "he works way down at the stock-yards," explained minnie, "so he's got to get up at half-past five." "what time do you get up to get breakfast?" asked carrie. "at about twenty minutes of five." together they finished the labour of the day, carrie washing the dishes while minnie undressed the baby and put it to bed. minnie's manner was one of trained industry, and carrie could see that it was a steady round of toil with her. she began to see that her relations with drouet would have to be abandoned. he could not come here. she read from the manner of hanson, in the subdued air of minnie, and, indeed, the whole atmosphere of the flat, a settled opposition to anything save a conservative round of toil. if hanson sat every evening in the front room and read his paper, if he went to bed at nine, and minnie a little later, what would they expect of her? she saw that she would first need to get work and establish herself on a paying basis before she could think of having company of any sort. her little flirtation with drouet seemed now an extraordinary thing. "no," she said to herself, "he can't come here." she asked minnie for ink and paper, which were upon the mantel in the dining-room, and when the latter had gone to bed at ten, got out drouet's card and wrote him. "i cannot have you call on me here. you will have to wait until you hear from me again. my sister's place is so small." she troubled herself over what else to put in the letter. she wanted to make some reference to their relations upon the train, but was too timid. she concluded by thanking him for his kindness in a crude way, then puzzled over the formality of signing her name, and finally decided upon the severe, winding up with a "very truly," which she subsequently changed to "sincerely." she sealed and addressed the letter, and going in the front room, the alcove of which contained her bed, drew the one small rocking-chair up to the open window, and sat looking out upon the night and streets in silent wonder. finally, wearied by her own reflections, she began to grow dull in her chair, and feeling the need of sleep, arranged her clothing for the night and went to bed. when she awoke at eight the next morning, hanson had gone. her sister was busy in the dining-room, which was also the sitting-room, sewing. she worked, after dressing, to arrange a little breakfast for herself, and then advised with minnie as to which way to look. the latter had changed considerably since carrie had seen her. she was now a thin, though rugged, woman of twenty-seven, with ideas of life coloured by her husband's, and fast hardening into narrower conceptions of pleasure and duty than had ever been hers in a thoroughly circumscribed youth. she had invited carrie, not because she longed for her presence, but because the latter was dissatisfied at home, and could probably get work and pay her board here. she was pleased to see her in a way, but reflected her husband's point of view in the matter of work. anything was good enough so long as it paid--say, five dollars a week to begin with. a shop girl was the destiny prefigured for the newcomer. she would get in one of the great shops and do well enough until--well, until something happened. neither of them knew exactly what. they did not figure on promotion. they did not exactly count on marriage. things would go on, though, in a dim kind of way until the better thing would eventuate, and carrie would be rewarded for coming and toiling in the city. it was under such auspicious circumstances that she started out this morning to look for work. before following her in her round of seeking, let us look at the sphere in which her future was to lie. in chicago had the peculiar qualifications of growth which made such adventuresome pilgrimages even on the part of young girls plausible. its many and growing commercial opportunities gave it widespread fame, which made of it a giant magnet, drawing to itself, from all quarters, the hopeful and the hopeless--those who had their fortune yet to make and those whose fortunes and affairs had reached a disastrous climax elsewhere. it was a city of over , , with the ambition, the daring, the activity of a metropolis of a million. its streets and houses were already scattered over an area of seventy-five square miles. its population was not so much thriving upon established commerce as upon the industries which prepared for the arrival of others. the sound of the hammer engaged upon the erection of new structures was everywhere heard. great industries were moving in. the huge railroad corporations which had long before recognised the prospects of the place had seized upon vast tracts of land for transfer and shipping purposes. street-car lines had been extended far out into the open country in anticipation of rapid growth. the city had laid miles and miles of streets and sewers through regions where, perhaps, one solitary house stood out alone--a pioneer of the populous ways to be. there were regions open to the sweeping winds and rain, which were yet lighted throughout the night with long, blinking lines of gas-lamps, fluttering in the wind. narrow board walks extended out, passing here a house, and there a store, at far intervals, eventually ending on the open prairie. in the central portion was the vast wholesale and shopping district, to which the uninformed seeker for work usually drifted. it was a characteristic of chicago then, and one not generally shared by other cities, that individual firms of any pretension occupied individual buildings. the presence of ample ground made this possible. it gave an imposing appearance to most of the wholesale houses, whose offices were upon the ground floor and in plain view of the street. the large plates of window glass, now so common, were then rapidly coming into use, and gave to the ground floor offices a distinguished and prosperous look. the casual wanderer could see as he passed a polished array of office fixtures, much frosted glass, clerks hard at work, and genteel business men in "nobby" suits and clean linen lounging about or sitting in groups. polished brass or nickel signs at the square stone entrances announced the firm and the nature of the business in rather neat and reserved terms. the entire metropolitan centre possessed a high and mighty air calculated to overawe and abash the common applicant, and to make the gulf between poverty and success seem both wide and deep. into this important commercial region the timid carrie went. she walked east along van buren street through a region of lessening importance, until it deteriorated into a mass of shanties and coal-yards, and finally verged upon the river. she walked bravely forward, led by an honest desire to find employment and delayed at every step by the interest of the unfolding scene, and a sense of helplessness amid so much evidence of power and force which she did not understand. these vast buildings, what were they? these strange energies and huge interests, for what purposes were they there? she could have understood the meaning of a little stone-cutter's yard at columbia city, carving little pieces of marble for individual use, but when the yards of some huge stone corporation came into view, filled with spur tracks and flat cars, transpierced by docks from the river and traversed overhead by immense trundling cranes of wood and steel, it lost all significance in her little world. it was so with the vast railroad yards, with the crowded array of vessels she saw at the river, and the huge factories over the way, lining the water's edge. through the open windows she could see the figures of men and women in working aprons, moving busily about. the great streets were wall-lined mysteries to her; the vast offices, strange mazes which concerned far-off individuals of importance. she could only think of people connected with them as counting money, dressing magnificently, and riding in carriages. what they dealt in, how they laboured, to what end it all came, she had only the vaguest conception. it was all wonderful, all vast, all far removed, and she sank in spirit inwardly and fluttered feebly at the heart as she thought of entering any one of these mighty concerns and asking for something to do--something that she could do--anything. chapter iii we question of fortune: four-fifty a week once across the river and into the wholesale district, she glanced about her for some likely door at which to apply. as she contemplated the wide windows and imposing signs, she became conscious of being gazed upon and understood for what she was--a wage-seeker. she had never done this thing before, and lacked courage. to avoid a certain indefinable shame she felt at being caught spying about for a position, she quickened her steps and assumed an air of indifference supposedly common to one upon an errand. in this way she passed many manufacturing and wholesale houses without once glancing in. at last, after several blocks of walking, she felt that this would not do, and began to look about again, though without relaxing her pace. a little way on she saw a great door which, for some reason, attracted her attention. it was ornamented by a small brass sign, and seemed to be the entrance to a vast hive of six or seven floors. "perhaps," she thought, "they may want some one," and crossed over to enter. when she came within a score of feet of the desired goal, she saw through the window a young man in a grey checked suit. that he had anything to do with the concern, she could not tell, but because he happened to be looking in her direction her weakening heart misgave her and she hurried by, too overcome with shame to enter. over the way stood a great six-story structure, labelled storm and king, which she viewed with rising hope. it was a wholesale dry goods concern and employed women. she could see them moving about now and then upon the upper floors. this place she decided to enter, no matter what. she crossed over and walked directly toward the entrance. as she did so, two men came out and paused in the door. a telegraph messenger in blue dashed past her and up the few steps that led to the entrance and disappeared. several pedestrians out of the hurrying throng which filled the sidewalks passed about her as she paused, hesitating. she looked helplessly around, and then, seeing herself observed, retreated. it was too difficult a task. she could not go past them. so severe a defeat told sadly upon her nerves. her feet carried her mechanically forward, every foot of her progress being a satisfactory portion of a flight which she gladly made. block after block passed by. upon street-lamps at the various corners she read names such as madison, monroe, la salle, clark, dearborn, state, and still she went, her feet beginning to tire upon the broad stone flagging. she was pleased in part that the streets were bright and clean. the morning sun, shining down with steadily increasing warmth, made the shady side of the streets pleasantly cool. she looked at the blue sky overhead with more realisation of its charm than had ever come to her before. her cowardice began to trouble her in a way. she turned back, resolving to hunt up storm and king and enter. on the way she encountered a great wholesale shoe company, through the broad plate windows of which she saw an enclosed executive department, hidden by frosted glass. without this enclosure, but just within the street entrance, sat a grey-haired gentleman at a small table, with a large open ledger before him. she walked by this institution several times hesitating, but, finding herself unobserved, faltered past the screen door and stood humbly waiting. "well, young lady," observed the old gentleman, looking at her somewhat kindly, "what is it you wish?" "i am, that is, do you--i mean, do you need any help?" she stammered. "not just at present," he answered smiling. "not just at present. come in some time next week. occasionally we need some one." she received the answer in silence and backed awkwardly out. the pleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her. she had expected that it would be more difficult, that something cold and harsh would be said--she knew not what. that she had not been put to shame and made to feel her unfortunate position, seemed remarkable. somewhat encouraged, she ventured into another large structure. it was a clothing company, and more people were in evidence--well-dressed men of forty and more, surrounded by brass railings. an office boy approached her. "who is it you wish to see?" he asked. "i want to see the manager," she said. he ran away and spoke to one of a group of three men who were conferring together. one of these came towards her. "well?" he said coldly. the greeting drove all courage from her at once. "do you need any help?" she stammered. "no," he replied abruptly, and turned upon his heel. she went foolishly out, the office boy deferentially swinging the door for her, and gladly sank into the obscuring crowd. it was a severe setback to her recently pleased mental state. now she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and there, seeing one great company after another, but finding no courage to prosecute her single inquiry. high noon came, and with it hunger. she hunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbed to find that the prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse. a bowl of soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quickly eaten, she went out again. it restored her strength somewhat and made her moderately bold to pursue the search. in walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she again encountered the firm of storm and king, and this time managed to get in. some gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no notice of her. she was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor. when the limit of her distress had been nearly reached, she was beckoned to by a man at one of the many desks within the near-by railing. "who is it you wish to see?" he inquired. "why, any one, if you please," she answered. "i am looking for something to do." "oh, you want to see mr. mcmanus," he returned. "sit down," and he pointed to a chair against the neighbouring wall. he went on leisurely writing, until after a time a short, stout gentleman came in from the street. "mr. mcmanus," called the man at the desk, "this young woman wants to see you." the short gentleman turned about towards carrie, and she arose and came forward. "what can i do for you, miss?" he inquired, surveying her curiously. "i want to know if i can get a position," she inquired. "as what?" he asked. "not as anything in particular," she faltered. "have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goods business?" he questioned. "no, sir," she replied. "are you a stenographer or typewriter?" "no, sir." "well, we haven't anything here," he said. "we employ only experienced help." she began to step backward toward the door, when something about her plaintive face attracted him. "have you ever worked at anything before?" he inquired. "no, sir," she said. "well, now, it's hardly possible that you would get anything to do in a wholesale house of this kind. have you tried the department stores?" she acknowledged that she had not. "well, if i were you," he said, looking at her rather genially, "i would try the department stores. they often need young women as clerks." "thank you," she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark of friendly interest. "yes," he said, as she moved toward the door, "you try the department stores," and off he went. at that time the department store was in its earliest form of successful operation, and there were not many. the first three in the united states, established about , were in chicago. carrie was familiar with the names of several through the advertisements in the "daily news," and now proceeded to seek them. the words of mr. mcmanus had somehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low, and she dared to hope that this new line would offer her something. some time she spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounter the buildings by chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting a hard but needful errand, eased by that self-deception which the semblance of search, without the reality, gives. at last she inquired of a police officer, and was directed to proceed "two blocks up," where she would find "the fair." the nature of these vast retail combinations, should they ever permanently disappear, will form an interesting chapter in the commercial history of our nation. such a flowering out of a modest trade principle the world had never witnessed up to that time. they were along the line of the most effective retail organisation, with hundreds of stores coördinated into one and laid out upon the most imposing and economic basis. they were handsome, bustling, successful affairs, with a host of clerks and a swarm of patrons. carrie passed along the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkable displays of trinkets, dress goods, stationery, and jewelry. each separate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction. she could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and valuable upon her personally, and yet she did not stop. there was nothing there which she could not have used--nothing which she did not long to own. the dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled skirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all touched her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the fact that not any of these things were in the range of her purchase. she was a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the average employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a situation. it must not be thought that any one could have mistaken her for a nervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold, calculating, and unpoetic world. such certainly she was not. but women are peculiarly sensitive to their adornment. not only did carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was new and pleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a touch at the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her, brushing past in utter disregard of her presence, themselves eagerly enlisted in the materials which the store contained. carrie was not familiar with the appearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. neither had she before known the nature and appearance of the shop girls with whom she now compared poorly. they were pretty in the main, some even handsome, with an air of independence and indifference which added, in the case of the more favoured, a certain piquancy. their clothes were neat, in many instances fine, and wherever she encountered the eye of one it was only to recognise in it a keen analysis of her own position--her individual shortcomings of dress and that shadow of _manner_ which she thought must hang about her and make clear to all who and what she was. a flame of envy lighted in her heart. she realised in a dim way how much the city held--wealth, fashion, ease--every adornment for women, and she longed for dress and beauty with a whole heart. on the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, after some inquiry, she was now directed. there she found other girls ahead of her, applicants like herself, but with more of that self-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city lends; girls who scrutinised her in a painful manner. after a wait of perhaps three-quarters of an hour, she was called in turn. "now," said a sharp, quick-mannered jew, who was sitting at a roll-top desk near the window, "have you ever worked in any other store?" "no, sir," said carrie. "oh, you haven't," he said, eyeing her keenly. "no, sir," she replied. "well, we prefer young women just now with some experience. i guess we can't use you." carrie stood waiting a moment, hardly certain whether the interview had terminated. "don't wait!" he exclaimed. "remember we are very busy here." carrie began to move quickly to the door. "hold on," he said, calling her back. "give me your name and address. we want girls occasionally." when she had gotten safely into the street, she could scarcely restrain the tears. it was not so much the particular rebuff which she had just experienced, but the whole abashing trend of the day. she was tired and nervous. she abandoned the thought of appealing to the other department stores and now wandered on, feeling a certain safety and relief in mingling with the crowd. in her indifferent wandering she turned into jackson street, not far from the river, and was keeping her way along the south side of that imposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping paper, written on with marking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted her attention. it read, "girls wanted--wrappers & stitchers." she hesitated a moment, then entered. the firm of speigelheim & co., makers of boys' caps, occupied one floor of the building, fifty feet in width and some eighty feet in depth. it was a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest portions having incandescent lights, filled with machines and work benches. at the latter laboured quite a company of girls and some men. the former were drabby-looking creatures, stained in face with oil and dust, clad in thin, shapeless, cotton dresses and shod with more or less worn shoes. many of them had their sleeves rolled up, revealing bare arms, and in some cases, owing to the heat, their dresses were open at the neck. they were a fair type of nearly the lowest order of shop-girls--careless, slouchy, and more or less pale from confinement. they were not timid, however; were rich in curiosity, and strong in daring and slang. carrie looked about her, very much disturbed and quite sure that she did not want to work here. aside from making her uncomfortable by sidelong glances, no one paid her the least attention. she waited until the whole department was aware of her presence. then some word was sent around, and a foreman, in an apron and shirt sleeves, the latter rolled up to his shoulders, approached. "do you want to see me?" he asked. "do you need any help?" said carrie, already learning directness of address. "do you know how to stitch caps?" he returned. "no, sir," she replied. "have you ever had any experience at this kind of work?" he inquired. she answered that she had not. "well," said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, "we do need a stitcher. we like experienced help, though. we've hardly got time to break people in." he paused and looked away out of the window. "we might, though, put you at finishing," he concluded reflectively. "how much do you pay a week?" ventured carrie, emboldened by a certain softness in the man's manner and his simplicity of address. "three and a half," he answered. "oh," she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowed her thoughts to die without expression. "we're not exactly in need of anybody," he went on vaguely, looking her over as one would a package. "you can come on monday morning, though," he added, "and i'll put you to work." "thank you," said carrie weakly. "if you come, bring an apron," he added. he walked away and left her standing by the elevator, never so much as inquiring her name. while the appearance of the shop and the announcement of the price paid per week operated very much as a blow to carrie's fancy, the fact that work of any kind was offered after so rude a round of experience was gratifying. she could not begin to believe that she would take the place, modest as her aspirations were. she had been used to better than that. her mere experience and the free out-of-door life of the country caused her nature to revolt at such confinement. dirt had never been her share. her sister's flat was clean. this place was grimy and low, the girls were careless and hardened. they must be bad-minded and hearted, she imagined. still, a place had been offered her. surely chicago was not so bad if she could find one place in one day. she might find another and better later. her subsequent experiences were not of a reassuring nature, however. from all the more pleasing or imposing places she was turned away abruptly with the most chilling formality. in others where she applied only the experienced were required. she met with painful rebuffs, the most trying of which had been in a manufacturing cloak house, where she had gone to the fourth floor to inquire. "no, no," said the foreman, a rough, heavily built individual, who looked after a miserably lighted workshop, "we don't want any one. don't come here." with the wane of the afternoon went her hopes, her courage, and her strength. she had been astonishingly persistent. so earnest an effort was well deserving of a better reward. on every hand, to her fatigued senses, the great business portion grew larger, harder, more stolid in its indifference. it seemed as if it was all closed to her, that the struggle was too fierce for her to hope to do anything at all. men and women hurried by in long, shifting lines. she felt the flow of the tide of effort and interest--felt her own helplessness without quite realising the wisp on the tide that she was. she cast about vainly for some possible place to apply, but found no door which she had the courage to enter. it would be the same thing all over. the old humiliation of her plea, rewarded by curt denial. sick at heart and in body, she turned to the west, the direction of minnie's flat, which she had now fixed in mind, and began that wearisome, baffled retreat which the seeker for employment at nightfall too often makes. in passing through fifth avenue, south towards van buren street, where she intended to take a car, she passed the door of a large wholesale shoe house, through the plate-glass window of which she could see a middle-aged gentleman sitting at a small desk. one of those forlorn impulses which often grow out of a fixed sense of defeat, the last sprouting of a baffled and uprooted growth of ideas, seized upon her. she walked deliberately through the door and up to the gentleman, who looked at her weary face with partially awakened interest. "what is it?" he said. "can you give me something to do?" said carrie. "now, i really don't know," he said kindly. "what kind of work is it you want--you're not a typewriter, are you?" "oh, no," answered carrie. "well, we only employ book-keepers and typewriters here. you might go around to the side and inquire upstairs. they did want some help upstairs a few days ago. ask for mr. brown." she hastened around to the side entrance and was taken up by the elevator to the fourth floor. "call mr. brown, willie," said the elevator man to a boy near by. willie went off and presently returned with the information that mr. brown said she should sit down and that he would be around in a little while. it was a portion of the stock room which gave no idea of the general character of the place, and carrie could form no opinion of the nature of the work. "so you want something to do," said mr. brown, after he inquired concerning the nature of her errand. "have you ever been employed in a shoe factory before?" "no, sir," said carrie. "what is your name?" he inquired, and being informed, "well, i don't know as i have anything for you. would you work for four and a half a week?" carrie was too worn by defeat not to feel that it was considerable. she had not expected that he would offer her less than six. she acquiesced, however, and he took her name and address. "well," he said, finally, "you report here at eight o'clock monday morning. i think i can find something for you to do." he left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had found something at last. instantly the blood crept warmly over her body. her nervous tension relaxed. she walked out into the busy street and discovered a new atmosphere. behold, the throng was moving with a lightsome step. she noticed that men and women were smiling. scraps of conversation and notes of laughter floated to her. the air was light. people were already pouring out of the buildings, their labour ended for the day. she noticed that they were pleased, and thoughts of her sister's home and the meal that would be awaiting her quickened her steps. she hurried on, tired perhaps, but no longer weary of foot. what would not minnie say! ah, the long winter in chicago--the lights, the crowd, the amusement! this was a great, pleasing metropolis after all. her new firm was a goodly institution. its windows were of huge plate glass. she could probably do well there. thoughts of drouet returned--of the things he had told her. she now felt that life was better, that it was livelier, sprightlier. she boarded a car in the best of spirits, feeling her blood still flowing pleasantly. she would live in chicago, her mind kept saying to itself. she would have a better time than she had ever had before--she would be happy. chapter iv the spendings of fancy: facts answer with sneers for the next two days carrie indulged in the most high-flown speculations. her fancy plunged recklessly into privileges and amusements which would have been much more becoming had she been cradled a child of fortune. with ready will and quick mental selection she scattered her meagre four-fifty per week with a swift and graceful hand. indeed, as she sat in her rocking-chair these several evenings before going to bed and looked out upon the pleasantly lighted street, this money cleared for its prospective possessor the way to every joy and every bauble which the heart of woman may desire. "i will have a fine time," she thought. her sister minnie knew nothing of these rather wild cerebrations, though they exhausted the markets of delight. she was too busy scrubbing the kitchen wood-work and calculating the purchasing power of eighty cents for sunday's dinner. when carrie had returned home, flushed with her first success and ready, for all her weariness, to discuss the now interesting events which led up to her achievement, the former had merely smiled approvingly and inquired whether she would have to spend any of it for car fare. this consideration had not entered in before, and it did not now for long affect the glow of carrie's enthusiasm. disposed as she then was to calculate upon that vague basis which allows the subtraction of one sum from another without any perceptible diminution, she was happy. when hanson came home at seven o'clock, he was inclined to be a little crusty--his usual demeanour before supper. this never showed so much in anything he said as in a certain solemnity of countenance and the silent manner in which he slopped about. he had a pair of yellow carpet slippers which he enjoyed wearing, and these he would immediately substitute for his solid pair of shoes. this, and washing his face with the aid of common washing soap until it glowed a shiny red, constituted his only preparation for his evening meal. he would then get his evening paper and read in silence. for a young man, this was rather a morbid turn of character, and so affected carrie. indeed, it affected the entire atmosphere of the flat, as such things are inclined to do, and gave to his wife's mind its subdued and tactful turn, anxious to avoid taciturn replies. under the influence of carrie's announcement he brightened up somewhat. "you didn't lose any time, did you?" he remarked, smiling a little. "no," returned carrie with a touch of pride. he asked her one or two more questions and then turned to play with the baby, leaving the subject until it was brought up again by minnie at the table. carrie, however, was not to be reduced to the common level of observation which prevailed in the flat. "it seems to be such a large company," she said, at one place. "great big plate-glass windows and lots of clerks. the man i saw said they hired ever so many people." "it's not very hard to get work now," put in hanson, "if you look right." minnie, under the warming influence of carrie's good spirits and her husband's somewhat conversational mood, began to tell carrie of some of the well-known things to see--things the enjoyment of which cost nothing. "you'd like to see michigan avenue. there are such fine houses. it is such a fine street." "where is 'h. r. jacob's'?" interrupted carrie, mentioning one of the theatres devoted to melodrama which went by that name at the time. "oh, it's not very far from here," answered minnie. "it's in halstead street, right up here." "how i'd like to go there. i crossed halstead street to-day, didn't i?" at this there was a slight halt in the natural reply. thoughts are a strangely permeating factor. at her suggestion of going to the theatre, the unspoken shade of disapproval to the doing of those things which involved the expenditure of money--shades of feeling which arose in the mind of hanson and then in minnie--slightly affected the atmosphere of the table. minnie answered "yes," but carrie could feel that going to the theatre was poorly advocated here. the subject was put off for a little while until hanson, through with his meal, took his paper and went into the front room. when they were alone, the two sisters began a somewhat freer conversation, carrie interrupting it to hum a little, as they worked at the dishes. "i should like to walk up and see halstead street, if it isn't too far," said carrie, after a time. "why don't we go to the theatre to-night?" "oh, i don't think sven would want to go to-night," returned minnie. "he has to get up so early." "he wouldn't mind--he'd enjoy it," said carrie. "no, he doesn't go very often," returned minnie. "well, i'd like to go," rejoined carrie. "let's you and me go." minnie pondered a while, not upon whether she could or would go--for that point was already negatively settled with her--but upon some means of diverting the thoughts of her sister to some other topic. "we'll go some other time," she said at last, finding no ready means of escape. carrie sensed the root of the opposition at once. "i have some money," she said. "you go with me." minnie shook her head. "he could go along," said carrie. "no," returned minnie softly, and rattling the dishes to drown the conversation. "he wouldn't." it had been several years since minnie had seen carrie, and in that time the latter's character had developed a few shades. naturally timid in all things that related to her own advancement, and especially so when without power or resource, her craving for pleasure was so strong that it was the one stay of her nature. she would speak for that when silent on all else. "ask him," she pleaded softly. minnie was thinking of the resource which carrie's board would add. it would pay the rent and would make the subject of expenditure a little less difficult to talk about with her husband. but if carrie was going to think of running around in the beginning there would be a hitch somewhere. unless carrie submitted to a solemn round of industry and saw the need of hard work without longing for play, how was her coming to the city to profit them? these thoughts were not those of a cold, hard nature at all. they were the serious reflections of a mind which invariably adjusted itself, without much complaining, to such surroundings as its industry could make for it. at last she yielded enough to ask hanson. it was a half-hearted procedure without a shade of desire on her part. "carrie wants us to go to the theatre," she said, looking in upon her husband. hanson looked up from his paper, and they exchanged a mild look, which said as plainly as anything: "this isn't what we expected." "i don't care to go," he returned. "what does she want to see?" "h. r. jacob's," said minnie. he looked down at his paper and shook his head negatively. when carrie saw how they looked upon her proposition, she gained a still clearer feeling of their way of life. it weighed on her, but took no definite form of opposition. "i think i'll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs," she said, after a time. minnie made no objection to this, and carrie put on her hat and went below. "where has carrie gone?" asked hanson, coming back into the dining-room when he heard the door close. "she said she was going down to the foot of the stairs," answered minnie. "i guess she just wants to look out a while." "she oughtn't to be thinking about spending her money on theatres already, do you think?" he said. "she just feels a little curious, i guess," ventured minnie. "everything is so new." "i don't know," said hanson, and went over to the baby, his forehead slightly wrinkled. he was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness which a young girl might indulge in, and wondering how carrie could contemplate such a course when she had so little, as yet, with which to do. on saturday carrie went out by herself--first toward the river, which interested her, and then back along jackson street, which was then lined by the pretty houses and fine lawns which subsequently caused it to be made into a boulevard. she was struck with the evidences of wealth, although there was, perhaps, not a person on the street worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. she was glad to be out of the flat, because already she felt that it was a narrow, humdrum place, and that interest and joy lay elsewhere. her thoughts now were of a more liberal character, and she punctuated them with speculations as to the whereabouts of drouet. she was not sure but that he might call anyhow monday night, and, while she felt a little disturbed at the possibility, there was, nevertheless, just the shade of a wish that he would. on monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. she dressed herself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of light-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she had worn all summer at columbia city. her shoes were old, and her necktie was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and much wearing impart. she made a very average looking shop-girl with the exception of her features. these were slightly more even than common, and gave her a sweet, reserved, and pleasing appearance. it is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is used to sleeping until seven and eight, as carrie had been at home. she gained some inkling of the character of hanson's life when, half asleep, she looked out into the dining-room at six o'clock and saw him silently finishing his breakfast. by the time she was dressed he was gone, and she, minnie, and the baby ate together, the latter being just old enough to sit in a high chair and disturb the dishes with a spoon. her spirits were greatly subdued now when the fact of entering upon strange and untried duties confronted her. only the ashes of all her fine fancies were remaining--ashes still concealing, nevertheless, a few red embers of hope. so subdued was she by her weakening nerves, that she ate quite in silence, going over imaginary conceptions of the character of the shoe company, the nature of the work, her employer's attitude. she was vaguely feeling that she would come in contact with the great owners, that her work would be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally look on. "well, good luck," said minnie, when she was ready to go. they had agreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if she could do it every day--sixty cents a week for car fare being quite an item under the circumstances. "i'll tell you how it goes to-night," said carrie. once in the sunlit street, with labourers tramping by in either direction, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with the small clerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and men and women generally coming out of doors and passing about the neighbourhood, carrie felt slightly reassured. in the sunshine of the morning, beneath the wide, blue heavens, with a fresh wind astir, what fears, except the most desperate, can find a harbourage? in the night, or the gloomy chambers of the day, fears and misgivings wax strong, but out in the sunlight there is, for a time, cessation even of the terror of death. carrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and then turned into fifth avenue. the thoroughfare, in this part, was like a walled cañon of brown stone and dark red brick. the big windows looked shiny and clean. trucks were rumbling in increasing numbers; men and women, girls and boys were moving onward in all directions. she met girls of her own age, who looked at her as if with contempt for her diffidence. she wondered at the magnitude of this life and at the importance of knowing much in order to do anything in it at all. dread at her own inefficiency crept upon her. she would not know how, she would not be quick enough. had not all the other places refused her because she did not know something or other? she would be scolded, abused, ignominiously discharged. it was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing that she came up to the great shoe company at adams and fifth avenue and entered the elevator. when she stepped out on the fourth floor there was no one at hand, only great aisles of boxes piled to the ceiling. she stood, very much frightened, awaiting some one. presently mr. brown came up. he did not seem to recognise her. "what is it you want?" he inquired. carrie's heart sank. "you said i should come this morning to see about work----" "oh," he interrupted. "um--yes. what is your name?" "carrie meeber." "yes," said he. "you come with me." he led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell of new shoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into the factory proper. there was a large, low-ceiled room, with clacking, rattling machines at which men in white shirt sleeves and blue gingham aprons were working. she followed him diffidently through the clattering automatons, keeping her eyes straight before her, and flushing slightly. they crossed to a far corner and took an elevator to the sixth floor. out of the array of machines and benches, mr. brown signalled a foreman. "this is the girl," he said, and turning to carrie, "you go with him." he then returned, and carrie followed her new superior to a little desk in a corner, which he used as a kind of official centre. "you've never worked at anything like this before, have you?" he questioned, rather sternly. "no, sir," she answered. he seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help, but put down her name and then led her across to where a line of girls occupied stools in front of clacking machines. on the shoulder of one of the girls who was punching eye-holes in one piece of the upper, by the aid of the machine, he put his hand. "you," he said, "show this girl how to do what you're doing. when you get through, come to me." the girl so addressed rose promptly and gave carrie her place. "it isn't hard to do," she said, bending over. "you just take this so, fasten it with this clamp, and start the machine." she suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, which was eventually to form the right half of the upper of a man's shoe, by little adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod at the side of the machine. the latter jumped to the task of punching, with sharp, snapping clicks, cutting circular bits of leather out of the side of the upper, leaving the holes which were to hold the laces. after observing a few times, the girl let her work at it alone. seeing that it was fairly well done, she went away. the pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to her right, and were passed on to the girl at her left. carrie saw at once that an average speed was necessary or the work would pile up on her and all those below would be delayed. she had no time to look about, and bent anxiously to her task. the girls at her left and right realised her predicament and feelings, and, in a way, tried to aid her, as much as they dared, by working slower. at this task she laboured incessantly for some time, finding relief from her own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum, mechanical movement of the machine. she felt, as the minutes passed, that the room was not very light. it had a thick odour of fresh leather, but that did not worry her. she felt the eyes of the other help upon her, and troubled lest she was not working fast enough. once, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made a slight error in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared before her eyes and fastened the clamp for her. it was the foreman. her heart thumped so that she could scarcely see to go on. "start your machine," he said, "start your machine. don't keep the line waiting." this recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardly breathing until the shadow moved away from behind her. then she heaved a great breath. as the morning wore on the room became hotter. she felt the need of a breath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not venture to stir. the stool she sat on was without a back or foot-rest, and she began to feel uncomfortable. she found, after a time, that her back was beginning to ache. she twisted and turned from one position to another slightly different, but it did not ease her for long. she was beginning to weary. "stand up, why don't you?" said the girl at her right, without any form of introduction. "they won't care." carrie looked at her gratefully. "i guess i will," she said. she stood up from her stool and worked that way for a while, but it was a more difficult position. her neck and shoulders ached in bending over. the spirit of the place impressed itself on her in a rough way. she did not venture to look around, but above the clack of the machine she could hear an occasional remark. she could also note a thing or two out of the side of her eye. "did you see harry last night?" said the girl at her left, addressing her neighbour. "no." "you ought to have seen the tie he had on. gee, but he was a mark." "s-s-t," said the other girl, bending over her work. the first, silenced, instantly assumed a solemn face. the foreman passed slowly along, eyeing each worker distinctly. the moment he was gone, the conversation was resumed again. "say," began the girl at her left, "what jeh think he said?" "i don't know." "he said he saw us with eddie harris at martin's last night." "no!" they both giggled. a youth with tan-coloured hair, that needed clipping very badly, came shuffling along between the machines, bearing a basket of leather findings under his left arm, and pressed against his stomach. when near carrie, he stretched out his right hand and gripped one girl under the arm. "aw, let me go," she exclaimed angrily. "duffer." he only grinned broadly in return. "rubber!" he called back as she looked after him. there was nothing of the gallant in him. carrie at last could scarcely sit still. her legs began to tire and she wanted to get up and stretch. would noon never come? it seemed as if she had worked an entire day. she was not hungry at all, but weak, and her eyes were tired, straining at the one point where the eye-punch came down. the girl at the right noticed her squirmings and felt sorry for her. she was concentrating herself too thoroughly--what she did really required less mental and physical strain. there was nothing to be done, however. the halves of the uppers came piling steadily down. her hands began to ache at the wrists and then in the fingers, and towards the last she seemed one mass of dull, complaining muscles, fixed in an eternal position and performing a single mechanical movement which became more and more distasteful, until at last it was absolutely nauseating. when she was wondering whether the strain would ever cease, a dull-sounding bell clanged somewhere down an elevator shaft, and the end came. in an instant there was a buzz of action and conversation. all the girls instantly left their stools and hurried away in an adjoining room, men passed through, coming from some department which opened on the right. the whirling wheels began to sing in a steadily modifying key, until at last they died away in a low buzz. there was an audible stillness, in which the common voice sounded strange. carrie got up and sought her lunch box. she was stiff, a little dizzy, and very thirsty. on the way to the small space portioned off by wood, where all the wraps and lunches were kept, she encountered the foreman, who stared at her hard. "well," he said, "did you get along all right?" "i think so," she replied, very respectfully. "um," he replied, for want of something better, and walked on. under better material conditions, this kind of work would not have been so bad, but the new socialism which involves pleasant working conditions for employees had not then taken hold upon manufacturing companies. the place smelled of the oil of the machines and the new leather--a combination which, added to the stale odours of the building, was not pleasant even in cold weather. the floor, though regularly swept every evening, presented a littered surface. not the slightest provision had been made for the comfort of the employees, the idea being that something was gained by giving them as little and making the work as hard and unremunerative as possible. what we know of foot-rests, swivel-back chairs, dining-rooms for the girls, clean aprons and curling irons supplied free, and a decent cloak room, were unthought of. the washrooms were disagreeable, crude, if not foul places, and the whole atmosphere was sordid. carrie looked about her, after she had drunk a tinful of water from a bucket in one corner, for a place to sit and eat. the other girls had ranged themselves about the windows or the work-benches of those of the men who had gone out. she saw no place which did not hold a couple or a group of girls, and being too timid to think of intruding herself, she sought out her machine and, seated upon her stool, opened her lunch on her lap. there she sat listening to the chatter and comment about her. it was, for the most part, silly and graced by the current slang. several of the men in the room exchanged compliments with the girls at long range. "say, kitty," called one to a girl who was doing a waltz step in a few feet of space near one of the windows, "are you going to the ball with me?" "look out, kitty," called another, "you'll jar your back hair." "go on, rubber," was her only comment. as carrie listened to this and much more of similar familiar badinage among the men and girls, she instinctively withdrew into herself. she was not used to this type, and felt that there was something hard and low about it all. she feared that the young boys about would address such remarks to her--boys who, beside drouet, seemed uncouth and ridiculous. she made the average feminine distinction between clothes, putting worth, goodness, and distinction in a dress suit, and leaving all the unlovely qualities and those beneath notice in overalls and jumper. she was glad when the short half hour was over and the wheels began to whirr again. though wearied, she would be inconspicuous. this illusion ended when another young man passed along the aisle and poked her indifferently in the ribs with his thumb. she turned about, indignation leaping to her eyes, but he had gone on and only once turned to grin. she found it difficult to conquer an inclination to cry. the girl next her noticed her state of mind. "don't you mind," she said. "he's too fresh." carrie said nothing, but bent over her work. she felt as though she could hardly endure such a life. her idea of work had been so entirely different. all during the long afternoon she thought of the city outside and its imposing show, crowds, and fine buildings. columbia city and the better side of her home life came back. by three o'clock she was sure it must be six, and by four it seemed as if they had forgotten to note the hour and were letting all work overtime. the foreman became a true ogre, prowling constantly about, keeping her tied down to her miserable task. what she heard of the conversation about her only made her feel sure that she did not want to make friends with any of these. when six o'clock came she hurried eagerly away, her arms aching and her limbs stiff from sitting in one position. as she passed out along the hall after getting her hat, a young machine hand, attracted by her looks, made bold to jest with her. "say, maggie," he called, "if you wait, i'll walk with you." it was thrown so straight in her direction that she knew who was meant, but never turned to look. in the crowded elevator, another dusty, toil-stained youth tried to make an impression on her by leering in her face. one young man, waiting on the walk outside for the appearance of another, grinned at her as she passed. "ain't going my way, are you?" he called jocosely. carrie turned her face to the west with a subdued heart. as she turned the corner, she saw through the great shiny window the small desk at which she had applied. there were the crowds, hurrying with the same buzz and energy-yielding enthusiasm. she felt a slight relief, but it was only at her escape. she felt ashamed in the face of better dressed girls who went by. she felt as though she should be better served, and her heart revolted. chapter v a glittering night flower: the use of a name drouet did not call that evening. after receiving the letter, he had laid aside all thought of carrie for the time being and was floating around having what he considered a gay time. on this particular evening he dined at "rector's," a restaurant of some local fame, which occupied a basement at clark and monroe streets. thereafter he visited the resort of fitzgerald and moy's in adams street, opposite the imposing federal building. there he leaned over the splendid bar and swallowed a glass of plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars, one of which he lighted. this to him represented in part high life--a fair sample of what the whole must be. drouet was not a drinker in excess. he was not a moneyed man. he only craved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed to him a part of the best. rector's, with its polished marble walls and floor, its profusion of lights, its show of china and silverware, and, above all, its reputation as a resort for actors and professional men, seemed to him the proper place for a successful man to go. he loved fine clothes, good eating, and particularly the company and acquaintanceship of successful men. when dining, it was a source of keen satisfaction to him to know that joseph jefferson was wont to come to this same place, or that henry e. dixie, a well-known performer of the day, was then only a few tables off. at rector's he could always obtain this satisfaction, for there one could encounter politicians, brokers, actors, some rich young "rounders" of the town, all eating and drinking amid a buzz of popular commonplace conversation. "that's so-and-so over there," was a common remark of these gentlemen among themselves, particularly among those who had not yet reached, but hoped to do so, the dazzling height which money to dine here lavishly represented. "you don't say so," would be the reply. "why, yes, didn't you know that? why, he's manager of the grand opera house." when these things would fall upon drouet's ears, he would straighten himself a little more stiffly and eat with solid comfort. if he had any vanity, this augmented it, and if he had any ambition, this stirred it. he would be able to flash a roll of greenbacks too some day. as it was, he could eat where _they_ did. his preference for fitzgerald and moy's adams street place was another yard off the same cloth. this was really a gorgeous saloon from a chicago standpoint. like rector's, it was also ornamented with a blaze of incandescent lights, held in handsome chandeliers. the floors were of brightly coloured tiles, the walls a composition of rich, dark, polished wood, which reflected the light, and coloured stucco-work, which gave the place a very sumptuous appearance. the long bar was a blaze of lights, polished wood-work, coloured and cut glassware, and many fancy bottles. it was a truly swell saloon, with rich screens, fancy wines, and a line of bar goods unsurpassed in the country. at rector's, drouet had met mr. g. w. hurstwood, manager of fitzgerald and moy's. he had been pointed out as a very successful and well-known man about town. hurstwood looked the part, for, besides being slightly under forty, he had a good, stout constitution, an active manner, and a solid, substantial air, which was composed in part of his fine clothes, his clean linen, his jewels, and, above all, his own sense of his importance. drouet immediately conceived a notion of him as being some one worth knowing, and was glad not only to meet him, but to visit the adams street bar thereafter whenever he wanted a drink or a cigar. hurstwood was an interesting character after his kind. he was shrewd and clever in many little things, and capable of creating a good impression. his managerial position was fairly important--a kind of stewardship which was imposing, but lacked financial control. he had risen by perseverance and industry, through long years of service, from the position of barkeeper in a commonplace saloon to his present altitude. he had a little office in the place, set off in polished cherry and grill-work, where he kept, in a roll-top desk, the rather simple accounts of the place--supplies ordered and needed. the chief executive and financial functions devolved upon the owners--messrs. fitzgerald and moy--and upon a cashier who looked after the money taken in. for the most part he lounged about, dressed in excellent tailored suits of imported goods, a solitaire ring, a fine blue diamond in his tie, a striking vest of some new pattern, and a watch-chain of solid gold, which held a charm of rich design, and a watch of the latest make and engraving. he knew by name, and could greet personally with a "well, old fellow," hundreds of actors, merchants, politicians, and the general run of successful characters about town, and it was part of his success to do so. he had a finely graduated scale of informality and friendship, which improved from the "how do you do?" addressed to the fifteen-dollar-a-week clerks and office attachés, who, by long frequenting of the place, became aware of his position, to the "why, old man, how are you?" which he addressed to those noted or rich individuals who knew him and were inclined to be friendly. there was a class, however, too rich, too famous, or too successful, with whom he could not attempt any familiarity of address, and with these he was professionally tactful, assuming a grave and dignified attitude, paying them the deference which would win their good feeling without in the least compromising his own bearing and opinions. there were, in the last place, a few good followers, neither rich nor poor, famous, nor yet remarkably successful, with whom he was friendly on the score of good-fellowship. these were the kind of men with whom he would converse longest and most seriously. he loved to go out and have a good time once in a while--to go to the races, the theatres, the sporting entertainments at some of the clubs. he kept a horse and neat trap, had his wife and two children, who were well established in a neat house on the north side near lincoln park, and was altogether a very acceptable individual of our great american upper class--the first grade below the luxuriously rich. hurstwood liked drouet. the latter's genial nature and dressy appearance pleased him. he knew that drouet was only a travelling salesman--and not one of many years at that--but the firm of bartlett, caryoe & company was a large and prosperous house, and drouet stood well. hurstwood knew caryoe quite well, having drunk a glass now and then with him, in company with several others, when the conversation was general. drouet had what was a help in his business, a moderate sense of humour, and could tell a good story when the occasion required. he could talk races with hurstwood, tell interesting incidents concerning himself and his experiences with women, and report the state of trade in the cities which he visited, and so managed to make himself almost invariably agreeable. to-night he was particularly so, since his report to the company had been favourably commented upon, his new samples had been satisfactorily selected, and his trip marked out for the next six weeks. "why, hello, charlie, old man," said hurstwood, as drouet came in that evening about eight o'clock. "how goes it?" the room was crowded. drouet shook hands, beaming good nature, and they strolled towards the bar. "oh, all right." "i haven't seen you in six weeks. when did you get in?" "friday," said drouet. "had a fine trip." "glad of it," said hurstwood, his black eyes lit with a warmth which half displaced the cold make-believe that usually dwelt in them. "what are you going to take?" he added, as the barkeeper, in snowy jacket and tie, leaned toward them from behind the bar. "old pepper," said drouet. "a little of the same for me," put in hurstwood. "how long are you in town this time?" inquired hurstwood. "only until wednesday. i'm going up to st. paul." "george evans was in here saturday and said he saw you in milwaukee last week." "yes, i saw george," returned drouet. "great old boy, isn't he? we had quite a time there together." the barkeeper was setting out the glasses and bottle before them, and they now poured out the draught as they talked, drouet filling his to within a third of full, as was considered proper, and hurstwood taking the barest suggestion of whiskey and modifying it with seltzer. "what's become of caryoe?" remarked hurstwood. "i haven't seen him around here in two weeks." "laid up, they say," exclaimed drouet. "say, he's a gouty old boy!" "made a lot of money in his time, though, hasn't he?" "yes, wads of it," returned drouet. "he won't live much longer. barely comes down to the office now." "just one boy, hasn't he?" asked hurstwood. "yes, and a swift-pacer," laughed drouet. "i guess he can't hurt the business very much, though, with the other members all there." "no, he can't injure that any, i guess." hurstwood was standing, his coat open, his thumbs in his pockets, the light on his jewels and rings relieving them with agreeable distinctness. he was the picture of fastidious comfort. to one not inclined to drink, and gifted with a more serious turn of mind, such a bubbling, chattering, glittering chamber must ever seem an anomaly, a strange commentary on nature and life. here come the moths, in endless procession, to bask in the light of the flame. such conversation as one may hear would not warrant a commendation of the scene upon intellectual grounds. it seems plain that schemers would choose more sequestered quarters to arrange their plans, that politicians would not gather here in company to discuss anything save formalities, where the sharp-eared may hear, and it would scarcely be justified on the score of thirst, for the majority of those who frequent these more gorgeous places have no craving for liquor. nevertheless, the fact that here men gather, here chatter, here love to pass and rub elbows, must be explained upon some grounds. it must be that a strange bundle of passions and vague desires give rise to such a curious social institution or it would not be. drouet, for one, was lured as much by his longing for pleasure as by his desire to shine among his betters. the many friends he met here dropped in because they craved, without, perhaps, consciously analysing it, the company, the glow, the atmosphere which they found. one might take it, after all, as an augur of the better social order, for the things which they satisfied here, though sensory, were not evil. no evil could come out of the contemplation of an expensively decorated chamber. the worst effect of such a thing would be, perhaps, to stir up in the material-minded an ambition to arrange their lives upon a similarly splendid basis. in the last analysis, that would scarcely be called the fault of the decorations, but rather of the innate trend of the mind. that such a scene might stir the less expensively dressed to emulate the more expensively dressed could scarcely be laid at the door of anything save the false ambition of the minds of those so affected. remove the element so thoroughly and solely complained of--liquor--and there would not be one to gainsay the qualities of beauty and enthusiasm which would remain. the pleased eye with which our modern restaurants of fashion are looked upon is proof of this assertion. yet, here is the fact of the lighted chamber, the dressy, greedy company, the small, self-interested palaver, the disorganized, aimless, wandering mental action which it represents--the love of light and show and finery which, to one outside, under the serene light of the eternal stars, must seem a strange and shiny thing. under the stars and sweeping night winds, what a lamp-flower it must bloom; a strange, glittering night-flower, odour-yielding, insect-drawing, insect-infested rose of pleasure. "see that fellow coming in there?" said hurstwood, glancing at a gentleman just entering, arrayed in a high hat and prince albert coat, his fat cheeks puffed and red as with good eating. "no, where?" said drouet. "there," said hurstwood, indicating the direction by a cast of his eye, "the man with the silk hat." "oh, yes," said drouet, now affecting not to see. "who is he?" "that's jules wallace, the spiritualist." drouet followed him with his eyes, much interested. "doesn't look much like a man who sees spirits, does he?" said drouet. "oh, i don't know," returned hurstwood. "he's got the money, all right," and a little twinkle passed over his eyes. "i don't go much on those things, do you?" asked drouet. "well, you never can tell," said hurstwood. "there may be something to it. i wouldn't bother about it myself, though. by the way," he added, "are you going anywhere to-night?" "'the hole in the ground,'" said drouet, mentioning the popular farce of the time. "well, you'd better be going. it's half after eight already," and he drew out his watch. the crowd was already thinning out considerably--some bound for the theatres, some to their clubs, and some to that most fascinating of all the pleasures--for the type of man there represented, at least--the ladies. "yes, i will," said drouet. "come around after the show. i have something i want to show you," said hurstwood. "sure," said drouet, elated. "you haven't anything on hand for the night, have you?" added hurstwood. "not a thing." "well, come round, then." "i struck a little peach coming in on the train friday," remarked drouet, by way of parting. "by george, that's so, i must go and call on her before i go away." "oh, never mind her," hurstwood remarked. "say, she was a little dandy, i tell you," went on drouet confidentially, and trying to impress his friend. "twelve o'clock," said hurstwood. "that's right," said drouet, going out. thus was carrie's name bandied about in the most frivolous and gay of places, and that also when the little toiler was bemoaning her narrow lot, which was almost inseparable from the early stages of this, her unfolding fate. chapter vi the machine and the maiden: a knight of to-day at the flat that evening carrie felt a new phase of its atmosphere. the fact that it was unchanged, while her feelings were different, increased her knowledge of its character. minnie, after the good spirits carrie manifested at first, expected a fair report. hanson supposed that carrie would be satisfied. "well," he said, as he came in from the hall in his working clothes, and looked at carrie through the dining-room door, "how did you make out?" "oh," said carrie, "it's pretty hard. i don't like it." there was an air about her which showed plainer than any words that she was both weary and disappointed. "what sort of work is it?" he asked, lingering a moment as he turned upon his heel to go into the bathroom. "running a machine," answered carrie. it was very evident that it did not concern him much, save from the side of the flat's success. he was irritated a shade because it could not have come about in the throw of fortune for carrie to be pleased. minnie worked with less elation than she had just before carrie arrived. the sizzle of the meat frying did not sound quite so pleasing now that carrie had reported her discontent. to carrie, the one relief of the whole day would have been a jolly home, a sympathetic reception, a bright supper table, and some one to say: "oh, well, stand it a little while. you will get something better," but now this was ashes. she began to see that they looked upon her complaint as unwarranted, and that she was supposed to work on and say nothing. she knew that she was to pay four dollars for her board and room, and now she felt that it would be an exceedingly gloomy round, living with these people. minnie was no companion for her sister--she was too old. her thoughts were staid and solemnly adapted to a condition. if hanson had any pleasant thoughts or happy feelings he concealed them. he seemed to do all his mental operations without the aid of physical expression. he was as still as a deserted chamber. carrie, on the other hand, had the blood of youth and some imagination. her day of love and the mysteries of courtship were still ahead. she could think of things she would like to do, of clothes she would like to wear, and of places she would like to visit. these were the things upon which her mind ran, and it was like meeting with opposition at every turn to find no one here to call forth or respond to her feelings. she had forgotten, in considering and explaining the result of her day, that drouet might come. now, when she saw how unreceptive these two people were, she hoped he would not. she did not know exactly what she would do or how she would explain to drouet, if he came. after supper she changed her clothes. when she was trimly dressed she was rather a sweet little being, with large eyes and a sad mouth. her face expressed the mingled expectancy, dissatisfaction, and depression she felt. she wandered about after the dishes were put away, talked a little with minnie, and then decided to go down and stand in the door at the foot of the stairs. if drouet came, she could meet him there. her face took on the semblance of a look of happiness as she put on her hat to go below. "carrie doesn't seem to like her place very well," said minnie to her husband when the latter came out, paper in hand, to sit in the dining-room a few minutes. "she ought to keep it for a time, anyhow," said hanson. "has she gone downstairs?" "yes," said minnie. "i'd tell her to keep it if i were you. she might be here weeks without getting another one." minnie said she would, and hanson read his paper. "if i were you," he said a little later, "i wouldn't let her stand in the door down there. it don't look good." "i'll tell her," said minnie. the life of the streets continued for a long time to interest carrie. she never wearied of wondering where the people in the cars were going or what their enjoyments were. her imagination trod a very narrow round, always winding up at points which concerned money, looks, clothes, or enjoyment. she would have a far-off thought of columbia city now and then, or an irritating rush of feeling concerning her experiences of the present day, but, on the whole, the little world about her enlisted her whole attention. the first floor of the building, of which hanson's flat was the third, was occupied by a bakery, and to this, while she was standing there, hanson came down to buy a loaf of bread. she was not aware of his presence until he was quite near her. "i'm after bread," was all he said as he passed. the contagion of thought here demonstrated itself. while hanson really came for bread, the thought dwelt with him that now he would see what carrie was doing. no sooner did he draw near her with that in mind than she felt it. of course, she had no understanding of what put it into her head, but, nevertheless, it aroused in her the first shade of real antipathy to him. she knew now that she did not like him. he was suspicious. a thought will colour a world for us. the flow of carrie's meditations had been disturbed, and hanson had not long gone upstairs before she followed. she had realised with the lapse of the quarter hours that drouet was not coming, and somehow she felt a little resentful, a little as if she had been forsaken--was not good enough. she went upstairs, where everything was silent. minnie was sewing by a lamp at the table. hanson had already turned in for the night. in her weariness and disappointment carrie did no more than announce that she was going to bed. "yes, you'd better," returned minnie. "you've got to get up early, you know." the morning was no better. hanson was just going out the door as carrie came from her room. minnie tried to talk with her during breakfast, but there was not much of interest which they could mutually discuss. as on the previous morning, carrie walked down town, for she began to realise now that her four-fifty would not even allow her car fare after she paid her board. this seemed a miserable arrangement. but the morning light swept away the first misgivings of the day, as morning light is ever wont to do. at the shoe factory she put in a long day, scarcely so wearisome as the preceding, but considerably less novel. the head foreman, on his round, stopped by her machine. "where did you come from?" he inquired. "mr. brown hired me," she replied. "oh, he did, eh!" and then, "see that you keep things going." the machine girls impressed her even less favourably. they seemed satisfied with their lot, and were in a sense "common." carrie had more imagination than they. she was not used to slang. her instinct in the matter of dress was naturally better. she disliked to listen to the girl next to her, who was rather hardened by experience. "i'm going to quit this," she heard her remark to her neighbour. "what with the stipend and being up late, it's too much for me health." they were free with the fellows, young and old, about the place, and exchanged banter in rude phrases, which at first shocked her. she saw that she was taken to be of the same sort and addressed accordingly. "hello," remarked one of the stout-wristed sole-workers to her at noon. "you're a daisy." he really expected to hear the common "aw! go chase yourself!" in return, and was sufficiently abashed, by carrie's silently moving away, to retreat, awkwardly grinning. that night at the flat she was even more lonely--the dull situation was becoming harder to endure. she could see that the hansons seldom or never had any company. standing at the street door looking out, she ventured to walk out a little way. her easy gait and idle manner attracted attention of an offensive but common sort. she was slightly taken back at the overtures of a well-dressed man of thirty, who in passing looked at her, reduced his pace, turned back, and said: "out for a little stroll, are you, this evening?" carrie looked at him in amazement, and then summoned sufficient thought to reply: "why, i don't know you," backing away as she did so. "oh, that don't matter," said the other affably. she bandied no more words with him, but hurried away, reaching her own door quite out of breath. there was something in the man's look which frightened her. during the remainder of the week it was very much the same. one or two nights she found herself too tired to walk home, and expended car fare. she was not very strong, and sitting all day affected her back. she went to bed one night before hanson. transplantation is not always successful in the matter of flowers or maidens. it requires sometimes a richer soil, a better atmosphere to continue even a natural growth. it would have been better if her acclimatization had been more gradual--less rigid. she would have done better if she had not secured a position so quickly, and had seen more of the city which she constantly troubled to know about. on the first morning it rained she found that she had no umbrella. minnie loaned her one of hers, which was worn and faded. there was the kind of vanity in carrie that troubled at this. she went to one of the great department stores and bought herself one, using a dollar and a quarter of her small store to pay for it. "what did you do that for, carrie?" asked minnie, when she saw it. "oh, i need one," said carrie. "you foolish girl." carrie resented this, though she did not reply. she was not going to be a common shop-girl, she thought; they need not think it, either. on the first saturday night carrie paid her board, four dollars. minnie had a quaver of conscience as she took it, but did not know how to explain to hanson if she took less. that worthy gave up just four dollars less toward the household expenses with a smile of satisfaction. he contemplated increasing his building and loan payments. as for carrie, she studied over the problem of finding clothes and amusement on fifty cents a week. she brooded over this until she was in a state of mental rebellion. "i'm going up the street for a walk," she said after supper. "not alone, are you?" asked hanson. "yes," returned carrie. "i wouldn't," said minnie. "i want to see _something_," said carrie, and by the tone she put into the last word they realised for the first time she was not pleased with them. "what's the matter with her?" asked hanson, when she went into the front room to get her hat. "i don't know," said minnie. "well, she ought to know better than to want to go out alone." carrie did not go very far, after all. she returned and stood in the door. the next day they went out to garfield park, but it did not please her. she did not look well enough. in the shop next day she heard the highly coloured reports which girls give of their trivial amusements. they had been happy. on several days it rained and she used up car fare. one night she got thoroughly soaked, going to catch the car at van buren street. all that evening she sat alone in the front room looking out upon the street, where the lights were reflected on the wet pavements, thinking. she had imagination enough to be moody. on saturday she paid another four dollars and pocketed her fifty cents in despair. the speaking acquaintanceship which she formed with some of the girls at the shop discovered to her the fact that they had more of their earnings to use for themselves than she did. they had young men of the kind whom she, since her experience with drouet, felt above, who took them about. she came to thoroughly dislike the light-headed young fellows of the shop. not one of them had a show of refinement. she saw only their workday side. there came a day when the first premonitory blast of winter swept over the city. it scudded the fleecy clouds in the heavens, trailed long, thin streamers of smoke from the tall stacks, and raced about the streets and corners in sharp and sudden puffs. carrie now felt the problem of winter clothes. what was she to do? she had no winter jacket, no hat, no shoes. it was difficult to speak to minnie about this, but at last she summoned the courage. "i don't know what i'm going to do about clothes," she said one evening when they were together. "i need a hat." minnie looked serious. "why don't you keep part of your money and buy yourself one?" she suggested, worried over the situation which the withholding of carrie's money would create. "i'd like to for a week or so, if you don't mind," ventured carrie. "could you pay two dollars?" asked minnie. carrie readily acquiesced, glad to escape the trying situation, and liberal now that she saw a way out. she was elated and began figuring at once. she needed a hat first of all. how minnie explained to hanson she never knew. he said nothing at all, but there were thoughts in the air which left disagreeable impressions. the new arrangement might have worked if sickness had not intervened. it blew up cold after a rain one afternoon when carrie was still without a jacket. she came out of the warm shop at six and shivered as the wind struck her. in the morning she was sneezing, and going down town made it worse. that day her bones ached and she felt light-headed. towards evening she felt very ill, and when she reached home was not hungry. minnie noticed her drooping actions and asked her about herself. "i don't know," said carrie. "i feel real bad." she hung about the stove, suffered a chattering chill, and went to bed sick. the next morning she was thoroughly feverish. minnie was truly distressed at this, but maintained a kindly demeanour. hanson said perhaps she had better go back home for a while. when she got up after three days, it was taken for granted that her position was lost. the winter was near at hand, she had no clothes, and now she was out of work. "i don't know," said carrie; "i'll go down monday and see if i can't get something." if anything, her efforts were more poorly rewarded on this trial than the last. her clothes were nothing suitable for fall wearing. her last money she had spent for a hat. for three days she wandered about, utterly dispirited. the attitude of the flat was fast becoming unbearable. she hated to think of going back there each evening. hanson was so cold. she knew it could not last much longer. shortly she would have to give up and go home. on the fourth day she was down town all day, having borrowed ten cents for lunch from minnie. she had applied in the cheapest kind of places without success. she even answered for a waitress in a small restaurant where she saw a card in the window, but they wanted an experienced girl. she moved through the thick throng of strangers, utterly subdued in spirit. suddenly a hand pulled her arm and turned her about. "well, well!" said a voice. in the first glance she beheld drouet. he was not only rosy-cheeked, but radiant. he was the essence of sunshine and good-humour. "why, how are you, carrie?" he said. "you're a daisy. where have you been?" carrie smiled under his irresistible flood of geniality. "i've been out home," she said. "well," he said, "i saw you across the street there. i thought it was you. i was just coming out to your place. how are you, anyhow?" "i'm all right," said carrie, smiling. drouet looked her over and saw something different. "well," he said, "i want to talk to you. you're not going anywhere in particular, are you?" "not just now," said carrie. "let's go up here and have something to eat. george! but i'm glad to see you again." she felt so relieved in his radiant presence, so much looked after and cared for, that she assented gladly, though with the slightest air of holding back. "well," he said, as he took her arm--and there was an exuberance of good-fellowship in the word which fairly warmed the cockles of her heart. they went through monroe street to the old windsor dining-room, which was then a large, comfortable place, with an excellent cuisine and substantial service. drouet selected a table close by the window, where the busy rout of the street could be seen. he loved the changing panorama of the street--to see and be seen as he dined. "now," he said, getting carrie and himself comfortably settled, "what will you have?" carrie looked over the large bill of fare which the waiter handed her without really considering it. she was very hungry, and the things she saw there awakened her desires, but the high prices held her attention. "half broiled spring chicken--seventy-five. sirloin steak with mushrooms--one twenty-five." she had dimly heard of these things, but it seemed strange to be called to order from the list. "i'll fix this," exclaimed drouet. "sst! waiter." that officer of the board, a full-chested, round-faced negro, approached, and inclined his ear. "sirloin with mushrooms," said drouet. "stuffed tomatoes." "yassah," assented the negro, nodding his head. "hashed brown potatoes." "yassah." "asparagus." "yassah." "and a pot of coffee." drouet turned to carrie. "i haven't had a thing since breakfast. just got in from rock island. i was going off to dine when i saw you." carrie smiled and smiled. "what have you been doing?" he went on. "tell me all about yourself. how is your sister?" "she's well," returned carrie, answering the last query. he looked at her hard. "say," he said, "you haven't been sick, have you?" carrie nodded. "well, now, that's a blooming shame, isn't it? you don't look very well. i thought you looked a little pale. what have you been doing?" "working," said carrie. "you don't say so! at what?" she told him. "rhodes, morgenthau and scott--why, i know that house. over here on fifth avenue, isn't it? they're a close-fisted concern. what made you go there?" "i couldn't get anything else," said carrie frankly. "well, that's an outrage," said drouet. "you oughtn't to be working for those people. have the factory right back of the store, don't they?" "yes," said carrie. "that isn't a good house," said drouet. "you don't want to work at anything like that, anyhow." he chattered on at a great rate, asking questions, explaining things about himself, telling her what a good restaurant it was, until the waiter returned with an immense tray, bearing the hot savoury dishes which had been ordered. drouet fairly shone in the matter of serving. he appeared to great advantage behind the white napery and silver platters of the table and displaying his arms with a knife and fork. as he cut the meat his rings almost spoke. his new suit creaked as he stretched to reach the plates, break the bread, and pour the coffee. he helped carrie to a rousing plateful and contributed the warmth of his spirit to her body until she was a new girl. he was a splendid fellow in the true popular understanding of the term, and captivated carrie completely. that little soldier of fortune took her good turn in an easy way. she felt a little out of place, but the great room soothed her and the view of the well-dressed throng outside seemed a splendid thing. ah, what was it not to have money! what a thing it was to be able to come in here and dine! drouet must be fortunate. he rode on trains, dressed in such nice clothes, was so strong, and ate in these fine places. he seemed quite a figure of a man, and she wondered at his friendship and regard for her. "so you lost your place because you got sick, eh?" he said. "what are you going to do now?" "look around," she said, a thought of the need that hung outside this fine restaurant like a hungry dog at her heels passing into her eyes. "oh, no," said drouet, "that won't do. how long have you been looking?" "four days," she answered. "think of that!" he said, addressing some problematical individual. "you oughtn't to be doing anything like that. these girls," and he waved an inclusion of all shop and factory girls, "don't get anything. why, you can't live on it, can you?" he was a brotherly sort of creature in his demeanour. when he had scouted the idea of that kind of toil, he took another tack. carrie was really very pretty. even then, in her commonplace garb, her figure was evidently not bad, and her eyes were large and gentle. drouet looked at her and his thoughts reached home. she felt his admiration. it was powerfully backed by his liberality and good-humour. she felt that she liked him--that she could continue to like him ever so much. there was something even richer than that, running as a hidden strain, in her mind. every little while her eyes would meet his, and by that means the interchanging current of feeling would be fully connected. "why don't you stay down town and go to the theatre with me?" he said, hitching his chair closer. the table was not very wide. "oh, i can't," she said. "what are you going to do to-night?" "nothing," she answered, a little drearily. "you don't like out there where you are, do you?" "oh, i don't know." "what are you going to do if you don't get work?" "go back home, i guess." there was the least quaver in her voice as she said this. somehow, the influence he was exerting was powerful. they came to an understanding of each other without words--he of her situation, she of the fact that he realised it. "no," he said, "you can't make it!" genuine sympathy filling his mind for the time. "let me help you. you take some of my money." "oh, no!" she said, leaning back. "what are you going to do?" he said. she sat meditating, merely shaking her head. he looked at her quite tenderly for his kind. there were some loose bills in his vest pocket--greenbacks. they were soft and noiseless, and he got his fingers about them and crumpled them up in his hand. "come on," he said, "i'll see you through all right. get yourself some clothes." it was the first reference he had made to that subject, and now she realised how bad off she was. in his crude way he had struck the key-note. her lips trembled a little. she had her hand out on the table before her. they were quite alone in their corner, and he put his larger, warmer hand over it. "aw, come, carrie," he said, "what can you do alone? let me help you." he pressed her hand gently and she tried to withdraw it. at this he held it fast, and she no longer protested. then he slipped the greenbacks he had into her palm, and when she began to protest, he whispered: "i'll loan it to you--that's all right. i'll loan it to you." he made her take it. she felt bound to him by a strange tie of affection now. they went out, and he walked with her far out south toward polk street, talking. "you don't want to live with those people?" he said in one place, abstractedly. carrie heard it, but it made only a slight impression. "come down and meet me to-morrow," he said, "and we'll go to the matinée. will you?" carrie protested a while, but acquiesced. "you're not doing anything. get yourself a nice pair of shoes and a jacket." she scarcely gave a thought to the complication which would trouble her when he was gone. in his presence, she was of his own hopeful, easy-way-out mood. "don't you bother about those people out there," he said at parting. "i'll help you." carrie left him, feeling as though a great arm had slipped out before her to draw off trouble. the money she had accepted was two soft, green, handsome ten-dollar bills. chapter vii the lure of the material: beauty speaks for itself the true meaning of money yet remains to be popularly explained and comprehended. when each individual realises for himself that this thing primarily stands for and should only be accepted as a moral due--that it should be paid out as honestly stored energy, and not as a usurped privilege--many of our social, religious, and political troubles will have permanently passed. as for carrie, her understanding of the moral significance of money was the popular understanding, nothing more. the old definition: "money: something everybody else has and i must get," would have expressed her understanding of it thoroughly. some of it she now held in her hand--two soft, green ten-dollar bills--and she felt that she was immensely better off for the having of them. it was something that was power in itself. one of her order of mind would have been content to be cast away upon a desert island with a bundle of money, and only the long strain of starvation would have taught her that in some cases it could have no value. even then she would have had no conception of the relative value of the thing; her one thought would, undoubtedly, have concerned the pity of having so much power and the inability to use it. the poor girl thrilled as she walked away from drouet. she felt ashamed in part because she had been weak enough to take it, but her need was so dire, she was still glad. now she would have a nice new jacket! now she would buy a nice pair of pretty button shoes. she would get stockings, too, and a skirt, and, and--until already, as in the matter of her prospective salary, she had got beyond, in her desires, twice the purchasing power of her bills. she conceived a true estimate of drouet. to her, and indeed to all the world, he was a nice, good-hearted man. there was nothing evil in the fellow. he gave her the money out of a good heart--out of a realisation of her want. he would not have given the same amount to a poor young man, but we must not forget that a poor young man could not, in the nature of things, have appealed to him like a poor young girl. femininity affected his feelings. he was the creature of an inborn desire. yet no beggar could have caught his eye and said, "my god, mister, i'm starving," but he would gladly have handed out what was considered the proper portion to give beggars and thought no more about it. there would have been no speculation, no philosophising. he had no mental process in him worthy the dignity of either of those terms. in his good clothes and fine health, he was a merry, unthinking moth of the lamp. deprived of his position, and struck by a few of the involved and baffling forces which sometimes play upon man, he would have been as helpless as carrie--as helpless, as non-understanding, as pitiable, if you will, as she. now, in regard to his pursuit of women, he meant them no harm, because he did not conceive of the relation which he hoped to hold with them as being harmful. he loved to make advances to women, to have them succumb to his charms, not because he was a cold-blooded, dark, scheming villain, but because his inborn desire urged him to that as a chief delight. he was vain, he was boastful, he was as deluded by fine clothes as any silly-headed girl. a truly deep-dyed villain could have hornswaggled him as readily as he could have flattered a pretty shop-girl. his fine success as a salesman lay in his geniality and the thoroughly reputable standing of his house. he bobbed about among men, a veritable bundle of enthusiasm--no power worthy the name of intellect, no thoughts worthy the adjective noble, no feelings long continued in one strain. a madame sappho would have called him a pig; a shakespeare would have said "my merry child;" old, drinking caryoe thought him a clever, successful business man. in short, he was as good as his intellect conceived. the best proof that there was something open and commendable about the man was the fact that carrie took the money. no deep, sinister soul with ulterior motives could have given her fifteen cents under the guise of friendship. the unintellectual are not so helpless. nature has taught the beasts of the field to fly when some unheralded danger threatens. she has put into the small, unwise head of the chipmunk the untutored fear of poisons. "he keepeth his creatures whole," was not written of beasts alone. carrie was unwise, and, therefore, like the sheep in its unwisdom, strong in feeling. the instinct of self-protection, strong in all such natures, was roused but feebly, if at all, by the overtures of drouet. when carrie had gone, he felicitated himself upon her good opinion. by george, it was a shame young girls had to be knocked around like that. cold weather coming on and no clothes. tough. he would go around to fitzgerald and moy's and get a cigar. it made him feel light of foot as he thought about her. carrie reached home in high good spirits, which she could scarcely conceal. the possession of the money involved a number of points which perplexed her seriously. how should she buy any clothes when minnie knew that she had no money? she had no sooner entered the flat than this point was settled for her. it could not be done. she could think of no way of explaining. "how did you come out?" asked minnie, referring to the day. carrie had none of the small deception which could feel one thing and say something directly opposed. she would prevaricate, but it would be in the line of her feelings at least. so instead of complaining when she felt so good, she said: "i have the promise of something." "where?" "at the boston store." "is it sure promised?" questioned minnie. "well, i'm to find out to-morrow," returned carrie, disliking to draw out a lie any longer than was necessary. minnie felt the atmosphere of good feeling which carrie brought with her. she felt now was the time to express to carrie the state of hanson's feeling about her entire chicago venture. "if you shouldn't get it--" she paused, troubled for an easy way. "if i don't get something pretty soon, i think i'll go home." minnie saw her chance. "sven thinks it might be best for the winter, anyhow." the situation flashed on carrie at once. they were unwilling to keep her any longer, out of work. she did not blame minnie, she did not blame hanson very much. now, as she sat there digesting the remark, she was glad she had drouet's money. "yes," she said after a few moments, "i thought of doing that." she did not explain that the thought, however, had aroused all the antagonism of her nature. columbia city, what was there for her? she knew its dull, little round by heart. here was the great, mysterious city which was still a magnet for her. what she had seen only suggested its possibilities. now to turn back on it and live the little old life out there--she almost exclaimed against the thought. she had reached home early and went in the front room to think. what could she do? she could not buy new shoes and wear them here. she would need to save part of the twenty to pay her fare home. she did not want to borrow of minnie for that. and yet, how could she explain where she even got that money? if she could only get enough to let her out easy. she went over the tangle again and again. here, in the morning, drouet would expect to see her in a new jacket, and that couldn't be. the hansons expected her to go home, and she wanted to get away, and yet she did not want to go home. in the light of the way they would look on her getting money without work, the taking of it now seemed dreadful. she began to be ashamed. the whole situation depressed her. it was all so clear when she was with drouet. now it was all so tangled, so hopeless--much worse than it was before, because she had the semblance of aid in her hand which she could not use. her spirits sank so that at supper minnie felt that she must have had another hard day. carrie finally decided that she would give the money back. it was wrong to take it. she would go down in the morning and hunt for work. at noon she would meet drouet as agreed and tell him. at this decision her heart sank, until she was the old carrie of distress. curiously, she could not hold the money in her hand without feeling some relief. even after all her depressing conclusions, she could sweep away all thought about the matter and then the twenty dollars seemed a wonderful and delightful thing. ah, money, money, money! what a thing it was to have. how plenty of it would clear away all these troubles. in the morning she got up and started out a little early. her decision to hunt for work was moderately strong, but the money in her pocket, after all her troubling over it, made the work question the least shade less terrible. she walked into the wholesale district, but as the thought of applying came with each passing concern, her heart shrank. what a coward she was, she thought to herself. yet she had applied so often. it would be the same old story. she walked on and on, and finally did go into one place, with the old result. she came out feeling that luck was against her. it was no use. without much thinking, she reached dearborn street. here was the great fair store with its multitude of delivery wagons about, its long window display, its crowd of shoppers. it readily changed her thoughts, she who was so weary of them. it was here that she had intended to come and get her new things. now for relief from distress; she thought she would go in and see. she would look at the jackets. there is nothing in this world more delightful than that middle state in which we mentally balance at times, possessed of the means, lured by desire, and yet deterred by conscience or want of decision. when carrie began wandering around the store amid the fine displays she was in this mood. her original experience in this same place had given her a high opinion of its merits. now she paused at each individual bit of finery, where before she had hurried on. her woman's heart was warm with desire for them. how would she look in this, how charming that would make her! she came upon the corset counter and paused in rich reverie as she noted the dainty concoctions of colour and lace there displayed. if she would only make up her mind, she could have one of those now. she lingered in the jewelry department. she saw the earrings, the bracelets, the pins, the chains. what would she not have given if she could have had them all! she would look fine too, if only she had some of these things. the jackets were the greatest attraction. when she entered the store, she already had her heart fixed upon the peculiar little tan jacket with large mother-of-pearl buttons which was all the rage that fall. still she delighted to convince herself that there was nothing she would like better. she went about among the glass cases and racks where these things were displayed, and satisfied herself that the one she thought of was the proper one. all the time she wavered in mind, now persuading herself that she could buy it right away if she chose, now recalling to herself the actual condition. at last the noon hour was dangerously near, and she had done nothing. she must go now and return the money. drouet was on the corner when she came up. "hello," he said, "where is the jacket and"--looking down--"the shoes?" carrie had thought to lead up to her decision in some intelligent way, but this swept the whole fore-schemed situation by the board. "i came to tell you that--that i can't take the money." "oh, that's it, is it?" he returned. "well, you come on with me. let's go over here to partridge's." carrie walked with him. behold, the whole fabric of doubt and impossibility had slipped from her mind. she could not get at the points that were so serious, the things she was going to make plain to him. "have you had lunch yet? of course you haven't. let's go in here," and drouet turned into one of the very nicely furnished restaurants off state street, in monroe. "i mustn't take the money," said carrie, after they were settled in a cosey corner, and drouet had ordered the lunch. "i can't wear those things out there. they--they wouldn't know where i got them." "what do you want to do," he smiled, "go without them?" "i think i'll go home," she said, wearily. "oh, come," he said, "you've been thinking it over too long. i'll tell you what you do. you say you can't wear them out there. why don't you rent a furnished room and leave them in that for a week?" carrie shook her head. like all women, she was there to object and be convinced. it was for him to brush the doubts away and clear the path if he could. "why are you going home?" he asked. "oh, i can't get anything here." "they won't keep you?" he remarked, intuitively. "they can't," said carrie. "i'll tell you what you do," he said. "you come with me. i'll take care of you." carrie heard this passively. the peculiar state which she was in made it sound like the welcome breath of an open door. drouet seemed of her own spirit and pleasing. he was clean, handsome, well-dressed, and sympathetic. his voice was the voice of a friend. "what can you do back at columbia city?" he went on, rousing by the words in carrie's mind a picture of the dull world she had left. "there isn't anything down there. chicago's the place. you can get a nice room here and some clothes, and then you can do something." carrie looked out through the window into the busy street. there it was, the admirable, great city, so fine when you are not poor. an elegant coach, with a prancing pair of bays, passed by, carrying in its upholstered depths a young lady. "what will you have if you go back?" asked drouet. there was no subtle undercurrent to the question. he imagined that she would have nothing at all of the things he thought worth while. carrie sat still, looking out. she was wondering what she could do. they would be expecting her to go home this week. drouet turned to the subject of the clothes she was going to buy. "why not get yourself a nice little jacket? you've got to have it. i'll loan you the money. you needn't worry about taking it. you can get yourself a nice room by yourself. i won't hurt you." carrie saw the drift, but could not express her thoughts. she felt more than ever the helplessness of her case. "if i could only get something to do," she said. "maybe you can," went on drouet, "if you stay here. you can't if you go away. they won't let you stay out there. now, why not let me get you a nice room? i won't bother you--you needn't be afraid. then, when you get fixed up, maybe you could get something." he looked at her pretty face and it vivified his mental resources. she was a sweet little mortal to him--there was no doubt of that. she seemed to have some power back of her actions. she was not like the common run of store-girls. she wasn't silly. in reality, carrie had more imagination than he--more taste. it was a finer mental strain in her that made possible her depression and loneliness. her poor clothes were neat, and she held her head unconsciously in a dainty way. "do you think i could get something?" she asked. "sure," he said, reaching over and filling her cup with tea. "i'll help you." she looked at him, and he laughed reassuringly. "now i'll tell you what we'll do. we'll go over here to partridge's and you pick out what you want. then we'll look around for a room for you. you can leave the things there. then we'll go to the show to-night." carrie shook her head. "well, you can go out to the flat then, that's all right. you don't need to stay in the room. just take it and leave your things there." she hung in doubt about this until the dinner was over. "let's go over and look at the jackets," he said. together they went. in the store they found that shine and rustle of new things which immediately laid hold of carrie's heart. under the influence of a good dinner and drouet's radiating presence, the scheme proposed seemed feasible. she looked about and picked a jacket like the one which she had admired at the fair. when she got it in her hand it seemed so much nicer. the saleswoman helped her on with it, and, by accident, it fitted perfectly. drouet's face lightened as he saw the improvement. she looked quite smart. "that's the thing," he said. carrie turned before the glass. she could not help feeling pleased as she looked at herself. a warm glow crept into her cheeks. "that's the thing," said drouet. "now pay for it." "it's nine dollars," said carrie. "that's all right--take it," said drouet. she reached in her purse and took out one of the bills. the woman asked if she would wear the coat and went off. in a few minutes she was back and the purchase was closed. from partridge's they went to a shoe store, where carrie was fitted for shoes. drouet stood by, and when he saw how nice they looked, said, "wear them." carrie shook her head, however. she was thinking of returning to the flat. he bought her a purse for one thing, and a pair of gloves for another, and let her buy the stockings. "to-morrow," he said, "you come down here and buy yourself a skirt." in all of carrie's actions there was a touch of misgiving. the deeper she sank into the entanglement, the more she imagined that the thing hung upon the few remaining things she had not done. since she had not done these, there was a way out. drouet knew a place in wabash avenue where there were rooms. he showed carrie the outside of these, and said: "now, you're my sister." he carried the arrangement off with an easy hand when it came to the selection, looking around, criticising, opining. "her trunk will be here in a day or so," he observed to the landlady, who was very pleased. when they were alone, drouet did not change in the least. he talked in the same general way as if they were out in the street. carrie left her things. "now," said drouet, "why don't you move to-night?" "oh, i can't," said carrie. "why not?" "i don't want to leave them so." he took that up as they walked along the avenue. it was a warm afternoon. the sun had come out and the wind had died down. as he talked with carrie, he secured an accurate detail of the atmosphere of the flat. "come out of it," he said, "they won't care. i'll help you get along." she listened until her misgivings vanished. he would show her about a little and then help her get something. he really imagined that he would. he would be out on the road and she could be working. "now, i'll tell you what you do," he said, "you go out there and get whatever you want and come away." she thought a long time about this. finally she agreed. he would come out as far as peoria street and wait for her. she was to meet him at half-past eight. at half-past five she reached home, and at six her determination was hardened. "so you didn't get it?" said minnie, referring to carrie's story of the boston store. carrie looked at her out of the corner of her eye. "no," she answered. "i don't think you'd better try any more this fall," said minnie. carrie said nothing. when hanson came home he wore the same inscrutable demeanour. he washed in silence and went off to read his paper. at dinner carrie felt a little nervous. the strain of her own plans was considerable, and the feeling that she was not welcome here was strong. "didn't find anything, eh?" said hanson. "no." he turned to his eating again, the thought that it was a burden to have her here dwelling in his mind. she would have to go home, that was all. once she was away, there would be no more coming back in the spring. carrie was afraid of what she was going to do, but she was relieved to know that this condition was ending. they would not care. hanson particularly would be glad when she went. he would not care what became of her. after dinner she went into the bathroom, where they could not disturb her, and wrote a little note. "good-bye, minnie," it read. "i'm not going home. i'm going to stay in chicago a little while and look for work. don't worry. i'll be all right." in the front room hanson was reading his paper. as usual, she helped minnie clear away the dishes and straighten up. then she said: "i guess i'll stand down at the door a little while." she could scarcely prevent her voice from trembling. minnie remembered hanson's remonstrance. "sven doesn't think it looks good to stand down there," she said. "doesn't he?" said carrie. "i won't do it any more after this." she put on her hat and fidgeted around the table in the little bedroom, wondering where to slip the note. finally she put it under minnie's hair-brush. when she had closed the hall-door, she paused a moment and wondered what they would think. some thought of the queerness of her deed affected her. she went slowly down the stairs. she looked back up the lighted step, and then affected to stroll up the street. when she reached the corner she quickened her pace. as she was hurrying away, hanson came back to his wife. "is carrie down at the door again?" he asked. "yes," said minnie; "she said she wasn't going to do it any more." he went over to the baby where it was playing on the floor and began to poke his finger at it. drouet was on the corner waiting, in good spirits. "hello, carrie," he said, as a sprightly figure of a girl drew near him. "got here safe, did you? well, we'll take a car." chapter viii intimations by winter: an ambassador summoned among the forces which sweep and play throughout the universe, untutored man is but a wisp in the wind. our civilisation is still in a middle stage, scarcely beast, in that it is no longer wholly guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly guided by reason. on the tiger no responsibility rests. we see him aligned by nature with the forces of life--he is born into their keeping and without thought he is protected. we see man far removed from the lairs of the jungles, his innate instincts dulled by too near an approach to free-will, his free-will not sufficiently developed to replace his instincts and afford him perfect guidance. he is becoming too wise to hearken always to instincts and desires; he is still too weak to always prevail against them. as a beast, the forces of life aligned him with them; as a man, he has not yet wholly learned to align himself with the forces. in this intermediate stage he wavers--neither drawn in harmony with nature by his instincts nor yet wisely putting himself into harmony by his own free-will. he is even as a wisp in the wind, moved by every breath of passion, acting now by his will and now by his instincts, erring with one, only to retrieve by the other, falling by one, only to rise by the other--a creature of incalculable variability. we have the consolation of knowing that evolution is ever in action, that the ideal is a light that cannot fail. he will not forever balance thus between good and evil. when this jangle of free-will and instinct shall have been adjusted, when perfect understanding has given the former the power to replace the latter entirely, man will no longer vary. the needle of understanding will yet point steadfast and unwavering to the distant pole of truth. in carrie--as in how many of our worldlings do they not?--instinct and reason, desire and understanding, were at war for the mastery. she followed whither her craving led. she was as yet more drawn than she drew. when minnie found the note next morning, after a night of mingled wonder and anxiety, which was not exactly touched by yearning, sorrow, or love, she exclaimed: "well, what do you think of that?" "what?" said hanson. "sister carrie has gone to live somewhere else." hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually displayed and looked at the note. the only indication of his thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his tongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a horse. "where do you suppose she's gone to?" said minnie, thoroughly aroused. "i don't know," a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. "now she has gone and done it." minnie moved her head in a puzzled way. "oh, oh," she said, "she doesn't know what she has done." "well," said hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before him, "what can you do?" minnie's womanly nature was higher than this. she figured the possibilities in such cases. "oh," she said at last, "poor sister carrie!" at the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at a. m., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled sleep in her new room, alone. carrie's new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in it. she was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap of luxury. she turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release, wondering whether she would get something to do, wondering what drouet would do. that worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a peradventure. he could not help what he was going to do. he could not see clearly enough to wish to do differently. he was drawn by his innate desire to act the old pursuing part. he would need to delight himself with carrie as surely as he would need to eat his heavy breakfast. he might suffer the least rudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far he was evil and sinning. but whatever twinges of conscience he might have would be rudimentary, you may be sure. the next day he called upon carrie, and she saw him in her chamber. he was the same jolly, enlivening soul. "aw," he said, "what are you looking so blue about? come on out to breakfast. you want to get your other clothes to-day." carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large eyes. "i wish i could get something to do," she said. "you'll get that all right," said drouet. "what's the use worrying right now? get yourself fixed up. see the city. i won't hurt you." "i know you won't," she remarked, half truthfully. "got on the new shoes, haven't you? stick 'em out. george, they look fine. put on your jacket." carrie obeyed. "say, that fits like a t, don't it?" he remarked, feeling the set of it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure. "what you need now is a new skirt. let's go to breakfast." carrie put on her hat. "where are the gloves?" he inquired. "here," she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer. "now, come on," he said. thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away. it went this way on every occasion. drouet did not leave her much alone. she had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her hours with sight-seeing. at carson, pirie's he bought her a nice skirt and shirt waist. with his money she purchased the little necessaries of toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. the mirror convinced her of a few things which she had long believed. she was pretty, yes, indeed! how nice her hat set, and weren't her eyes pretty. she caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt her first thrill of power. drouet was so good. they went to see "the mikado" one evening, an opera which was hilariously popular at that time. before going, they made off for the windsor dining-room, which was in dearborn street, a considerable distance from carrie's room. it was blowing up cold, and out of her window carrie could see the western sky, still pink with the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met the darkness. a long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like some island in a far-off sea. somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from their front window in december days at home. she paused and wrung her little hands. "what's the matter?" said drouet. "oh, i don't know," she said, her lip trembling. he sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder, patting her arm. "come on," he said gently, "you're all right." she turned to slip on her jacket. "better wear that boa about your throat to-night." they walked north on wabash to adams street and then west. the lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue. the arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the lighted windows of the tall office buildings. the chill wind whipped in and out in gusty breaths. homeward bound, the six o'clock throng bumped and jostled. light overcoats were turned up about the ears, hats were pulled down. little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering, laughing. it was a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity. suddenly a pair of eyes met carrie's in recognition. they were looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. their clothes were faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up shabby. carrie recognised the glance and the girl. she was one of those who worked at the machines in the shoe factory. the latter looked, not quite sure, and then turned her head and looked. carrie felt as if some great tide had rolled between them. the old dress and the old machine came back. she actually started. drouet didn't notice until carrie bumped into a pedestrian. "you must be thinking," he said. they dined and went to the theatre. that spectacle pleased carrie immensely. the colour and grace of it caught her eye. she had vain imaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and magnificent people. when it was over, the clatter of coaches and the throng of fine ladies made her stare. "wait a minute," said drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through parted lips. "let's see." "sixty-seven," the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a sort of euphonious cry. "sixty-seven." "isn't it fine?" said carrie. "great," said drouet. he was as much affected by this show of finery and gayety as she. he pressed her arm warmly. once she looked up, her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight. as they were moving out he whispered down to her, "you look lovely!" they were right where the coach-caller was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in two ladies. "you stick to me and we'll have a coach," laughed drouet. carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life. they stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch. just a shade of a thought of the hour entered carrie's head, but there was no household law to govern her now. if any habits ever had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here. habits are peculiar things. they will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. the victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. if the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory thing. "now, bless me," says such a mind, "i have done my duty," when, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its old, unbreakable trick once again. carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. if she had, she would have been more consciously distressed. now the lunch went off with considerable warmth. under the influence of the varied occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was emanating from drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with open ears. she was again the victim of the city's hypnotic influence. "well," said drouet at last, "we had better be going." they had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had frequently met. carrie could not help but feel the vibration of force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. he had a way of touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. he touched it now as he spoke of going. they arose and went out into the street. the down-town section was now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few _owl_ cars, a few open resorts whose windows were still bright. out wabash avenue they strolled, drouet still pouring forth his volume of small information. he had carrie's arm in his, and held it closely as he explained. once in a while, after some witticism, he would look down, and his eyes would meet hers. at last they came to the steps, and carrie stood up on the first one, her head now coming even with his own. he took her hand and held it genially. he looked steadily at her as she glanced about, warmly musing. at about that hour, minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long evening of troubled thought. she had her elbow in an awkward position under her side. the muscles so held irritated a few nerves, and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. she fancied she and carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine. she could see the tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast out. there was a deep pit, into which they were looking; they could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall disappeared in vague shadows. an old basket, used for descending, was hanging there, fastened by a worn rope. "let's get in," said carrie. "oh, no," said minnie. "yes, come on," said carrie. she began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest, she had swung over and was going down. "carrie," she called, "carrie, come back;" but carrie was far down now and the shadow had swallowed her completely. she moved her arm. now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters she had never seen. they were upon some board or ground or something that reached far out, and at the end of this was carrie. they looked about, and now the thing was sinking, and minnie heard the low sip of the encroaching water. "come on, carrie," she called, but carrie was reaching farther out. she seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her. "carrie," she called, "carrie," but her own voice sounded far away, and the strange waters were blurring everything. she came away suffering as though she had lost something. she was more inexpressibly sad than she had ever been in life. it was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes, one with the other. the last one made her cry out, for carrie was slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and she had seen her falling. "minnie! what's the matter? here, wake up," said hanson, disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder. "wha--what's the matter?" said minnie, drowsily. "wake up," he said, "and turn over. you're talking in your sleep." a week or so later drouet strolled into fitzgerald and moy's, spruce in dress and manner. "hello, charley," said hurstwood, looking out from his office door. drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk. "when do you go out on the road again?" he inquired. "pretty soon," said drouet. "haven't seen much of you this trip," said hurstwood. "well, i've been busy," said drouet. they talked some few minutes on general topics. "say," said drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, "i want you to come out some evening." "out where?" inquired hurstwood. "out to my house, of course," said drouet, smiling. hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile hovering about his lips. he studied the face of drouet in his wise way, and then with the demeanour of a gentleman, said: "certainly; glad to." "we'll have a nice game of euchre." "may i bring a nice little bottle of sec?" asked hurstwood. "certainly," said drouet. "i'll introduce you." chapter ix convention's own tinder-box: the eye that is green hurstwood's residence on the north side, near lincoln park, was a brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. it had a large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty-five feet wide and ten feet deep. there was also a small rear yard, walled in by the fences of the neighbours and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap. the ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife julia, and his son and daughter, george, jr., and jessica. there were besides these a maid-servant, represented from time to time by girls of various extraction, for mrs. hurstwood was not always easy to please. "george, i let mary go yesterday," was not an unfrequent salutation at the dinner table. "all right," was his only reply. he had long since wearied of discussing the rancorous subject. a lovely home atmosphere is one of the flowers of the world, than which there is nothing more tender, nothing more delicate, nothing more calculated to make strong and just the natures cradled and nourished within it. those who have never experienced such a beneficent influence will not understand wherefore the tear springs glistening to the eyelids at some strange breath in lovely music. the mystic chords which bind and thrill the heart of the nation, they will never know. hurstwood's residence could scarcely be said to be infused with this home spirit. it lacked that toleration and regard without which the home is nothing. there was fine furniture, arranged as soothingly as the artistic perception of the occupants warranted. there were soft rugs, rich, upholstered chairs and divans, a grand piano, a marble carving of some unknown venus by some unknown artist, and a number of small bronzes gathered from heaven knows where, but generally sold by the large furniture houses along with everything else which goes to make the "perfectly appointed house." in the dining-room stood a sideboard laden with glistening decanters and other utilities and ornaments in glass, the arrangement of which could not be questioned. here was something hurstwood knew about. he had studied the subject for years in his business. he took no little satisfaction in telling each mary, shortly after she arrived, something of what the art of the thing required. he was not garrulous by any means. on the contrary, there was a fine reserve in his manner toward the entire domestic economy of his life which was all that is comprehended by the popular term, gentlemanly. he would not argue, he would not talk freely. in his manner was something of the dogmatist. what he could not correct, he would ignore. there was a tendency in him to walk away from the impossible thing. there was a time when he had been considerably enamoured of his jessica, especially when he was younger and more confined in his success. now, however, in her seventeenth year, jessica had developed a certain amount of reserve and independence which was not inviting to the richest form of parental devotion. she was in the high school, and had notions of life which were decidedly those of a patrician. she liked nice clothes and urged for them constantly. thoughts of love and elegant individual establishments were running in her head. she met girls at the high school whose parents were truly rich and whose fathers had standing locally as partners or owners of solid businesses. these girls gave themselves the airs befitting the thriving domestic establishments from whence they issued. they were the only ones of the school about whom jessica concerned herself. young hurstwood, jr., was in his twentieth year, and was already connected in a promising capacity with a large real estate firm. he contributed nothing for the domestic expenses of the family, but was thought to be saving his money to invest in real estate. he had some ability, considerable vanity, and a love of pleasure that had not, as yet, infringed upon his duties, whatever they were. he came in and went out, pursuing his own plans and fancies, addressing a few words to his mother occasionally, relating some little incident to his father, but for the most part confining himself to those generalities with which most conversation concerns itself. he was not laying bare his desires for any one to see. he did not find any one in the house who particularly cared to see. mrs. hurstwood was the type of the woman who has ever endeavoured to shine and has been more or less chagrined at the evidences of superior capability in this direction elsewhere. her knowledge of life extended to that little conventional round of society of which she was not--but longed to be--a member. she was not without realisation already that this thing was impossible, so far as she was concerned. for her daughter, she hoped better things. through jessica she might rise a little. through george, jr.'s, possible success she might draw to herself the privilege of pointing proudly. even hurstwood was doing well enough, and she was anxious that his small real estate adventures should prosper. his property holdings, as yet, were rather small, but his income was pleasing and his position with fitzgerald and moy was fixed. both those gentlemen were on pleasant and rather informal terms with him. the atmosphere which such personalities would create must be apparent to all. it worked out in a thousand little conversations, all of which were of the same calibre. "i'm going up to fox lake to-morrow," announced george, jr., at the dinner table one friday evening. "what's going on up there?" queried mrs. hurstwood. "eddie fahrway's got a new steam launch, and he wants me to come up and see how it works." "how much did it cost him?" asked his mother. "oh, over two thousand dollars. he says it's a dandy." "old fahrway must be making money," put in hurstwood. "he is, i guess. jack told me they were shipping vega-cura to australia now--said they sent a whole box to cape town last week." "just think of that!" said mrs. hurstwood, "and only four years ago they had that basement in madison street." "jack told me they were going to put up a six-story building next spring in robey street." "just think of that!" said jessica. on this particular occasion hurstwood wished to leave early. "i guess i'll be going down town," he remarked, rising. "are we going to mcvickar's monday?" questioned mrs. hurstwood, without rising. "yes," he said indifferently. they went on dining, while he went upstairs for his hat and coat. presently the door clicked. "i guess papa's gone," said jessica. the latter's school news was of a particular stripe. "they're going to give a performance in the lyceum, upstairs," she reported one day, "and i'm going to be in it." "are you?" said her mother. "yes, and i'll have to have a new dress. some of the nicest girls in the school are going to be in it. miss palmer is going to take the part of portia." "is she?" said mrs. hurstwood. "they've got that martha griswold in it again. she thinks she can act." "her family doesn't amount to anything, does it?" said mrs. hurstwood sympathetically. "they haven't anything, have they?" "no," returned jessica, "they're poor as church mice." she distinguished very carefully between the young boys of the school, many of whom were attracted by her beauty. "what do you think?" she remarked to her mother one evening; "that herbert crane tried to make friends with me." "who is he, my dear?" inquired mrs. hurstwood. "oh, no one," said jessica, pursing her pretty lips. "he's just a student there. he hasn't anything." the other half of this picture came when young blyford, son of blyford, the soap manufacturer, walked home with her. mrs. hurstwood was on the third floor, sitting in a rocking-chair reading, and happened to look out at the time. "who was that with you, jessica?" she inquired, as jessica came upstairs. "it's mr. blyford, mamma," she replied. "is it?" said mrs. hurstwood. "yes, and he wants me to stroll over into the park with him," explained jessica, a little flushed with running up the stairs. "all right, my dear," said mrs. hurstwood. "don't be gone long." as the two went down the street, she glanced interestedly out of the window. it was a most satisfactory spectacle indeed, most satisfactory. in this atmosphere hurstwood had moved for a number of years, not thinking deeply concerning it. his was not the order of nature to trouble for something better, unless the better was immediately and sharply contrasted. as it was, he received and gave, irritated sometimes by the little displays of selfish indifference, pleased at times by some show of finery which supposedly made for dignity and social distinction. the life of the resort which he managed was his life. there he spent most of his time. when he went home evenings the house looked nice. with rare exceptions the meals were acceptable, being the kind that an ordinary servant can arrange. in part, he was interested in the talk of his son and daughter, who always looked well. the vanity of mrs. hurstwood caused her to keep her person rather showily arrayed, but to hurstwood this was much better than plainness. there was no love lost between them. there was no great feeling of dissatisfaction. her opinion on any subject was not startling. they did not talk enough together to come to the argument of any one point. in the accepted and popular phrase, she had her ideas and he had his. once in a while he would meet a woman whose youth, sprightliness, and humour would make his wife seem rather deficient by contrast, but the temporary dissatisfaction which such an encounter might arouse would be counterbalanced by his social position and a certain matter of policy. he could not complicate his home life, because it might affect his relations with his employers. they wanted no scandals. a man, to hold his position, must have a dignified manner, a clean record, a respectable home anchorage. therefore he was circumspect in all he did, and whenever he appeared in the public ways in the afternoon, or on sunday, it was with his wife, and sometimes his children. he would visit the local resorts, or those near by in wisconsin, and spend a few stiff, polished days strolling about conventional places doing conventional things. he knew the need of it. when some one of the many middle-class individuals whom he knew, who had money, would get into trouble, he would shake his head. it didn't do to talk about those things. if it came up for discussion among such friends as with him passed for close, he would deprecate the folly of the thing. "it was all right to do it--all men do those things--but why wasn't he careful? a man can't be too careful." he lost sympathy for the man that made a mistake and was found out. on this account he still devoted some time to showing his wife about--time which would have been wearisome indeed if it had not been for the people he would meet and the little enjoyments which did not depend upon her presence or absence. he watched her with considerable curiosity at times, for she was still attractive in a way and men looked at her. she was affable, vain, subject to flattery, and this combination, he knew quite well, might produce a tragedy in a woman of her home position. owing to his order of mind, his confidence in the sex was not great. his wife never possessed the virtues which would win the confidence and admiration of a man of his nature. as long as she loved him vigorously he could see how confidence could be, but when that was no longer the binding chain--well, something might happen. during the last year or two the expenses of the family seemed a large thing. jessica wanted fine clothes, and mrs. hurstwood, not to be outshone by her daughter, also frequently enlivened her apparel. hurstwood had said nothing in the past, but one day he murmured. "jessica must have a new dress this month," said mrs. hurstwood one morning. hurstwood was arraying himself in one of his perfection vests before the glass at the time. "i thought she just bought one," he said. "that was just something for evening wear," returned his wife complacently. "it seems to me," returned hurstwood, "that she's spending a good deal for dresses of late." "well, she's going out more," concluded his wife, but the tone of his voice impressed her as containing something she had not heard there before. he was not a man who travelled much, but when he did, he had been accustomed to take her along. on one occasion recently a local aldermanic junket had been arranged to visit philadelphia--a junket that was to last ten days. hurstwood had been invited. "nobody knows us down there," said one, a gentleman whose face was a slight improvement over gross ignorance and sensuality. he always wore a silk hat of most imposing proportions. "we can have a good time." his left eye moved with just the semblance of a wink. "you want to come along, george." the next day hurstwood announced his intention to his wife. "i'm going away, julia," he said, "for a few days." "where?" she asked, looking up. "to philadelphia, on business." she looked at him consciously, expecting something else. "i'll have to leave you behind this time." "all right," she replied, but he could see that she was thinking that it was a curious thing. before he went she asked him a few more questions, and that irritated him. he began to feel that she was a disagreeable attachment. on this trip he enjoyed himself thoroughly, and when it was over he was sorry to get back. he was not willingly a prevaricator, and hated thoroughly to make explanations concerning it. the whole incident was glossed over with general remarks, but mrs. hurstwood gave the subject considerable thought. she drove out more, dressed better, and attended theatres freely to make up for it. such an atmosphere could hardly come under the category of home life. it ran along by force of habit, by force of conventional opinion. with the lapse of time it must necessarily become dryer and dryer--must eventually be tinder, easily lighted and destroyed. chapter x the counsel of winter: fortune's ambassador calls in the light of the world's attitude toward woman and her duties, the nature of carrie's mental state deserves consideration. actions such as hers are measured by an arbitrary scale. society possesses a conventional standard whereby it judges all things. all men should be good, all women virtuous. wherefore, villain, hast thou failed? for all the liberal analysis of spencer and our modern naturalistic philosophers, we have but an infantile perception of morals. there is more in the subject than mere conformity to a law of evolution. it is yet deeper than conformity to things of earth alone. it is more involved than we, as yet, perceive. answer, first, why the heart thrills; explain wherefore some plaintive note goes wandering about the world, undying; make clear the rose's subtle alchemy evolving its ruddy lamp in light and rain. in the essence of these facts lie the first principles of morals. "oh," thought drouet, "how delicious is my conquest." "ah," thought carrie, with mournful misgivings, "what is it i have lost?" before this world-old proposition we stand, serious, interested, confused; endeavouring to evolve the true theory of morals--the true answer to what is right. in the view of a certain stratum of society, carrie was comfortably established--in the eyes of the starveling, beaten by every wind and gusty sheet of rain, she was safe in a halcyon harbour. drouet had taken three rooms, furnished, in ogden place, facing union park, on the west side. that was a little, green-carpeted breathing spot, than which, to-day, there is nothing more beautiful in chicago. it afforded a vista pleasant to contemplate. the best room looked out upon the lawn of the park, now sear and brown, where a little lake lay sheltered. over the bare limbs of the trees, which now swayed in the wintry wind, rose the steeple of the union park congregational church, and far off the towers of several others. the rooms were comfortably enough furnished. there was a good brussels carpet on the floor, rich in dull red and lemon shades, and representing large jardinières filled with gorgeous, impossible flowers. there was a large pier-glass mirror between the two windows. a large, soft, green, plush-covered couch occupied one corner, and several rocking-chairs were set about. some pictures, several rugs, a few small pieces of bric-à-brac, and the tale of contents is told. in the bedroom, off the front room, was carrie's trunk, bought by drouet, and in the wardrobe built into the wall quite an array of clothing--more than she had ever possessed before, and of very becoming designs. there was a third room for possible use as a kitchen, where drouet had carrie establish a little portable gas stove for the preparation of small lunches, oysters, welsh rarebits, and the like, of which he was exceedingly fond; and, lastly, a bath. the whole place was cosey, in that it was lighted by gas and heated by furnace registers, possessing also a small grate, set with an asbestos back, a method of cheerful warming which was then first coming into use. by her industry and natural love of order, which now developed, the place maintained an air pleasing in the extreme. here, then, was carrie, established in a pleasant fashion, free of certain difficulties which most ominously confronted her, laden with many new ones which were of a mental order, and altogether so turned about in all of her earthly relationships that she might well have been a new and different individual. she looked into her glass and saw a prettier carrie than she had seen before; she looked into her mind, a mirror prepared of her own and the world's opinions, and saw a worse. between these two images she wavered, hesitating which to believe. "my, but you're a little beauty," drouet was wont to exclaim to her. she would look at him with large, pleased eyes. "you know it, don't you?" he would continue. "oh, i don't know," she would reply, feeling delight in the fact that one should think so, hesitating to believe, though she really did, that she was vain enough to think so much of herself. her conscience, however, was not a drouet, interested to praise. there she heard a different voice, with which she argued, pleaded, excused. it was no just and sapient counsellor, in its last analysis. it was only an average little conscience, a thing which represented the world, her past environment, habit, convention, in a confused way. with it, the voice of the people was truly the voice of god. "oh, thou failure!" said the voice. "why?" she questioned. "look at those about," came the whispered answer. "look at those who are good. how would they scorn to do what you have done. look at the good girls; how will they draw away from such as you when they know you have been weak. you had not tried before you failed." it was when carrie was alone, looking out across the park, that she would be listening to this. it would come infrequently--when something else did not interfere, when the pleasant side was not too apparent, when drouet was not there. it was somewhat clear in utterance at first, but never wholly convincing. there was always an answer, always the december days threatened. she was alone; she was desireful; she was fearful of the whistling wind. the voice of want made answer for her. once the bright days of summer pass by, a city takes on that sombre garb of grey, wrapt in which it goes about its labours during the long winter. its endless buildings look grey, its sky and its streets assume a sombre hue; the scattered, leafless trees and wind-blown dust and paper but add to the general solemnity of colour. there seems to be something in the chill breezes which scurry through the long, narrow thoroughfares productive of rueful thoughts. not poets alone, nor artists, nor that superior order of mind which arrogates to itself all refinement, feel this, but dogs and all men. these feel as much as the poet, though they have not the same power of expression. the sparrow upon the wire, the cat in the doorway, the dray horse tugging his weary load, feel the long, keen breaths of winter. it strikes to the heart of all life, animate and inanimate. if it were not for the artificial fires of merriment, the rush of profit-seeking trade, and pleasure-selling amusements; if the various merchants failed to make the customary display within and without their establishments; if our streets were not strung with signs of gorgeous hues and thronged with hurrying purchasers, we would quickly discover how firmly the chill hand of winter lays upon the heart; how dispiriting are the days during which the sun withholds a portion of our allowance of light and warmth. we are more dependent upon these things than is often thought. we are insects produced by heat, and pass without it. in the drag of such a grey day the secret voice would reassert itself, feebly and more feebly. such mental conflict was not always uppermost. carrie was not by any means a gloomy soul. more, she had not the mind to get firm hold upon a definite truth. when she could not find her way out of the labyrinth of ill-logic which thought upon the subject created, she would turn away entirely. drouet, all the time, was conducting himself in a model way for one of his sort. he took her about a great deal, spent money upon her, and when he travelled took her with him. there were times when she would be alone for two or three days, while he made the shorter circuits of his business, but, as a rule, she saw a great deal of him. "say, carrie," he said one morning, shortly after they had so established themselves, "i've invited my friend hurstwood to come out some day and spend the evening with us." "who is he?" asked carrie, doubtfully. "oh, he's a nice man. he's manager of fitzgerald and moy's." "what's that?" said carrie. "the finest resort in town. it's a way-up, swell place." carrie puzzled a moment. she was wondering what drouet had told him, what her attitude would be. "that's all right," said drouet, feeling her thought. "he doesn't know anything. you're mrs. drouet now." there was something about this which struck carrie as slightly inconsiderate. she could see that drouet did not have the keenest sensibilities. "why don't we get married?" she inquired, thinking of the voluble promises he had made. "well, we will," he said, "just as soon as i get this little deal of mine closed up." he was referring to some property which he said he had, and which required so much attention, adjustment, and what not, that somehow or other it interfered with his free moral, personal actions. "just as soon as i get back from my denver trip in january we'll do it." carrie accepted this as basis for hope--it was a sort of salve to her conscience, a pleasant way out. under the circumstances, things would be righted. her actions would be justified. she really was not enamoured of drouet. she was more clever than he. in a dim way, she was beginning to see where he lacked. if it had not been for this, if she had not been able to measure and judge him in a way, she would have been worse off than she was. she would have adored him. she would have been utterly wretched in her fear of not gaining his affection, of losing his interest, of being swept away and left without an anchorage. as it was, she wavered a little, slightly anxious, at first, to gain him completely, but later feeling at ease in waiting. she was not exactly sure what she thought of him--what she wanted to do. when hurstwood called, she met a man who was more clever than drouet in a hundred ways. he paid that peculiar deference to women which every member of the sex appreciates. he was not overawed, he was not over-bold. his great charm was attentiveness. schooled in winning those birds of fine feather among his own sex, the merchants and professionals who visited his resort, he could use even greater tact when endeavouring to prove agreeable to some one who charmed him. in a pretty woman of any refinement of feeling whatsoever he found his greatest incentive. he was mild, placid, assured, giving the impression that he wished to be of service only--to do something which would make the lady more pleased. drouet had ability in this line himself when the game was worth the candle, but he was too much the egotist to reach the polish which hurstwood possessed. he was too buoyant, too full of ruddy life, too assured. he succeeded with many who were not quite schooled in the art of love. he failed dismally where the woman was slightly experienced and possessed innate refinement. in the case of carrie he found a woman who was all of the latter, but none of the former. he was lucky in the fact that opportunity tumbled into his lap, as it were. a few years later, with a little more experience, the slightest tide of success, and he had not been able to approach carrie at all. "you ought to have a piano here, drouet," said hurstwood, smiling at carrie, on the evening in question, "so that your wife could play." drouet had not thought of that. "so we ought," he observed readily. "oh, i don't play," ventured carrie. "it isn't very difficult," returned hurstwood. "you could do very well in a few weeks." he was in the best form for entertaining this evening. his clothes were particularly new and rich in appearance. the coat lapels stood out with that medium stiffness which excellent cloth possesses. the vest was of a rich scotch plaid, set with a double row of round mother-of-pearl buttons. his cravat was a shiny combination of silken threads, not loud, not inconspicuous. what he wore did not strike the eye so forcibly as that which drouet had on, but carrie could see the elegance of the material. hurstwood's shoes were of soft, black calf, polished only to a dull shine. drouet wore patent leather, but carrie could not help feeling that there was a distinction in favour of the soft leather, where all else was so rich. she noticed these things almost unconsciously. they were things which would naturally flow from the situation. she was used to drouet's appearance. "suppose we have a little game of euchre?" suggested hurstwood, after a light round of conversation. he was rather dexterous in avoiding everything that would suggest that he knew anything of carrie's past. he kept away from personalities altogether, and confined himself to those things which did not concern individuals at all. by his manner, he put carrie at her ease, and by his deference and pleasantries he amused her. he pretended to be seriously interested in all she said. "i don't know how to play," said carrie. "charlie, you are neglecting a part of your duty," he observed to drouet most affably. "between us, though," he went on, "we can show you." by his tact he made drouet feel that he admired his choice. there was something in his manner that showed that he was pleased to be there. drouet felt really closer to him than ever before. it gave him more respect for carrie. her appearance came into a new light, under hurstwood's appreciation. the situation livened considerably. "now, let me see," said hurstwood, looking over carrie's shoulder very deferentially. "what have you?" he studied for a moment. "that's rather good," he said. "you're lucky. now, i'll show you how to trounce your husband. you take my advice." "here," said drouet, "if you two are going to scheme together, i won't stand a ghost of a show. hurstwood's a regular sharp." "no, it's your wife. she brings me luck. why shouldn't she win?" carrie looked gratefully at hurstwood, and smiled at drouet. the former took the air of a mere friend. he was simply there to enjoy himself. anything that carrie did was pleasing to him, nothing more. "there," he said, holding back one of his own good cards, and giving carrie a chance to take a trick. "i count that clever playing for a beginner." the latter laughed gleefully as she saw the hand coming her way. it was as if she were invincible when hurstwood helped her. he did not look at her often. when he did, it was with a mild light in his eye. not a shade was there of anything save geniality and kindness. he took back the shifty, clever gleam, and replaced it with one of innocence. carrie could not guess but that it was pleasure with him in the immediate thing. she felt that he considered she was doing a great deal. "it's unfair to let such playing go without earning something," he said after a time, slipping his finger into the little coin pocket of his coat. "let's play for dimes." "all right," said drouet, fishing for bills. hurstwood was quicker. his fingers were full of new ten-cent pieces. "here we are," he said, supplying each one with a little stack. "oh, this is gambling," smiled carrie. "it's bad." "no," said drouet, "only fun. if you never play for more than that, you will go to heaven." "don't you moralise," said hurstwood to carrie gently, "until you see what becomes of the money." drouet smiled. "if your husband gets them, he'll tell you how bad it is." drouet laughed loud. there was such an ingratiating tone about hurstwood's voice, the insinuation was so perceptible that even carrie got the humour of it. "when do you leave?" said hurstwood to drouet. "on wednesday," he replied. "it's rather hard to have your husband running about like that, isn't it?" said hurstwood, addressing carrie. "she's going along with me this time," said drouet. "you must both go with me to the theatre before you go." "certainly," said drouet. "eh, carrie?" "i'd like it ever so much," she replied. hurstwood did his best to see that carrie won the money. he rejoiced in her success, kept counting her winnings, and finally gathered and put them in her extended hand. they spread a little lunch, at which he served the wine, and afterwards he used fine tact in going. "now," he said, addressing first carrie and then drouet with his eyes, "you must be ready at . . i'll come and get you." they went with him to the door and there was his cab waiting, its red lamps gleaming cheerfully in the shadow. "now," he observed to drouet, with a tone of good-fellowship, "when you leave your wife alone, you must let me show her around a little. it will break up her loneliness." "sure," said drouet, quite pleased at the attention shown. "you're so kind," observed carrie. "not at all," said hurstwood, "i would want your husband to do as much for me." he smiled and went lightly away. carrie was thoroughly impressed. she had never come in contact with such grace. as for drouet, he was equally pleased. "there's a nice man," he remarked to carrie, as they returned to their cosey chamber. "a good friend of mine, too." "he seems to be," said carrie. chapter xi the persuasion of fashion: feeling guards o'er its own carrie was an apt student of fortune's ways--of fortune's superficialities. seeing a thing, she would immediately set to inquiring how she would look, properly related to it. be it known that this is not fine feeling, it is not wisdom. the greatest minds are not so afflicted; and, on the contrary, the lowest order of mind is not so disturbed. fine clothes to her were a vast persuasion; they spoke tenderly and jesuitically for themselves. when she came within earshot of their pleading, desire in her bent a willing ear. the voice of the so-called inanimate! who shall translate for us the language of the stones? "my dear," said the lace collar she secured from partridge's, "i fit you beautifully; don't give me up." "ah, such little feet," said the leather of the soft new shoes; "how effectively i cover them. what a pity they should ever want my aid." once these things were in her hand, on her person, she might dream of giving them up; the method by which they came might intrude itself so forcibly that she would ache to be rid of the thought of it, but she would not give them up. "put on the old clothes--that torn pair of shoes," was called to her by her conscience in vain. she could possibly have conquered the fear of hunger and gone back; the thought of hard work and a narrow round of suffering would, under the last pressure of conscience, have yielded, but spoil her appearance?--be old-clothed and poor-appearing?--never! drouet heightened her opinion on this and allied subjects in such a manner as to weaken her power of resisting their influence. it is so easy to do this when the thing opined is in the line of what we desire. in his hearty way, he insisted upon her good looks. he looked at her admiringly, and she took it at its full value. under the circumstances, she did not need to carry herself as pretty women do. she picked that knowledge up fast enough for herself. drouet had a habit, characteristic of his kind, of looking after stylishly dressed or pretty women on the street and remarking upon them. he had just enough of the feminine love of dress to be a good judge--not of intellect, but of clothes. he saw how they set their little feet, how they carried their chins, with what grace and sinuosity they swung their bodies. a dainty, self-conscious swaying of the hips by a woman was to him as alluring as the glint of rare wine to a toper. he would turn and follow the disappearing vision with his eyes. he would thrill as a child with the unhindered passion that was in him. he loved the thing that women love in themselves, grace. at this, their own shrine, he knelt with them, an ardent devotee. "did you see that woman who went by just now?" he said to carrie on the first day they took a walk together. "fine stepper, wasn't she?" carrie looked, and observed the grace commended. "yes, she is," she returned, cheerfully, a little suggestion of possible defect in herself awakening in her mind. if that was so fine, she must look at it more closely. instinctively, she felt a desire to imitate it. surely she could do that too. when one of her mind sees many things emphasized and reemphasized and admired, she gathers the logic of it and applies accordingly. drouet was not shrewd enough to see that this was not tactful. he could not see that it would be better to make her feel that she was competing with herself, not others better than herself. he would not have done it with an older, wiser woman, but in carrie he saw only the novice. less clever than she, he was naturally unable to comprehend her sensibility. he went on educating and wounding her, a thing rather foolish in one whose admiration for his pupil and victim was apt to grow. carrie took the instructions affably. she saw what drouet liked; in a vague way she saw where he was weak. it lessens a woman's opinion of a man when she learns that his admiration is so pointedly and generously distributed. she sees but one object of supreme compliment in this world, and that is herself. if a man is to succeed with many women, he must be all in all to each. in her own apartments carrie saw things which were lessons in the same school. in the same house with her lived an official of one of the theatres, mr. frank a. hale, manager of the standard, and his wife, a pleasing-looking brunette of thirty-five. they were people of a sort very common in america to-day, who live respectably from hand to mouth. hale received a salary of forty-five dollars a week. his wife, quite attractive, affected the feeling of youth, and objected to that sort of home life which means the care of a house and the raising of a family. like drouet and carrie, they also occupied three rooms on the floor above. not long after she arrived mrs. hale established social relations with her, and together they went about. for a long time this was her only companionship, and the gossip of the manager's wife formed the medium through which she saw the world. such trivialities, such praises of wealth, such conventional expression of morals as sifted through this passive creature's mind, fell upon carrie and for the while confused her. on the other hand, her own feelings were a corrective influence. the constant drag to something better was not to be denied. by those things which address the heart was she steadily recalled. in the apartments across the hall were a young girl and her mother. they were from evansville, indiana, the wife and daughter of a railroad treasurer. the daughter was here to study music, the mother to keep her company. carrie did not make their acquaintance, but she saw the daughter coming in and going out. a few times she had seen her at the piano in the parlour, and not infrequently had heard her play. this young woman was particularly dressy for her station, and wore a jewelled ring or two which flashed upon her white fingers as she played. now carrie was affected by music. her nervous composition responded to certain strains, much as certain strings of a harp vibrate when a corresponding key of a piano is struck. she was delicately moulded in sentiment, and answered with vague ruminations to certain wistful chords. they awoke longings for those things which she did not have. they caused her to cling closer to things she possessed. one short song the young lady played in a most soulful and tender mood. carrie heard it through the open door from the parlour below. it was at that hour between afternoon and night when, for the idle, the wanderer, things are apt to take on a wistful aspect. the mind wanders forth on far journeys and returns with sheaves of withered and departed joys. carrie sat at her window looking out. drouet had been away since ten in the morning. she had amused herself with a walk, a book by bertha m. clay which drouet had left there, though she did not wholly enjoy the latter, and by changing her dress for the evening. now she sat looking out across the park as wistful and depressed as the nature which craves variety and life can be under such circumstances. as she contemplated her new state, the strain from the parlour below stole upward. with it her thoughts became coloured and enmeshed. she reverted to the things which were best and saddest within the small limit of her experience. she became for the moment a repentant. while she was in this mood drouet came in, bringing with him an entirely different atmosphere. it was dusk and carrie had neglected to light the lamp. the fire in the grate, too, had burned low. "where are you, cad?" he said, using a pet name he had given her. "here," she answered. there was something delicate and lonely in her voice, but he could not hear it. he had not the poetry in him that would seek a woman out under such circumstances and console her for the tragedy of life. instead, he struck a match and lighted the gas. "hello," he exclaimed, "you've been crying." her eyes were still wet with a few vague tears. "pshaw," he said, "you don't want to do that." he took her hand, feeling in his good-natured egotism that it was probably lack of his presence which had made her lonely. "come on, now," he went on; "it's all right. let's waltz a little to that music." he could not have introduced a more incongruous proposition. it made clear to carrie that he could not sympathise with her. she could not have framed thoughts which would have expressed his defect or made clear the difference between them, but she felt it. it was his first great mistake. what drouet said about the girl's grace, as she tripped out evenings accompanied by her mother, caused carrie to perceive the nature and value of those little modish ways which women adopt when they would presume to be something. she looked in the mirror and pursed up her lips, accompanying it with a little toss of the head, as she had seen the railroad treasurer's daughter do. she caught up her skirts with an easy swing, for had not drouet remarked that in her and several others, and carrie was naturally imitative. she began to get the hang of those little things which the pretty woman who has vanity invariably adopts. in short, her knowledge of grace doubled, and with it her appearance changed. she became a girl of considerable taste. drouet noticed this. he saw the new bow in her hair and the new way of arranging her locks which she affected one morning. "you look fine that way, cad," he said. "do i?" she replied, sweetly. it made her try for other effects that selfsame day. she used her feet less heavily, a thing that was brought about by her attempting to imitate the treasurer's daughter's graceful carriage. how much influence the presence of that young woman in the same house had upon her it would be difficult to say. but, because of all these things, when hurstwood called he had found a young woman who was much more than the carrie to whom drouet had first spoken. the primary defects of dress and manner had passed. she was pretty, graceful, rich in the timidity born of uncertainty, and with a something childlike in her large eyes which captured the fancy of this starched and conventional poser among men. it was the ancient attraction of the fresh for the stale. if there was a touch of appreciation left in him for the bloom and unsophistication which is the charm of youth, it rekindled now. he looked into her pretty face and felt the subtle waves of young life radiating therefrom. in that large clear eye he could see nothing that his _blasé_ nature could understand as guile. the little vanity, if he could have perceived it there, would have touched him as a pleasant thing. "i wonder," he said, as he rode away in his cab, "how drouet came to win her." he gave her credit for feelings superior to drouet at the first glance. the cab plopped along between the far-receding lines of gas lamps on either hand. he folded his gloved hands and saw only the lighted chamber and carrie's face. he was pondering over the delight of youthful beauty. "i'll have a bouquet for her," he thought. "drouet won't mind." he never for a moment concealed the fact of her attraction for himself. he troubled himself not at all about drouet's priority. he was merely floating those gossamer threads of thought which, like the spider's, he hoped would lay hold somewhere. he did not know, he could not guess, what the result would be. a few weeks later drouet, in his peregrinations, encountered one of his well-dressed lady acquaintances in chicago on his return from a short trip to omaha. he had intended to hurry out to ogden place and surprise carrie, but now he fell into an interesting conversation and soon modified his original intention. "let's go to dinner," he said, little recking any chance meeting which might trouble his way. "certainly," said his companion. they visited one of the better restaurants for a social chat. it was five in the afternoon when they met; it was seven-thirty before the last bone was picked. drouet was just finishing a little incident he was relating, and his face was expanding into a smile, when hurstwood's eye caught his own. the latter had come in with several friends, and, seeing drouet and some woman, not carrie, drew his own conclusion. "ah, the rascal," he thought, and then, with a touch of righteous sympathy, "that's pretty hard on the little girl." drouet jumped from one easy thought to another as he caught hurstwood's eye. he felt but very little misgiving, until he saw that hurstwood was cautiously pretending not to see. then some of the latter's impression forced itself upon him. he thought of carrie and their last meeting. by george, he would have to explain this to hurstwood. such a chance half-hour with an old friend must not have anything more attached to it than it really warranted. for the first time he was troubled. here was a moral complication of which he could not possibly get the ends. hurstwood would laugh at him for being a fickle boy. he would laugh with hurstwood. carrie would never hear, his present companion at table would never know, and yet he could not help feeling that he was getting the worst of it--there was some faint stigma attached, and he was not guilty. he broke up the dinner by becoming dull, and saw his companion on her car. then he went home. "he hasn't talked to me about any of these later flames," thought hurstwood to himself. "he thinks i think he cares for the girl out there." "he ought not to think i'm knocking around, since i have just introduced him out there," thought drouet. "i saw you," hurstwood said, genially, the next time drouet drifted in to his polished resort, from which he could not stay away. he raised his forefinger indicatively, as parents do to children. "an old acquaintance of mine that i ran into just as i was coming up from the station," explained drouet. "she used to be quite a beauty." "still attracts a little, eh?" returned the other, affecting to jest. "oh, no," said drouet, "just couldn't escape her this time." "how long are you here?" asked hurstwood. "only a few days." "you must bring the girl down and take dinner with me," he said. "i'm afraid you keep her cooped up out there. i'll get a box for joe jefferson." "not me," answered the drummer. "sure i'll come." this pleased hurstwood immensely. he gave drouet no credit for any feelings toward carrie whatever. he envied him, and now, as he looked at the well-dressed, jolly salesman, whom he so much liked, the gleam of the rival glowed in his eye. he began to "size up" drouet from the standpoints of wit and fascination. he began to look to see where he was weak. there was no disputing that, whatever he might think of him as a good fellow, he felt a certain amount of contempt for him as a lover. he could hoodwink him all right. why, if he would just let carrie see one such little incident as that of thursday, it would settle the matter. he ran on in thought, almost exulting, the while he laughed and chatted, and drouet felt nothing. he had no power of analysing the glance and the atmosphere of a man like hurstwood. he stood and smiled and accepted the invitation while his friend examined him with the eye of a hawk. the object of this peculiarly involved comedy was not thinking of either. she was busy adjusting her thoughts and feelings to newer conditions, and was not in danger of suffering disturbing pangs from either quarter. one evening drouet found her dressing herself before the glass. "cad," said he, catching her, "i believe you're getting vain." "nothing of the kind," she returned, smiling. "well, you're mighty pretty," he went on, slipping his arm around her. "put on that navy-blue dress of yours and i'll take you to the show." "oh, i've promised mrs. hale to go with her to the exposition to-night," she returned, apologetically. "you did, eh?" he said, studying the situation abstractedly. "i wouldn't care to go to that myself." "well, i don't know," answered carrie, puzzling, but not offering to break her promise in his favour. just then a knock came at their door and the maid-servant handed a letter in. "he says there's an answer expected," she explained. "it's from hurstwood," said drouet, noting the superscription as he tore it open. "you are to come down and see joe jefferson with me to-night," it ran in part. "it's my turn, as we agreed the other day. all other bets are off." "well, what do you say to this?" asked drouet, innocently, while carrie's mind bubbled with favourable replies. "you had better decide, charlie," she said, reservedly. "i guess we had better go, if you can break that engagement upstairs," said drouet. "oh, i can," returned carrie without thinking. drouet selected writing paper while carrie went to change her dress. she hardly explained to herself why this latest invitation appealed to her most. "shall i wear my hair as i did yesterday?" she asked, as she came out with several articles of apparel pending. "sure," he returned, pleasantly. she was relieved to see that he felt nothing. she did not credit her willingness to go to any fascination hurstwood held for her. it seemed that the combination of hurstwood, drouet, and herself was more agreeable than anything else that had been suggested. she arrayed herself most carefully and they started off, extending excuses upstairs. "i say," said hurstwood, as they came up the theatre lobby, "we are exceedingly charming this evening." carrie fluttered under his approving glance. "now, then," he said, leading the way up the foyer into the theatre. if ever there was dressiness it was here. it was the personification of the old term spick and span. "did you ever see jefferson?" he questioned, as he leaned toward carrie in the box. "i never did," she returned. "he's delightful, delightful," he went on, giving the commonplace rendition of approval which such men know. he sent drouet after a programme, and then discoursed to carrie concerning jefferson as he had heard of him. the former was pleased beyond expression, and was really hypnotised by the environment, the trappings of the box, the elegance of her companion. several times their eyes accidentally met, and then there poured into hers such a flood of feeling as she had never before experienced. she could not for the moment explain it, for in the next glance or the next move of the hand there was seeming indifference, mingled only with the kindest attention. drouet shared in the conversation, but he was almost dull in comparison. hurstwood entertained them both, and now it was driven into carrie's mind that here was the superior man. she instinctively felt that he was stronger and higher, and yet withal so simple. by the end of the third act she was sure that drouet was only a kindly soul, but otherwise defective. he sank every moment in her estimation by the strong comparison. "i have had such a nice time," said carrie, when it was all over and they were coming out. "yes, indeed," added drouet, who was not in the least aware that a battle had been fought and his defences weakened. he was like the emperor of china, who sat glorying in himself, unaware that his fairest provinces were being wrested from him. "well, you have saved me a dreary evening," returned hurstwood. "good-night." he took carrie's little hand, and a current of feeling swept from one to the other. "i'm so tired," said carrie, leaning back in the car when drouet began to talk. "well, you rest a little while i smoke," he said, rising, and then he foolishly went to the forward platform of the car and left the game as it stood. chapter xii of the lamps of the mansions: the ambassador's plea mrs. hurstwood was not aware of any of her husband's moral defections, though she might readily have suspected his tendencies, which she well understood. she was a woman upon whose action under provocation you could never count. hurstwood, for one, had not the slightest idea of what she would do under certain circumstances. he had never seen her thoroughly aroused. in fact, she was not a woman who would fly into a passion. she had too little faith in mankind not to know that they were erring. she was too calculating to jeopardise any advantage she might gain in the way of information by fruitless clamour. her wrath would never wreak itself in one fell blow. she would wait and brood, studying the details and adding to them until her power might be commensurate with her desire for revenge. at the same time, she would not delay to inflict any injury, big or little, which would wound the object of her revenge and still leave him uncertain as to the source of the evil. she was a cold, self-centred woman, with many a thought of her own which never found expression, not even by so much as the glint of an eye. hurstwood felt some of this in her nature, though he did not actually perceive it. he dwelt with her in peace and some satisfaction. he did not fear her in the least--there was no cause for it. she still took a faint pride in him, which was augmented by her desire to have her social integrity maintained. she was secretly somewhat pleased by the fact that much of her husband's property was in her name, a precaution which hurstwood had taken when his home interests were somewhat more alluring than at present. his wife had not the slightest reason to feel that anything would ever go amiss with their household, and yet the shadows which run before gave her a thought of the good of it now and then. she was in a position to become refractory with considerable advantage, and hurstwood conducted himself circumspectly because he felt that he could not be sure of anything once she became dissatisfied. it so happened that on the night when hurstwood, carrie, and drouet were in the box at mcvickar's, george, jr., was in the sixth row of the parquet with the daughter of h. b. carmichael, the third partner of a wholesale dry-goods house of that city. hurstwood did not see his son, for he sat, as was his wont, as far back as possible, leaving himself just partially visible, when he bent forward, to those within the first six rows in question. it was his wont to sit this way in every theatre--to make his personality as inconspicuous as possible where it would be no advantage to him to have it otherwise. he never moved but what, if there was any danger of his conduct being misconstrued or ill-reported, he looked carefully about him and counted the cost of every inch of conspicuity. the next morning at breakfast his son said: "i saw you, governor, last night." "were you at mcvickar's?" said hurstwood, with the best grace in the world. "yes," said young george. "who with?" "miss carmichael." mrs. hurstwood directed an inquiring glance at her husband, but could not judge from his appearance whether it was any more than a casual look into the theatre which was referred to. "how was the play?" she inquired. "very good," returned hurstwood, "only it's the same old thing, 'rip van winkle.'" "whom did you go with?" queried his wife, with assumed indifference. "charlie drouet and his wife. they are friends of moy's, visiting here." owing to the peculiar nature of his position, such a disclosure as this would ordinarily create no difficulty. his wife took it for granted that his situation called for certain social movements in which she might not be included. but of late he had pleaded office duty on several occasions when his wife asked for his company to any evening entertainment. he had done so in regard to the very evening in question only the morning before. "i thought you were going to be busy," she remarked, very carefully. "so i was," he exclaimed. "i couldn't help the interruption, but i made up for it afterward by working until two." this settled the discussion for the time being, but there was a residue of opinion which was not satisfactory. there was no time at which the claims of his wife could have been more unsatisfactorily pushed. for years he had been steadily modifying his matrimonial devotion, and found her company dull. now that a new light shone upon the horizon, this older luminary paled in the west. he was satisfied to turn his face away entirely, and any call to look back was irksome. she, on the contrary, was not at all inclined to accept anything less than a complete fulfilment of the letter of their relationship, though the spirit might be wanting. "we are coming down town this afternoon," she remarked, a few days later. "i want you to come over to kinsley's and meet mr. phillips and his wife. they're stopping at the tremont, and we're going to show them around a little." after the occurrence of wednesday, he could not refuse, though the phillips were about as uninteresting as vanity and ignorance could make them. he agreed, but it was with short grace. he was angry when he left the house. "i'll put a stop to this," he thought. "i'm not going to be bothered fooling around with visitors when i have work to do." not long after this mrs. hurstwood came with a similar proposition, only it was to a matinée this time. "my dear," he returned, "i haven't time. i'm too busy." "you find time to go with other people, though," she replied, with considerable irritation. "nothing of the kind," he answered. "i can't avoid business relations, and that's all there is to it." "well, never mind," she exclaimed. her lips tightened. the feeling of mutual antagonism was increased. on the other hand, his interest in drouet's little shop-girl grew in an almost evenly balanced proportion. that young lady, under the stress of her situation and the tutelage of her new friend, changed effectively. she had the aptitude of the struggler who seeks emancipation. the glow of a more showy life was not lost upon her. she did not grow in knowledge so much as she awakened in the matter of desire. mrs. hale's extended harangues upon the subjects of wealth and position taught her to distinguish between degrees of wealth. mrs. hale loved to drive in the afternoon in the sun when it was fine, and to satisfy her soul with a sight of those mansions and lawns which she could not afford. on the north side had been erected a number of elegant mansions along what is now known as the north shore drive. the present lake wall of stone and granitoid was not then in place, but the road had been well laid out, the intermediate spaces of lawn were lovely to look upon, and the houses were thoroughly new and imposing. when the winter season had passed and the first fine days of the early spring appeared, mrs. hale secured a buggy for an afternoon and invited carrie. they rode first through lincoln park and on far out towards evanston, turning back at four and arriving at the north end of the shore drive at about five o'clock. at this time of year the days are still comparatively short, and the shadows of the evening were beginning to settle down upon the great city. lamps were beginning to burn with that mellow radiance which seems almost watery and translucent to the eye. there was a softness in the air which speaks with an infinite delicacy of feeling to the flesh as well as to the soul. carrie felt that it was a lovely day. she was ripened by it in spirit for many suggestions. as they drove along the smooth pavement an occasional carriage passed. she saw one stop and the footman dismount, opening the door for a gentleman who seemed to be leisurely returning from some afternoon pleasure. across the broad lawns, now first freshening into green, she saw lamps faintly glowing upon rich interiors. now it was but a chair, now a table, now an ornate corner, which met her eye, but it appealed to her as almost nothing else could. such childish fancies as she had had of fairy palaces and kingly quarters now came back. she imagined that across these richly carved entrance-ways, where the globed and crystalled lamps shone upon panelled doors set with stained and designed panes of glass, was neither care nor unsatisfied desire. she was perfectly certain that here was happiness. if she could but stroll up yon broad walk, cross that rich entrance-way, which to her was of the beauty of a jewel, and sweep in grace and luxury to possession and command--oh! how quickly would sadness flee; how, in an instant, would the heartache end. she gazed and gazed, wondering, delighting, longing, and all the while the siren voice of the unrestful was whispering in her ear. "if we could have such a home as that," said mrs. hale sadly, "how delightful it would be." "and yet they do say," said carrie, "that no one is ever happy." she had heard so much of the canting philosophy of the grapeless fox. "i notice," said mrs. hale, "that they all try mighty hard, though, to take their misery in a mansion." when she came to her own rooms, carrie saw their comparative insignificance. she was not so dull but that she could perceive they were but three small rooms in a moderately well-furnished boarding-house. she was not contrasting it now with what she had had, but what she had so recently seen. the glow of the palatial doors was still in her eye, the roll of cushioned carriages still in her ears. what, after all, was drouet? what was she? at her window, she thought it over, rocking to and fro, and gazing out across the lamp-lit park toward the lamp-lit houses on warren and ashland avenues. she was too wrought up to care to go down to eat, too pensive to do aught but rock and sing. some old tunes crept to her lips, and, as she sang them, her heart sank. she longed and longed and longed. it was now for the old cottage room in columbia city, now the mansion upon the shore drive, now the fine dress of some lady, now the elegance of some scene. she was sad beyond measure, and yet uncertain, wishing, fancying. finally, it seemed as if all her state was one of loneliness and forsakenness, and she could scarce refrain from trembling at the lip. she hummed and hummed as the moments went by, sitting in the shadow by the window, and was therein as happy, though she did not perceive it, as she ever would be. while carrie was still in this frame of mind, the house-servant brought up the intelligence that mr. hurstwood was in the parlour asking to see mr. and mrs. drouet. "i guess he doesn't know that charlie is out of town," thought carrie. she had seen comparatively little of the manager during the winter, but had been kept constantly in mind of him by one thing and another, principally by the strong impression he had made. she was quite disturbed for the moment as to her appearance, but soon satisfied herself by the aid of the mirror, and went below. hurstwood was in his best form, as usual. he hadn't heard that drouet was out of town. he was but slightly affected by the intelligence, and devoted himself to the more general topics which would interest carrie. it was surprising--the ease with which he conducted a conversation. he was like every man who has had the advantage of practice and knows he has sympathy. he knew that carrie listened to him pleasurably, and, without the least effort, he fell into a train of observation which absorbed her fancy. he drew up his chair and modulated his voice to such a degree that what he said seemed wholly confidential. he confined himself almost exclusively to his observation of men and pleasures. he had been here and there, he had seen this and that. somehow he made carrie wish to see similar things, and all the while kept her aware of himself. she could not shut out the consciousness of his individuality and presence for a moment. he would raise his eyes slowly in smiling emphasis of something, and she was fixed by their magnetism. he would draw out, with the easiest grace, her approval. once he touched her hand for emphasis and she only smiled. he seemed to radiate an atmosphere which suffused her being. he was never dull for a minute, and seemed to make her clever. at least, she brightened under his influence until all her best side was exhibited. she felt that she was more clever with him than with others. at least, he seemed to find so much in her to applaud. there was not the slightest touch of patronage. drouet was full of it. there had been something so personal, so subtle, in each meeting between them, both when drouet was present and when he was absent, that carrie could not speak of it without feeling a sense of difficulty. she was no talker. she could never arrange her thoughts in fluent order. it was always a matter of feeling with her, strong and deep. each time there had been no sentence of importance which she could relate, and as for the glances and sensations, what woman would reveal them? such things had never been between her and drouet. as a matter of fact, they could never be. she had been dominated by distress and the enthusiastic forces of relief which drouet represented at an opportune moment when she yielded to him. now she was persuaded by secret current feelings which drouet had never understood. hurstwood's glance was as effective as the spoken words of a lover, and more. they called for no immediate decision, and could not be answered. people in general attach too much importance to words. they are under the illusion that talking effects great results. as a matter of fact, words are, as a rule, the shallowest portion of all the argument. they but dimly represent the great surging feelings and desires which lie behind. when the distraction of the tongue is removed, the heart listens. in this conversation she heard, instead of his words, the voices of the things which he represented. how suave was the counsel of his appearance! how feelingly did his superior state speak for itself! the growing desire he felt for her lay upon her spirit as a gentle hand. she did not need to tremble at all, because it was invisible; she did not need to worry over what other people would say--what she herself would say--because it had no tangibility. she was being pleaded with, persuaded, led into denying old rights and assuming new ones, and yet there were no words to prove it. such conversation as was indulged in held the same relationship to the actual mental enactments of the twain that the low music of the orchestra does to the dramatic incident which it is used to cover. "have you ever seen the houses along the lake shore on the north side?" asked hurstwood. "why, i was just over there this afternoon--mrs. hale and i. aren't they beautiful?" "they're very fine," he answered. "oh, me," said carrie, pensively. "i wish i could live in such a place." "you're not happy," said hurstwood, slowly, after a slight pause. he had raised his eyes solemnly and was looking into her own. he assumed that he had struck a deep chord. now was a slight chance to say a word in his own behalf. he leaned over quietly and continued his steady gaze. he felt the critical character of the period. she endeavoured to stir, but it was useless. the whole strength of a man's nature was working. he had good cause to urge him on. he looked and looked, and the longer the situation lasted the more difficult it became. the little shop-girl was getting into deep water. she was letting her few supports float away from her. "oh," she said at last, "you mustn't look at me like that." "i can't help it," he answered. she relaxed a little and let the situation endure, giving him strength. "you are not satisfied with life, are you?" "no," she answered, weakly. he saw he was the master of the situation--he felt it. he reached over and touched her hand. "you mustn't," she exclaimed, jumping up. "i didn't intend to," he answered, easily. she did not run away, as she might have done. she did not terminate the interview, but he drifted off into a pleasant field of thought with the readiest grace. not long after he rose to go, and she felt that he was in power. "you mustn't feel bad," he said, kindly; "things will straighten out in the course of time." she made no answer, because she could think of nothing to say. "we are good friends, aren't we?" he said, extending his hand. "yes," she answered. "not a word, then, until i see you again." he retained a hold on her hand. "i can't promise," she said, doubtfully. "you must be more generous than that," he said, in such a simple way that she was touched. "let's not talk about it any more," she returned. "all right," he said, brightening. he went down the steps and into his cab. carrie closed the door and ascended into her room. she undid her broad lace collar before the mirror and unfastened her pretty alligator belt which she had recently bought. "i'm getting terrible," she said, honestly affected by a feeling of trouble and shame. "i don't seem to do anything right." she unloosed her hair after a time, and let it hang in loose brown waves. her mind was going over the events of the evening. "i don't know," she murmured at last, "what i can do." "well," said hurstwood as he rode away, "she likes me all right; that i know." the aroused manager whistled merrily for a good four miles to his office an old melody that he had not recalled for fifteen years. chapter xiii his credentials accepted: a babel of tongues it was not quite two days after the scene between carrie and hurstwood in the ogden place parlour before he again put in his appearance. he had been thinking almost uninterruptedly of her. her leniency had, in a way, inflamed his regard. he felt that he must succeed with her, and that speedily. the reason for his interest, not to say fascination, was deeper than mere desire. it was a flowering out of feelings which had been withering in dry and almost barren soil for many years. it is probable that carrie represented a better order of woman than had ever attracted him before. he had had no love affair since that which culminated in his marriage, and since then time and the world had taught him how raw and erroneous was his original judgment. whenever he thought of it, he told himself that, if he had it to do over again, he would never marry such a woman. at the same time, his experience with women in general had lessened his respect for the sex. he maintained a cynical attitude, well grounded on numerous experiences. such women as he had known were of nearly one type, selfish, ignorant, flashy. the wives of his friends were not inspiring to look upon. his own wife had developed a cold, commonplace nature which to him was anything but pleasing. what he knew of that under-world where grovel the beast-men of society (and he knew a great deal) had hardened his nature. he looked upon most women with suspicion--a single eye to the utility of beauty and dress. he followed them with a keen, suggestive glance. at the same time, he was not so dull but that a good woman commanded his respect. personally, he did not attempt to analyse the marvel of a saintly woman. he would take off his hat, and would silence the light-tongued and the vicious in her presence--much as the irish keeper of a bowery hall will humble himself before a sister of mercy, and pay toll to charity with a willing and reverent hand. but he would not think much upon the question of why he did so. a man in his situation who comes, after a long round of worthless or hardening experiences, upon a young, unsophisticated, innocent soul, is apt either to hold aloof, out of a sense of his own remoteness, or to draw near and become fascinated and elated by his discovery. it is only by a roundabout process that such men ever do draw near such a girl. they have no method, no understanding of how to ingratiate themselves in youthful favour, save when they find virtue in the toils. if, unfortunately, the fly has got caught in the net, the spider can come forth and talk business upon its own terms. so when maidenhood has wandered into the moil of the city, when it is brought within the circle of the "rounder" and the roué, even though it be at the outermost rim, they can come forth and use their alluring arts. hurstwood had gone, at drouet's invitation, to meet a new baggage of fine clothes and pretty features. he entered, expecting to indulge in an evening of lightsome frolic, and then lose track of the newcomer forever. instead he found a woman whose youth and beauty attracted him. in the mild light of carrie's eye was nothing of the calculation of the mistress. in the diffident manner was nothing of the art of the courtesan. he saw at once that a mistake had been made, that some difficult conditions had pushed this troubled creature into his presence, and his interest was enlisted. here sympathy sprang to the rescue, but it was not unmixed with selfishness. he wanted to win carrie because he thought her fate mingled with his was better than if it were united with drouet's. he envied the drummer his conquest as he had never envied any man in all the course of his experience. carrie was certainly better than this man, as she was superior, mentally, to drouet. she came fresh from the air of the village, the light of the country still in her eye. here was neither guile nor rapacity. there were slight inherited traits of both in her, but they were rudimentary. she was too full of wonder and desire to be greedy. she still looked about her upon the great maze of the city without understanding. hurstwood felt the bloom and the youth. he picked her as he would the fresh fruit of a tree. he felt as fresh in her presence as one who is taken out of the flash of summer to the first cool breath of spring. carrie, left alone since the scene in question, and having no one with whom to counsel, had at first wandered from one strange mental conclusion to another, until at last, tired out, she gave it up. she owed something to drouet, she thought. it did not seem more than yesterday that he had aided her when she was worried and distressed. she had the kindliest feelings for him in every way. she gave him credit for his good looks, his generous feelings, and even, in fact, failed to recollect his egotism when he was absent; but she could not feel any binding influence keeping her for him as against all others. in fact, such a thought had never had any grounding, even in drouet's desires. the truth is, that this goodly drummer carried the doom of all enduring relationships in his own lightsome manner and unstable fancy. he went merrily on, assured that he was alluring all, that affection followed tenderly in his wake, that things would endure unchangingly for his pleasure. when he missed some old face, or found some door finally shut to him, it did not grieve him deeply. he was too young, too successful. he would remain thus young in spirit until he was dead. as for hurstwood, he was alive with thoughts and feelings concerning carrie. he had no definite plans regarding her, but he was determined to make her confess an affection for him. he thought he saw in her drooping eye, her unstable glance, her wavering manner, the symptoms of a budding passion. he wanted to stand near her and make her lay her hand in his--he wanted to find out what her next step would be--what the next sign of feeling for him would be. such anxiety and enthusiasm had not affected him for years. he was a youth again in feeling--a cavalier in action. in his position opportunity for taking his evenings out was excellent. he was a most faithful worker in general, and a man who commanded the confidence of his employers in so far as the distribution of his time was concerned. he could take such hours off as he chose, for it was well known that he fulfilled his managerial duties successfully, whatever time he might take. his grace, tact, and ornate appearance gave the place an air which was most essential, while at the same time his long experience made him a most excellent judge of its stock necessities. bartenders and assistants might come and go, singly or in groups, but, so long as he was present, the host of old-time customers would barely notice the change. he gave the place the atmosphere to which they were used. consequently, he arranged his hours very much to suit himself, taking now an afternoon, now an evening, but invariably returning between eleven and twelve to witness the last hour or two of the day's business and look after the closing details. "you see that things are safe and all the employees are out when you go home, george," moy had once remarked to him, and he never once, in all the period of his long service, neglected to do this. neither of the owners had for years been in the resort after five in the afternoon, and yet their manager as faithfully fulfilled this request as if they had been there regularly to observe. on this friday afternoon, scarcely two days after his previous visit, he made up his mind to see carrie. he could not stay away longer. "evans," he said, addressing the head barkeeper, "if any one calls, i will be back between four and five." he hurried to madison street and boarded a horse-car, which carried him to ogden place in half an hour. carrie had thought of going for a walk, and had put on a light grey woollen dress with a jaunty double-breasted jacket. she had out her hat and gloves, and was fastening a white lace tie about her throat when the house-maid brought up the information that mr. hurstwood wished to see her. she started slightly at the announcement, but told the girl to say that she would come down in a moment, and proceeded to hasten her dressing. carrie could not have told herself at this moment whether she was glad or sorry that the impressive manager was awaiting her presence. she was slightly flurried and tingling in the cheeks, but it was more nervousness than either fear or favour. she did not try to conjecture what the drift of the conversation would be. she only felt that she must be careful, and that hurstwood had an indefinable fascination for her. then she gave her tie its last touch with her fingers and went below. the deep-feeling manager was himself a little strained in the nerves by the thorough consciousness of his mission. he felt that he must make a strong play on this occasion, but now that the hour was come, and he heard carrie's feet upon the stair, his nerve failed him. he sank a little in determination, for he was not so sure, after all, what her opinion might be. when she entered the room, however, her appearance gave him courage. she looked simple and charming enough to strengthen the daring of any lover. her apparent nervousness dispelled his own. "how are you?" he said, easily. "i could not resist the temptation to come out this afternoon, it was so pleasant." "yes," said carrie, halting before him, "i was just preparing to go for a walk myself." "oh, were you?" he said. "supposing, then, you get your hat and we both go?" they crossed the park and went west along washington boulevard, beautiful with its broad macadamised road, and large frame houses set back from the sidewalks. it was a street where many of the more prosperous residents of the west side lived, and hurstwood could not help feeling nervous over the publicity of it. they had gone but a few blocks when a livery stable sign in one of the side streets solved the difficulty for him. he would take her to drive along the new boulevard. the boulevard at that time was little more than a country road. the part he intended showing her was much farther out on this same west side, where there was scarcely a house. it connected douglas park with washington or south park, and was nothing more than a neatly made road, running due south for some five miles over an open, grassy prairie, and then due east over the same kind of prairie for the same distance. there was not a house to be encountered anywhere along the larger part of the route, and any conversation would be pleasantly free of interruption. at the stable he picked a gentle horse, and they were soon out of range of either public observation or hearing. "can you drive?" he said, after a time. "i never tried," said carrie. he put the reins in her hand, and folded his arms. "you see there's nothing to it much," he said, smilingly. "not when you have a gentle horse," said carrie. "you can handle a horse as well as any one, after a little practice," he added, encouragingly. he had been looking for some time for a break in the conversation when he could give it a serious turn. once or twice he had held his peace, hoping that in silence her thoughts would take the colour of his own, but she had lightly continued the subject. presently, however, his silence controlled the situation. the drift of his thoughts began to tell. he gazed fixedly at nothing in particular, as if he were thinking of something which concerned her not at all. his thoughts, however, spoke for themselves. she was very much aware that a climax was pending. "do you know," he said, "i have spent the happiest evenings in years since i have known you?" "have you?" she said, with assumed airiness, but still excited by the conviction which the tone of his voice carried. "i was going to tell you the other evening," he added, "but somehow the opportunity slipped away." carrie was listening without attempting to reply. she could think of nothing worth while to say. despite all the ideas concerning right which had troubled her vaguely since she had last seen him, she was now influenced again strongly in his favour. "i came out here to-day," he went on, solemnly, "to tell you just how i feel--to see if you wouldn't listen to me." hurstwood was something of a romanticist after his kind. he was capable of strong feelings--often poetic ones--and under a stress of desire, such as the present, he waxed eloquent. that is, his feelings and his voice were coloured with that seeming repression and pathos which is the essence of eloquence. "you know," he said, putting his hand on her arm, and keeping a strange silence while he formulated words, "that i love you?" carrie did not stir at the words. she was bound up completely in the man's atmosphere. he would have church-like silence in order to express his feelings, and she kept it. she did not move her eyes from the flat, open scene before her. hurstwood waited for a few moments, and then repeated the words. "you must not say that," she said, weakly. her words were not convincing at all. they were the result of a feeble thought that something ought to be said. he paid no attention to them whatever. "carrie," he said, using her first name with sympathetic familiarity, "i want you to love me. you don't know how much i need some one to waste a little affection on me. i am practically alone. there is nothing in my life that is pleasant or delightful. it's all work and worry with people who are nothing to me." as he said this, hurstwood really imagined that his state was pitiful. he had the ability to get off at a distance and view himself objectively--of seeing what he wanted to see in the things which made up his existence. now, as he spoke, his voice trembled with that peculiar vibration which is the result of tensity. it went ringing home to his companion's heart. "why, i should think," she said, turning upon him large eyes which were full of sympathy and feeling, "that you would be very happy. you know so much of the world." "that is it," he said, his voice dropping to a soft minor, "i know too much of the world." it was an important thing to her to hear one so well-positioned and powerful speaking in this manner. she could not help feeling the strangeness of her situation. how was it that, in so little a while, the narrow life of the country had fallen from her as a garment, and the city, with all its mystery, taken its place? here was this greatest mystery, the man of money and affairs sitting beside her, appealing to her. behold, he had ease and comfort, his strength was great, his position high, his clothing rich, and yet he was appealing to her. she could formulate no thought which would be just and right. she troubled herself no more upon the matter. she only basked in the warmth of his feeling, which was as a grateful blaze to one who is cold. hurstwood glowed with his own intensity, and the heat of his passion was already melting the wax of his companion's scruples. "you think," he said, "i am happy; that i ought not to complain? if you were to meet all day with people who care absolutely nothing about you, if you went day after day to a place where there was nothing but show and indifference, if there was not one person in all those you knew to whom you could appeal for sympathy or talk to with pleasure, perhaps you would be unhappy too." he was striking a chord now which found sympathetic response in her own situation. she knew what it was to meet with people who were indifferent, to walk alone amid so many who cared absolutely nothing about you. had not she? was not she at this very moment quite alone? who was there among all whom she knew to whom she could appeal for sympathy? not one. she was left to herself to brood and wonder. "i could be content," went on hurstwood, "if i had you to love me. if i had you to go to; you for a companion. as it is, i simply move about from place to place without any satisfaction. time hangs heavily on my hands. before you came i did nothing but idle and drift into anything that offered itself. since you came--well, i've had you to think about." the old illusion that here was some one who needed her aid began to grow in carrie's mind. she truly pitied this sad, lonely figure. to think that all his fine state should be so barren for want of her; that he needed to make such an appeal when she herself was lonely and without anchor. surely, this was too bad. "i am not very bad," he said, apologetically, as if he owed it to her to explain on this score. "you think, probably, that i roam around, and get into all sorts of evil? i have been rather reckless, but i could easily come out of that. i need you to draw me back, if my life ever amounts to anything." carrie looked at him with the tenderness which virtue ever feels in its hope of reclaiming vice. how could such a man need reclaiming? his errors, what were they, that she could correct? small they must be, where all was so fine. at worst, they were gilded affairs, and with what leniency are gilded errors viewed. he put himself in such a lonely light that she was deeply moved. "is it that way?" she mused. he slipped his arm about her waist, and she could not find the heart to draw away. with his free hand he seized upon her fingers. a breath of soft spring wind went bounding over the road, rolling some brown twigs of the previous autumn before it. the horse paced leisurely on, unguided. "tell me," he said, softly, "that you love me." her eyes fell consciously. "own to it, dear," he said, feelingly; "you do, don't you?" she made no answer, but he felt his victory. "tell me," he said, richly, drawing her so close that their lips were near together. he pressed her hand warmly, and then released it to touch her cheek. "you do?" he said, pressing his lips to her own. for answer, her lips replied. "now," he said, joyously, his fine eyes ablaze, "you're my own girl, aren't you?" by way of further conclusion, her head lay softly upon his shoulder. chapter xiv with eyes and not seeing: one influence wanes carrie in her rooms that evening was in a fine glow, physically and mentally. she was deeply rejoicing in her affection for hurstwood and his love, and looked forward with fine fancy to their next meeting sunday night. they had agreed, without any feeling of enforced secrecy, that she should come down town and meet him, though, after all, the need of it was the cause. mrs. hale, from her upper window, saw her come in. "um," she thought to herself, "she goes riding with another man when her husband is out of the city. he had better keep an eye on her." the truth is that mrs. hale was not the only one who had a thought on this score. the house-maid who had welcomed hurstwood had her opinion also. she had no particular regard for carrie, whom she took to be cold and disagreeable. at the same time, she had a fancy for the merry and easy-mannered drouet, who threw her a pleasant remark now and then, and in other ways extended her the evidence of that regard which he had for all members of the sex. hurstwood was more reserved and critical in his manner. he did not appeal to this bodiced functionary in the same pleasant way. she wondered that he came so frequently, that mrs. drouet should go out with him this afternoon when mr. drouet was absent. she gave vent to her opinions in the kitchen where the cook was. as a result, a hum of gossip was set going which moved about the house in that secret manner common to gossip. carrie, now that she had yielded sufficiently to hurstwood to confess her affection, no longer troubled about her attitude towards him. temporarily she gave little thought to drouet, thinking only of the dignity and grace of her lover and of his consuming affection for her. on the first evening, she did little but go over the details of the afternoon. it was the first time her sympathies had ever been thoroughly aroused, and they threw a new light on her character. she had some power of initiative, latent before, which now began to exert itself. she looked more practically upon her state and began to see glimmerings of a way out. hurstwood seemed a drag in the direction of honour. her feelings were exceedingly creditable, in that they constructed out of these recent developments something which conquered freedom from dishonour. she had no idea what hurstwood's next word would be. she only took his affection to be a fine thing, and appended better, more generous results accordingly. as yet, hurstwood had only a thought of pleasure without responsibility. he did not feel that he was doing anything to complicate his life. his position was secure, his home-life, if not satisfactory, was at least undisturbed, his personal liberty rather untrammelled. carrie's love represented only so much added pleasure. he would enjoy this new gift over and above his ordinary allowance of pleasure. he would be happy with her and his own affairs would go on as they had, undisturbed. on sunday evening carrie dined with him at a place he had selected in east adams street, and thereafter they took a cab to what was then a pleasant evening resort out on cottage grove avenue near th street. in the process of his declaration he soon realised that carrie took his love upon a higher basis than he had anticipated. she kept him at a distance in a rather earnest way, and submitted only to those tender tokens of affection which better become the inexperienced lover. hurstwood saw that she was not to be possessed for the asking, and deferred pressing his suit too warmly. since he feigned to believe in her married state he found that he had to carry out the part. his triumph, he saw, was still at a little distance. how far he could not guess. they were returning to ogden place in the cab, when he asked: "when will i see you again?" "i don't know," she answered, wondering herself. "why not come down to the fair," he suggested, "next tuesday?" she shook her head. "not so soon," she answered. "i'll tell you what i'll do," he added. "i'll write you, care of this west side post-office. could you call next tuesday?" carrie assented. the cab stopped one door out of the way according to his call. "good-night," he whispered, as the cab rolled away. unfortunately for the smooth progression of this affair, drouet returned. hurstwood was sitting in his imposing little office the next afternoon when he saw drouet enter. "why, hello, charles," he called affably; "back again?" "yes," smiled drouet, approaching and looking in at the door. hurstwood arose. "well," he said, looking the drummer over, "rosy as ever, eh?" they began talking of the people they knew and things that had happened. "been home yet?" finally asked hurstwood. "no, i am going, though," said drouet. "i remembered the little girl out there," said hurstwood, "and called once. thought you wouldn't want her left quite alone." "right you are," agreed drouet. "how is she?" "very well," said hurstwood. "rather anxious about you, though. you'd better go out now and cheer her up." "i will," said drouet, smilingly. "like to have you both come down and go to the show with me wednesday," concluded hurstwood at parting. "thanks, old man," said his friend, "i'll see what the girl says and let you know." they separated in the most cordial manner. "there's a nice fellow," drouet thought to himself as he turned the corner towards madison. "drouet is a good fellow," hurstwood thought to himself as he went back into his office, "but he's no man for carrie." the thought of the latter turned his mind into a most pleasant vein, and he wondered how he would get ahead of the drummer. when drouet entered carrie's presence, he caught her in his arms as usual, but she responded to his kiss with a tremour of opposition. "well," he said, "i had a great trip." "did you? how did you come out with that la crosse man you were telling me about?" "oh, fine; sold him a complete line. there was another fellow there, representing burnstein, a regular hook-nosed sheeny, but he wasn't in it. i made him look like nothing at all." as he undid his collar and unfastened his studs, preparatory to washing his face and changing his clothes, he dilated upon his trip. carrie could not help listening with amusement to his animated descriptions. "i tell you," he said, "i surprised the people at the office. i've sold more goods this last quarter than any other man of our house on the road. i sold three thousand dollars' worth in la crosse." he plunged his face in a basin of water, and puffed and blew as he rubbed his neck and ears with his hands, while carrie gazed upon him with mingled thoughts of recollection and present judgment. he was still wiping his face, when he continued: "i'm going to strike for a raise in june. they can afford to pay it, as much business as i turn in. i'll get it too, don't you forget." "i hope you do," said carrie. "and then if that little real estate deal i've got on goes through, we'll get married," he said with a great show of earnestness, the while he took his place before the mirror and began brushing his hair. "i don't believe you ever intend to marry me, charlie," carrie said ruefully. the recent protestations of hurstwood had given her courage to say this. "oh, yes i do--course i do--what put that into your head?" he had stopped his trifling before the mirror now and crossed over to her. for the first time carrie felt as if she must move away from him. "but you've been saying that so long," she said, looking with her pretty face upturned into his. "well, and i mean it too, but it takes money to live as i want to. now, when i get this increase, i can come pretty near fixing things all right, and i'll do it. now, don't you worry, girlie." he patted her reassuringly upon the shoulder, but carrie felt how really futile had been her hopes. she could clearly see that this easy-going soul intended no move in her behalf. he was simply letting things drift because he preferred the free round of his present state to any legal trammellings. in contrast, hurstwood appeared strong and sincere. he had no easy manner of putting her off. he sympathised with her and showed her what her true value was. he needed her, while drouet did not care. "oh, no," she said remorsefully, her tone reflecting some of her own success and more of her helplessness, "you never will." "well, you wait a little while and see," he concluded. "i'll marry you all right." carrie looked at him and felt justified. she was looking for something which would calm her conscience, and here it was, a light, airy disregard of her claims upon his justice. he had faithfully promised to marry her, and this was the way he fulfilled his promise. "say," he said, after he had, as he thought, pleasantly disposed of the marriage question, "i saw hurstwood to-day, and he wants us to go to the theatre with him." carrie started at the name, but recovered quickly enough to avoid notice. "when?" she asked, with assumed indifference. "wednesday. we'll go, won't we?" "if you think so," she answered, her manner being so enforcedly reserved as to almost excite suspicion. drouet noticed something, but he thought it was due to her feelings concerning their talk about marriage. "he called once, he said." "yes," said carrie, "he was out here sunday evening." "was he?" said drouet. "i thought from what he said that he had called a week or so ago." "so he did," answered carrie, who was wholly unaware of what conversation her lovers might have held. she was all at sea mentally, and fearful of some entanglement which might ensue from what she would answer. "oh, then he called twice?" said drouet, the first shade of misunderstanding showing in his face. "yes," said carrie innocently, feeling now that hurstwood must have mentioned but one call. drouet imagined that he must have misunderstood his friend. he did not attach particular importance to the information, after all. "what did he have to say?" he queried, with slightly increased curiosity. "he said he came because he thought i might be lonely. you hadn't been in there so long he wondered what had become of you." "george is a fine fellow," said drouet, rather gratified by his conception of the manager's interest. "come on and we'll go out to dinner." when hurstwood saw that drouet was back he wrote at once to carrie, saying: "i told him i called on you, dearest, when he was away. i did not say how often, but he probably thought once. let me know of anything you may have said. answer by special messenger when you get this, and, darling, i must see you. let me know if you can't meet me at jackson and throop streets wednesday afternoon at two o'clock. i want to speak with you before we meet at the theatre." carrie received this tuesday morning when she called at the west side branch of the post-office, and answered at once. "i said you called twice," she wrote. "he didn't seem to mind. i will try and be at throop street if nothing interferes. i seem to be getting very bad. it's wrong to act as i do, i know." hurstwood, when he met her as agreed, reassured her on this score. "you mustn't worry, sweetheart," he said. "just as soon as he goes on the road again we will arrange something. we'll fix it so that you won't have to deceive any one." carrie imagined that he would marry her at once, though he had not directly said so, and her spirits rose. she proposed to make the best of the situation until drouet left again. "don't show any more interest in me than you ever have," hurstwood counselled concerning the evening at the theatre. "you mustn't look at me steadily then," she answered, mindful of the power of his eyes. "i won't," he said, squeezing her hand at parting and giving the glance she had just cautioned against. "there," she said playfully, pointing a finger at him. "the show hasn't begun yet," he returned. he watched her walk from him with tender solicitation. such youth and prettiness reacted upon him more subtly than wine. at the theatre things passed as they had in hurstwood's favour. if he had been pleasing to carrie before, how much more so was he now. his grace was more permeating because it found a readier medium. carrie watched his every movement with pleasure. she almost forgot poor drouet, who babbled on as if he were the host. hurstwood was too clever to give the slightest indication of a change. he paid, if anything, more attention to his old friend than usual, and yet in no way held him up to that subtle ridicule which a lover in favour may so secretly practise before the mistress of his heart. if anything, he felt the injustice of the game as it stood, and was not cheap enough to add to it the slightest mental taunt. only the play produced an ironical situation, and this was due to drouet alone. the scene was one in "the covenant," in which the wife listened to the seductive voice of a lover in the absence of her husband. "served him right," said drouet afterward, even in view of her keen expiation of her error. "i haven't any pity for a man who would be such a chump as that." "well, you never can tell," returned hurstwood gently. "he probably thought he was right." "well, a man ought to be more attentive than that to his wife if he wants to keep her." they had come out of the lobby and made their way through the showy crush about the entrance way. "say, mister," said a voice at hurstwood's side, "would you mind giving me the price of a bed?" hurstwood was interestedly remarking to carrie. "honest to god, mister, i'm without a place to sleep." the plea was that of a gaunt-faced man of about thirty, who looked the picture of privation and wretchedness. drouet was the first to see. he handed over a dime with an upwelling feeling of pity in his heart. hurstwood scarcely noticed the incident. carrie quickly forgot. chapter xv the irk of the old ties: the magic of youth the complete ignoring by hurstwood of his own home came with the growth of his affection for carrie. his actions, in all that related to his family, were of the most perfunctory kind. he sat at breakfast with his wife and children, absorbed in his own fancies, which reached far without the realm of their interests. he read his paper, which was heightened in interest by the shallowness of the themes discussed by his son and daughter. between himself and his wife ran a river of indifference. now that carrie had come, he was in a fair way to be blissful again. there was delight in going down town evenings. when he walked forth in the short days, the street lamps had a merry twinkle. he began to experience the almost forgotten feeling which hastens the lover's feet. when he looked at his fine clothes, he saw them with her eyes--and her eyes were young. when in the flush of such feelings he heard his wife's voice, when the insistent demands of matrimony recalled him from dreams to a stale practice, how it grated. he then knew that this was a chain which bound his feet. "george," said mrs. hurstwood, in that tone of voice which had long since come to be associated in his mind with demands, "we want you to get us a season ticket to the races." "do you want to go to all of them?" he said with a rising inflection. "yes," she answered. the races in question were soon to open at washington park, on the south side, and were considered quite society affairs among those who did not affect religious rectitude and conservatism. mrs. hurstwood had never asked for a whole season ticket before, but this year certain considerations decided her to get a box. for one thing, one of her neighbours, a certain mr. and mrs. ramsey, who were possessors of money, made out of the coal business, had done so. in the next place, her favourite physician, dr. beale, a gentleman inclined to horses and betting, had talked with her concerning his intention to enter a two-year-old in the derby. in the third place, she wished to exhibit jessica, who was gaining in maturity and beauty, and whom she hoped to marry to a man of means. her own desire to be about in such things and parade among her acquaintances and the common throng was as much an incentive as anything. hurstwood thought over the proposition a few moments without answering. they were in the sitting-room on the second floor, waiting for supper. it was the evening of his engagement with carrie and drouet to see "the covenant," which had brought him home to make some alterations in his dress. "you're sure separate tickets wouldn't do as well?" he asked, hesitating to say anything more rugged. "no," she replied impatiently. "well," he said, taking offence at her manner, "you needn't get mad about it. i'm just asking you." "i'm not mad," she snapped. "i'm merely asking you for a season ticket." "and i'm telling you," he returned, fixing a clear, steady eye on her, "that it's no easy thing to get. i'm not sure whether the manager will give it to me." he had been thinking all the time of his "pull" with the race-track magnates. "we can buy it then," she exclaimed sharply. "you talk easy," he said. "a season family ticket costs one hundred and fifty dollars." "i'll not argue with you," she replied with determination. "i want the ticket and that's all there is to it." she had risen, and now walked angrily out of the room. "well, you get it then," he said grimly, though in a modified tone of voice. as usual, the table was one short that evening. the next morning he had cooled down considerably, and later the ticket was duly secured, though it did not heal matters. he did not mind giving his family a fair share of all that he earned, but he did not like to be forced to provide against his will. "did you know, mother," said jessica another day, "the spencers are getting ready to go away?" "no. where, i wonder?" "europe," said jessica. "i met georgine yesterday and she told me. she just put on more airs about it." "did she say when?" "monday, i think. they'll get a notice in the papers again--they always do." "never mind," said mrs. hurstwood consolingly, "we'll go one of these days." hurstwood moved his eyes over the paper slowly, but said nothing. "'we sail for liverpool from new york,'" jessica exclaimed, mocking her acquaintance. "'expect to spend most of the "summah" in france,'--vain thing. as if it was anything to go to europe." "it must be if you envy her so much," put in hurstwood. it grated upon him to see the feeling his daughter displayed. "don't worry over them, my dear," said mrs. hurstwood. "did george get off?" asked jessica of her mother another day, thus revealing something that hurstwood had heard nothing about. "where has he gone?" he asked, looking up. he had never before been kept in ignorance concerning departures. "he was going to wheaton," said jessica, not noticing the slight put upon her father. "what's out there?" he asked, secretly irritated and chagrined to think that he should be made to pump for information in this manner. "a tennis match," said jessica. "he didn't say anything to me," hurstwood concluded, finding it difficult to refrain from a bitter tone. "i guess he must have forgotten," exclaimed his wife blandly. in the past he had always commanded a certain amount of respect, which was a compound of appreciation and awe. the familiarity which in part still existed between himself and his daughter he had courted. as it was, it did not go beyond the light assumption of words. the tone was always modest. whatever had been, however, had lacked affection, and now he saw that he was losing track of their doings. his knowledge was no longer intimate. he sometimes saw them at table, and sometimes did not. he heard of their doings occasionally, more often not. some days he found that he was all at sea as to what they were talking about--things they had arranged to do or that they had done in his absence. more affecting was the feeling that there were little things going on of which he no longer heard. jessica was beginning to feel that her affairs were her own. george, jr., flourished about as if he were a man entirely and must needs have private matters. all this hurstwood could see, and it left a trace of feeling, for he was used to being considered--in his official position, at least--and felt that his importance should not begin to wane here. to darken it all, he saw the same indifference and independence growing in his wife, while he looked on and paid the bills. he consoled himself with the thought, however, that, after all, he was not without affection. things might go as they would at his house, but he had carrie outside of it. with his mind's eye he looked into her comfortable room in ogden place, where he had spent several such delightful evenings, and thought how charming it would be when drouet was disposed of entirely and she was waiting evenings in cosey little quarters for him. that no cause would come up whereby drouet would be led to inform carrie concerning his married state, he felt hopeful. things were going so smoothly that he believed they would not change. shortly now he would persuade carrie and all would be satisfactory. the day after their theatre visit he began writing her regularly--a letter every morning, and begging her to do as much for him. he was not literary by any means, but experience of the world and his growing affection gave him somewhat of a style. this he exercised at his office desk with perfect deliberation. he purchased a box of delicately coloured and scented writing paper in monogram, which he kept locked in one of the drawers. his friends now wondered at the cleric and very official-looking nature of his position. the five bartenders viewed with respect the duties which could call a man to do so much desk-work and penmanship. hurstwood surprised himself with his fluency. by the natural law which governs all effort, what he wrote reacted upon him. he began to feel those subtleties which he could find words to express. with every expression came increased conception. those inmost breathings which there found words took hold upon him. he thought carrie worthy of all the affection he could there express. carrie was indeed worth loving if ever youth and grace are to command that token of acknowledgment from life in their bloom. experience had not yet taken away that freshness of the spirit which is the charm of the body. her soft eyes contained in their liquid lustre no suggestion of the knowledge of disappointment. she had been troubled in a way by doubt and longing, but these had made no deeper impression than could be traced in a certain open wistfulness of glance and speech. the mouth had the expression at times, in talking and in repose, of one who might be upon the verge of tears. it was not that grief was thus ever present. the pronunciation of certain syllables gave to her lips this peculiarity of formation--a formation as suggestive and moving as pathos itself. there was nothing bold in her manner. life had not taught her domination--superciliousness of grace, which is the lordly power of some women. her longing for consideration was not sufficiently powerful to move her to demand it. even now she lacked self-assurance, but there was that in what she had already experienced which left her a little less than timid. she wanted pleasure, she wanted position, and yet she was confused as to what these things might be. every hour the kaleidoscope of human affairs threw a new lustre upon something, and therewith it became for her the desired--the all. another shift of the box, and some other had become the beautiful, the perfect. on her spiritual side, also, she was rich in feeling, as such a nature well might be. sorrow in her was aroused by many a spectacle--an uncritical upwelling of grief for the weak and the helpless. she was constantly pained by the sight of the white-faced, ragged men who slopped desperately by her in a sort of wretched mental stupor. the poorly clad girls who went blowing by her window evenings, hurrying home from some of the shops of the west side, she pitied from the depths of her heart. she would stand and bite her lips as they passed, shaking her little head and wondering. they had so little, she thought. it was so sad to be ragged and poor. the hang of faded clothes pained her eyes. "and they have to work so hard!" was her only comment. on the street sometimes she would see men working--irishmen with picks, coal-heavers with great loads to shovel, americans busy about some work which was a mere matter of strength--and they touched her fancy. toil, now that she was free of it, seemed even a more desolate thing than when she was part of it. she saw it through a mist of fancy--a pale, sombre half-light, which was the essence of poetic feeling. her old father, in his flour-dusted miller's suit, sometimes returned to her in memory, revived by a face in a window. a shoemaker pegging at his last, a blastman seen through a narrow window in some basement where iron was being melted, a bench-worker seen high aloft in some window, his coat off, his sleeves rolled up; these took her back in fancy to the details of the mill. she felt, though she seldom expressed them, sad thoughts upon this score. her sympathies were ever with that under-world of toil from which she had so recently sprung, and which she best understood. though hurstwood did not know it, he was dealing with one whose feelings were as tender and as delicate as this. he did not know, but it was this in her, after all, which attracted him. he never attempted to analyse the nature of his affection. it was sufficient that there was tenderness in her eye, weakness in her manner, good-nature and hope in her thoughts. he drew near this lily, which had sucked its waxen beauty and perfume from below a depth of waters which he had never penetrated, and out of ooze and mould which he could not understand. he drew near because it was waxen and fresh. it lightened his feelings for him. it made the morning worth while. in a material way, she was considerably improved. her awkwardness had all but passed, leaving, if anything, a quaint residue which was as pleasing as perfect grace. her little shoes now fitted her smartly and had high heels. she had learned much about laces and those little neck-pieces which add so much to a woman's appearance. her form had filled out until it was admirably plump and well-rounded. hurstwood wrote her one morning, asking her to meet him in jefferson park, monroe street. he did not consider it policy to call any more, even when drouet was at home. the next afternoon he was in the pretty little park by one, and had found a rustic bench beneath the green leaves of a lilac bush which bordered one of the paths. it was at that season of the year when the fulness of spring had not yet worn quite away. at a little pond near by some cleanly dressed children were sailing white canvas boats. in the shade of a green pagoda a bebuttoned officer of the law was resting, his arms folded, his club at rest in his belt. an old gardener was upon the lawn, with a pair of pruning shears, looking after some bushes. high overhead was the clear blue sky of the new summer, and in the thickness of the shiny green leaves of the trees hopped and twittered the busy sparrows. hurstwood had come out of his own home that morning feeling much of the same old annoyance. at his store he had idled, there being no need to write. he had come away to this place with the lightness of heart which characterises those who put weariness behind. now, in the shade of this cool, green bush, he looked about him with the fancy of the lover. he heard the carts go lumbering by upon the neighbouring streets, but they were far off, and only buzzed upon his ear. the hum of the surrounding city was faint, the clang of an occasional bell was as music. he looked and dreamed a new dream of pleasure which concerned his present fixed condition not at all. he got back in fancy to the old hurstwood, who was neither married nor fixed in a solid position for life. he remembered the light spirit in which he once looked after the girls--how he had danced, escorted them home, hung over their gates. he almost wished he was back there again--here in this pleasant scene he felt as if he were wholly free. at two carrie came tripping along the walk toward him, rosy and clean. she had just recently donned a sailor hat for the season with a band of pretty white-dotted blue silk. her skirt was of a rich blue material, and her shirt waist matched it, with a thin stripe of blue upon a snow-white ground--stripes that were as fine as hairs. her brown shoes peeped occasionally from beneath her skirt. she carried her gloves in her hand. hurstwood looked up at her with delight. "you came, dearest," he said eagerly, standing to meet her and taking her hand. "of course," she said, smiling; "did you think i wouldn't?" "i didn't know," he replied. he looked at her forehead, which was moist from her brisk walk. then he took out one of his own soft, scented silk handkerchiefs and touched her face here and there. "now," he said affectionately, "you're all right." they were happy in being near one another--in looking into each other's eyes. finally, when the long flush of delight had subsided, he said: "when is charlie going away again?" "i don't know," she answered. "he says he has some things to do for the house here now." hurstwood grew serious, and he lapsed into quiet thought. he looked up after a time to say: "come away and leave him." he turned his eyes to the boys with the boats, as if the request were of little importance. "where would we go?" she asked in much the same manner, rolling her gloves, and looking into a neighbouring tree. "where do you want to go?" he enquired. there was something in the tone in which he said this which made her feel as if she must record her feelings against any local habitation. "we can't stay in chicago," she replied. he had no thought that this was in her mind--that any removal would be suggested. "why not?" he asked softly. "oh, because," she said, "i wouldn't want to." he listened to this with but dull perception of what it meant. it had no serious ring to it. the question was not up for immediate decision. "i would have to give up my position," he said. the tone he used made it seem as if the matter deserved only slight consideration. carrie thought a little, the while enjoying the pretty scene. "i wouldn't like to live in chicago and him here," she said, thinking of drouet. "it's a big town, dearest," hurstwood answered. "it would be as good as moving to another part of the country to move to the south side." he had fixed upon that region as an objective point. "anyhow," said carrie, "i shouldn't want to get married as long as he is here. i wouldn't want to run away." the suggestion of marriage struck hurstwood forcibly. he saw clearly that this was her idea--he felt that it was not to be gotten over easily. bigamy lightened the horizon of his shadowy thoughts for a moment. he wondered for the life of him how it would all come out. he could not see that he was making any progress save in her regard. when he looked at her now, he thought her beautiful. what a thing it was to have her love him, even if it be entangling! she increased in value in his eyes because of her objection. she was something to struggle for, and that was everything. how different from the women who yielded willingly! he swept the thought of them from his mind. "and you don't know when he'll go away?" asked hurstwood, quietly. she shook her head. he sighed. "you're a determined little miss, aren't you?" he said, after a few moments, looking up into her eyes. she felt a wave of feeling sweep over her at this. it was pride at what seemed his admiration--affection for the man who could feel this concerning her. "no," she said coyly, "but what can i do?" again he folded his hands and looked away over the lawn into the street. "i wish," he said pathetically, "you would come to me. i don't like to be away from you this way. what good is there in waiting? you're not any happier, are you?" "happier!" she exclaimed softly, "you know better than that." "here we are then," he went on in the same tone, "wasting our days. if you are not happy, do you think i am? i sit and write to you the biggest part of the time. i'll tell you what, carrie," he exclaimed, throwing sudden force of expression into his voice and fixing her with his eyes, "i can't live without you, and that's all there is to it. now," he concluded, showing the palm of one of his white hands in a sort of at-an-end, helpless expression, "what shall i do?" this shifting of the burden to her appealed to carrie. the semblance of the load without the weight touched the woman's heart. "can't you wait a little while yet?" she said tenderly. "i'll try and find out when he's going." "what good will it do?" he asked, holding the same strain of feeling. "well, perhaps we can arrange to go somewhere." she really did not see anything clearer than before, but she was getting into that frame of mind where, out of sympathy, a woman yields. hurstwood did not understand. he was wondering how she was to be persuaded--what appeal would move her to forsake drouet. he began to wonder how far her affection for him would carry her. he was thinking of some question which would make her tell. finally he hit upon one of those problematical propositions which often disguise our own desires while leading us to an understanding of the difficulties which others make for us, and so discover for us a way. it had not the slightest connection with anything intended on his part, and was spoken at random before he had given it a moment's serious thought. "carrie," he said, looking into her face and assuming a serious look which he did not feel, "suppose i were to come to you next week; or this week for that matter--to-night say--and tell you i had to go away--that i couldn't stay another minute and wasn't coming back any more--would you come with me?" his sweetheart viewed him with the most affectionate glance, her answer ready before the words were out of his mouth. "yes," she said. "you wouldn't stop to argue or arrange?" "not if you couldn't wait." he smiled when he saw that she took him seriously, and he thought what a chance it would afford for a possible junket of a week or two. he had a notion to tell her that he was joking and so brush away her sweet seriousness, but the effect of it was too delightful. he let it stand. "suppose we didn't have time to get married here?" he added, an afterthought striking him. "if we got married as soon as we got to the other end of the journey it would be all right." "i meant that," he said. "yes." the morning seemed peculiarly bright to him now. he wondered whatever could have put such a thought into his head. impossible as it was, he could not help smiling at its cleverness. it showed how she loved him. there was no doubt in his mind now, and he would find a way to win her. "well," he said, jokingly, "i'll come and get you one of these evenings," and then he laughed. "i wouldn't stay with you, though, if you didn't marry me," carrie added reflectively. "i don't want you to," he said tenderly, taking her hand. she was extremely happy now that she understood. she loved him the more for thinking that he would rescue her so. as for him, the marriage clause did not dwell in his mind. he was thinking that with such affection there could be no bar to his eventual happiness. "let's stroll about," he said gayly, rising and surveying all the lovely park. "all right," said carrie. they passed the young irishman, who looked after them with envious eyes. "tis a foine couple," he observed to himself. "they must be rich." chapter xvi a witless aladdin: the gate to the world in the course of his present stay in chicago, drouet paid some slight attention to the secret order to which he belonged. during his last trip he had received a new light on its importance. "i tell you," said another drummer to him, "it's a great thing. look at hazenstab. he isn't so deuced clever. of course he's got a good house behind him, but that won't do alone. i tell you it's his degree. he's a way-up mason, and that goes a long way. he's got a secret sign that stands for something." drouet resolved then and there that he would take more interest in such matters. so when he got back to chicago he repaired to his local lodge headquarters. "i say, drouet," said mr. harry quincel, an individual who was very prominent in this local branch of the elks, "you're the man that can help us out." it was after the business meeting and things were going socially with a hum. drouet was bobbing around chatting and joking with a score of individuals whom he knew. "what are you up to?" he inquired genially, turning a smiling face upon his secret brother. "we're trying to get up some theatricals for two weeks from to-day, and we want to know if you don't know some young lady who could take a part--it's an easy part." "sure," said drouet, "what is it?" he did not trouble to remember that he knew no one to whom he could appeal on this score. his innate good-nature, however, dictated a favourable reply. "well, now, i'll tell you what we are trying to do," went on mr. quincel. "we are trying to get a new set of furniture for the lodge. there isn't enough money in the treasury at the present time, and we thought we would raise it by a little entertainment." "sure," interrupted drouet, "that's a good idea." "several of the boys around here have got talent. there's harry burbeck, he does a fine black-face turn. mac lewis is all right at heavy dramatics. did you ever hear him recite 'over the hills'?" "never did." "well, i tell you, he does it fine." "and you want me to get some woman to take a part?" questioned drouet, anxious to terminate the subject and get on to something else. "what are you going to play?" "'under the gaslight,'" said mr. quincel, mentioning augustin daly's famous production, which had worn from a great public success down to an amateur theatrical favourite, with many of the troublesome accessories cut out and the _dramatis personæ_ reduced to the smallest possible number. drouet had seen this play some time in the past. "that's it," he said; "that's a fine play. it will go all right. you ought to make a lot of money out of that." "we think we'll do very well," mr. quincel replied. "don't you forget now," he concluded, drouet showing signs of restlessness; "some young woman to take the part of laura." "sure, i'll attend to it." he moved away, forgetting almost all about it the moment mr. quincel had ceased talking. he had not even thought to ask the time or place. drouet was reminded of his promise a day or two later by the receipt of a letter announcing that the first rehearsal was set for the following friday evening, and urging him to kindly forward the young lady's address at once, in order that the part might be delivered to her. "now, who the deuce do i know?" asked the drummer reflectively, scratching his rosy ear. "i don't know any one that knows anything about amateur theatricals." he went over in memory the names of a number of women he knew, and finally fixed on one, largely because of the convenient location of her home on the west side, and promised himself that as he came out that evening he would see her. when, however, he started west on the car he forgot, and was only reminded of his delinquency by an item in the "evening news"--a small three-line affair under the head of secret society notes--which stated the custer lodge of the order of elks would give a theatrical performance in avery hall on the th, when "under the gaslight" would be produced. "george!" exclaimed drouet, "i forgot that." "what?" inquired carrie. they were at their little table in the room which might have been used for a kitchen, where carrie occasionally served a meal. to-night the fancy had caught her, and the little table was spread with a pleasing repast. "why, my lodge entertainment. they're going to give a play, and they wanted me to get them some young lady to take a part." "what is it they're going to play?" "'under the gaslight.'" "when?" "on the th." "well, why don't you?" asked carrie. "i don't know any one," he replied. suddenly he looked up. "say," he said, "how would you like to take the part?" "me?" said carrie. "i can't act." "how do you know?" questioned drouet reflectively. "because," answered carrie, "i never did." nevertheless, she was pleased to think he would ask. her eyes brightened, for if there was anything that enlisted her sympathies it was the art of the stage. true to his nature, drouet clung to this idea as an easy way out. "that's nothing. you can act all you have to down there." "no, i can't," said carrie weakly, very much drawn toward the proposition and yet fearful. "yes, you can. now, why don't you do it? they need some one, and it will be lots of fun for you." "oh, no, it won't," said carrie seriously. "you'd like that. i know you would. i've seen you dancing around here and giving imitations and that's why i asked you. you're clever enough, all right." "no, i'm not," said carrie shyly. "now, i'll tell you what you do. you go down and see about it. it'll be fun for you. the rest of the company isn't going to be any good. they haven't any experience. what do they know about theatricals?" he frowned as he thought of their ignorance. "hand me the coffee," he added. "i don't believe i could act, charlie," carrie went on pettishly. "you don't think i could, do you?" "sure. out o' sight. i bet you make a hit. now you want to go, i know you do. i knew it when i came home. that's why i asked you." "what is the play, did you say?" "'under the gaslight.'" "what part would they want me to take?" "oh, one of the heroines--i don't know." "what sort of a play is it?" "well," said drouet, whose memory for such things was not the best, "it's about a girl who gets kidnapped by a couple of crooks--a man and a woman that live in the slums. she had some money or something and they wanted to get it. i don't know now how it did go exactly." "don't you know what part i would have to take?" "no, i don't, to tell the truth." he thought a moment. "yes, i do, too. laura, that's the thing--you're to be laura." "and you can't remember what the part is like?" "to save me, cad, i can't," he answered. "i ought to, too; i've seen the play enough. there's a girl in it that was stolen when she was an infant--was picked off the street or something--and she's the one that's hounded by the two old criminals i was telling you about." he stopped with a mouthful of pie poised on a fork before his face. "she comes very near getting drowned--no, that's not it. i'll tell you what i'll do," he concluded hopelessly, "i'll get you the book. i can't remember now for the life of me." "well, i don't know," said carrie, when he had concluded, her interest and desire to shine dramatically struggling with her timidity for the mastery. "i might go if you thought i'd do all right." "of course, you'll do," said drouet, who, in his efforts to enthuse carrie, had interested himself. "do you think i'd come home here and urge you to do something that i didn't think you would make a success of? you can act all right. it'll be good for you." "when must i go?" said carrie, reflectively. "the first rehearsal is friday night. i'll get the part for you to-night." "all right," said carrie resignedly, "i'll do it, but if i make a failure now it's your fault." "you won't fail," assured drouet. "just act as you do around here. be natural. you're all right. i've often thought you'd make a corking good actress." "did you really?" asked carrie. "that's right," said the drummer. he little knew as he went out of the door that night what a secret flame he had kindled in the bosom of the girl he left behind. carrie was possessed of that sympathetic, impressionable nature which, ever in the most developed form, has been the glory of the drama. she was created with that passivity of soul which is always the mirror of the active world. she possessed an innate taste for imitation and no small ability. even without practice, she could sometimes restore dramatic situations she had witnessed by re-creating, before her mirror, the expressions of the various faces taking part in the scene. she loved to modulate her voice after the conventional manner of the distressed heroine, and repeat such pathetic fragments as appealed most to her sympathies. of late, seeing the airy grace of the _ingenue_ in several well-constructed plays, she had been moved to secretly imitate it, and many were the little movements and expressions of the body in which she indulged from time to time in the privacy of her chamber. on several occasions, when drouet had caught her admiring herself, as he imagined, in the mirror, she was doing nothing more than recalling some little grace of the mouth or the eyes which she had witnessed in another. under his airy accusation she mistook this for vanity and accepted the blame with a faint sense of error, though, as a matter of fact, it was nothing more than the first subtle outcroppings of an artistic nature, endeavouring to re-create the perfect likeness of some phase of beauty which appealed to her. in such feeble tendencies, be it known, such outworking of desire to reproduce life, lies the basis of all dramatic art. now, when carrie heard drouet's laudatory opinion of her dramatic ability, her body tingled with satisfaction. like the flame which welds the loosened particles into a solid mass, his words united those floating wisps of feeling which she had felt, but never believed, concerning her possible ability, and made them into a gaudy shred of hope. like all human beings, she had a touch of vanity. she felt that she could do things if she only had a chance. how often had she looked at the well-dressed actresses on the stage and wondered how she would look, how delightful she would feel if only she were in their place. the glamour, the tense situation, the fine clothes, the applause, these had lured her until she felt that she, too, could act--that she, too, could compel acknowledgment of power. now she was told that she really could--that little things she had done about the house had made even him feel her power. it was a delightful sensation while it lasted. when drouet was gone, she sat down in her rocking-chair by the window to think about it. as usual, imagination exaggerated the possibilities for her. it was as if he had put fifty cents in her hand and she had exercised the thoughts of a thousand dollars. she saw herself in a score of pathetic situations in which she assumed a tremulous voice and suffering manner. her mind delighted itself with scenes of luxury and refinement, situations in which she was the cynosure of all eyes, the arbiter of all fates. as she rocked to and fro she felt the tensity of woe in abandonment, the magnificence of wrath after deception, the languour of sorrow after defeat. thoughts of all the charming women she had seen in plays--every fancy, every illusion which she had concerning the stage--now came back as a returning tide after the ebb. she built up feelings and a determination which the occasion did not warrant. drouet dropped in at the lodge when he went down town, and swashed around with a great _air_, as quincel met him. "where is that young lady you were going to get for us?" asked the latter. "i've got her," said drouet. "have you?" said quincel, rather surprised by his promptness; "that's good. what's her address?" and he pulled out his note-book in order to be able to send her part to her. "you want to send her her part?" asked the drummer. "yes." "well, i'll take it. i'm going right by her house in the morning." "what did you say her address was? we only want it in case we have any information to send her." "twenty-nine ogden place." "and her name?" "carrie madenda," said the drummer, firing at random. the lodge members knew him to be single. "that sounds like somebody that can act, doesn't it?" said quincel. "yes, it does." he took the part home to carrie and handed it to her with the manner of one who does a favour. "he says that's the best part. do you think you can do it?" "i don't know until i look it over. you know i'm afraid, now that i've said i would." "oh, go on. what have you got to be afraid of? it's a cheap company. the rest of them aren't as good as you are." "well, i'll see," said carrie, pleased to have the part, for all her misgivings. he sidled around, dressing and fidgeting before he arranged to make his next remark. "they were getting ready to print the programmes," he said, "and i gave them the name of carrie madenda. was that all right?" "yes, i guess so," said his companion, looking up at him. she was thinking it was slightly strange. "if you didn't make a hit, you know," he went on. "oh, yes," she answered, rather pleased now with his caution. it was clever for drouet. "i didn't want to introduce you as my wife, because you'd feel worse then if you didn't _go_. they all know me so well. but you'll _go_ all right. anyhow, you'll probably never meet any of them again." "oh, i don't care," said carrie desperately. she was determined now to have a try at the fascinating game. drouet breathed a sigh of relief. he had been afraid that he was about to precipitate another conversation upon the marriage question. the part of laura, as carrie found out when she began to examine it, was one of suffering and tears. as delineated by mr. daly, it was true to the most sacred traditions of melodrama as he found it when he began his career. the sorrowful demeanour, the tremolo music, the long, explanatory, cumulative addresses, all were there. "poor fellow," read carrie, consulting the text and drawing her voice out pathetically. "martin, be sure and give him a glass of wine before he goes." she was surprised at the briefness of the entire part, not knowing that she must be on the stage while others were talking, and not only be there, but also keep herself in harmony with the dramatic movement of the scenes. "i think i can do that, though," she concluded. when drouet came the next night, she was very much satisfied with her day's study. "well, how goes it, caddie?" he said. "all right," she laughed. "i think i have it memorised nearly." "that's good," he said. "let's hear some of it." "oh, i don't know whether i can get up and say it off here," she said bashfully. "well, i don't know why you shouldn't. it'll be easier here than it will there." "i don't know about that," she answered. eventually she took off the ball-room episode with considerable feeling, forgetting, as she got deeper in the scene, all about drouet, and letting herself rise to a fine state of feeling. "good," said drouet; "fine; out o' sight! you're all right, caddie, i tell you." he was really moved by her excellent representation and the general appearance of the pathetic little figure as it swayed and finally fainted to the floor. he had bounded up to catch her, and now held her laughing in his arms. "ain't you afraid you'll hurt yourself?" he asked. "not a bit." "well, you're a wonder. say, i never knew you could do anything like that." "i never did, either," said carrie merrily, her face flushed with delight. "well, you can bet that you're all right," said drouet. "you can take my word for that. you won't fail." chapter xvii a glimpse through the gateway: hope lightens the eye the, to carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take place at the avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy than was at first anticipated. the little dramatic student had written to hurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she was going to take part in a play. "i really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest; "i have my part now, honest, truly." hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this. "i wonder what it is going to be? i must see that." he answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability. "i haven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. you must come to the park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it." carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the undertaking as she understood it. "well," he said, "that's fine. i'm glad to hear it. of course, you will do well, you're so clever." he had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. her tendency to discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared. as she spoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. she radiated much of the pleasure which her undertakings gave her. for all her misgivings--and they were as plentiful as the moments of the day--she was still happy. she could not repress her delight in doing this little thing which, to an ordinary observer, had no importance at all. hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl had capabilities. there is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight of a legitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. it gives colour, force, and beauty to the possessor. carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. she drew to herself commendation from her two admirers which she had not earned. their affection for her naturally heightened their perception of what she was trying to do and their approval of what she did. her inexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran riot with every straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining rod whereby the treasure of life was to be discovered. "let's see," said hurstwood, "i ought to know some of the boys in the lodge. i'm an elk myself." "oh, you mustn't let him know i told you." "that's so," said the manager. "i'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but i don't see how you can unless he asks you." "i'll be there," said hurstwood affectionately. "i can fix it so he won't know you told me. you leave it to me." this interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for the performance, for his standing among the elks was something worth talking about. already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and flowers for carrie. he would make it a dress-suit affair and give the little girl a chance. within a day or two, drouet dropped into the adams street resort, and he was at once spied by hurstwood. it was at five in the afternoon and the place was crowded with merchants, actors, managers, politicians, a goodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted, starchy-bosomed, beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. john l. sullivan, the pugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar, surrounded by a company of loudly dressed sports, who were holding a most animated conversation. drouet came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tan shoes squeaking audibly at his progress. "well, sir," said hurstwood, "i was wondering what had become of you. i thought you had gone out of town again." drouet laughed. "if you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the list." "couldn't help it," said the drummer, "i've been busy." they strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company of notables. the dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times in as many minutes. "i hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed hurstwood, in the most offhand manner. "yes, who told you?" "no one," said hurstwood. "they just sent me a couple of tickets, which i can have for two dollars. is it going to be any good?" "i don't know," replied the drummer. "they've been trying to get me to get some woman to take a part." "i wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily. "i'll subscribe, of course. how are things over there?" "all right. they're going to fit things up out of the proceeds." "well," said the manager, "i hope they make a success of it. have another?" he did not intend to say any more. now, if he should appear on the scene with a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to come along. drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of confusion. "i think the girl is going to take a part in it," he said abruptly, after thinking it over. "you don't say so! how did that happen?" "well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. i told carrie, and she seems to want to try." "good for her," said the manager. "it'll be a real nice affair. do her good, too. has she ever had any experience?" "not a bit." "oh, well, it isn't anything very serious." "she's clever, though," said drouet, casting off any imputation against carrie's ability. "she picks up her part quick enough." "you don't say so!" said the manager. "yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. by george, if she didn't." "we must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager. "i'll look after the flowers." drouet smiled at his good-nature. "after the show you must come with me and we'll have a little supper." "i think she'll do all right," said drouet. "i want to see her. she's got to do all right. we'll make her," and the manager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a compound of good-nature and shrewdness. carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. at this performance mr. quincel presided, aided by mr. millice, a young man who had some qualifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood by any one. he was so experienced and so business-like, however, that he came very near being rude--failing to remember, as he did, that the individuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer players and not salaried underlings. "now, miss madenda," he said, addressing carrie, who stood in one part uncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to stand like that. put expression in your face. remember, you are troubled over the intrusion of the stranger. walk so," and he struck out across the avery stage in a most drooping manner. carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of the situation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous, and the desire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her timid. she walked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly feeling that there was something strangely lacking. "now, mrs. morgan," said the director to one young married woman who was to take the part of pearl, "you sit here. now, mr. bamberger, you stand here, so. now, what is it you say?" "explain," said mr. bamberger feebly. he had the part of ray, laura's lover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts of marrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by birth. "how is that--what does your text say?" "explain," repeated mr. bamberger, looking intently at his part. "yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are to look shocked. now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked." "explain!" demanded mr. bamberger vigorously. "no, no, that won't do! say it this way--_explain_." "explain," said mr. bamberger, giving a modified imitation. "that's better. now go on." "one night," resumed mrs. morgan, whose lines came next, "father and mother were going to the opera. when they were crossing broadway, the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms----" "hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended. "put more feeling into what you are saying." mrs. morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. her eye lightened with resentment. "remember, mrs. morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying his manner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story. you are now supposed to be telling something that is a grief to you. it requires feeling, repression, thus: 'the usual crowd of children accosted them for alms.'" "all right," said mrs. morgan. "now, go on." "as mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched a cold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse." "very good," interrupted the director, nodding his head significantly. "a pickpocket! well!" exclaimed mr. bamberger, speaking the lines that here fell to him. "no, no, mr. bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not that way. 'a pickpocket--well?' so. that's the idea." "don't you think," said carrie weakly, noticing that it had not been proved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, let alone the details of expression, "that it would be better if we just went through our lines once to see if we know them? we might pick up some points." "a very good idea, miss madenda," said mr. quincel, who sat at the side of the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which the director did not heed. "all right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well to do it." then brightening, with a show of authority, "suppose we run right through, putting in as much expression as we can." "good," said mr. quincel. "this hand," resumed mrs. morgan, glancing up at mr. bamberger and down at her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped in her own, and so tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain. mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl." "very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle. "the thief!" exclaimed mr. bamberger. "louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible to keep his hands off. "the thief!" roared poor bamberger. "yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's. 'stop,' said my mother. 'what are you doing?' "'trying to steal,' said the child. "'don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father. "'no,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.' "'who told you to steal?' asked my mother. "'she--there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a doorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'that is old judas,' said the girl." mrs. morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in despair. he fidgeted around, and then went over to mr. quincel. "what do you think of them?" he asked. "oh, i guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said the latter, with an air of strength under difficulties. "i don't know," said the director. "that fellow bamberger strikes me as being a pretty poor shift for a lover." "he's all we've got," said quincel, rolling up his eyes. "harrison went back on me at the last minute. who else can we get?" "i don't know," said the director. "i'm afraid he'll never pick up." at this moment bamberger was exclaiming, "pearl, you are joking with me." "look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his hand. "my lord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like that?" "do the best you can," said quincel consolingly. the rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where carrie, as laura, comes into the room to explain to ray, who, after hearing pearl's statement about her birth, had written the letter repudiating her, which, however, he did not deliver. bamberger was just concluding the words of ray, "i must go before she returns. her step! too late," and was cramming the letter in his pocket, when she began sweetly with: "ray!" "miss--miss courtland," bamberger faltered weakly. carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company present. she began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile to her lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as if he were not present. she did it with a grace which was fascinating to look upon. "who is that woman?" asked the director, watching carrie in her little scene with bamberger. "miss madenda," said quincel. "i know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?" "i don't know," said quincel. "she's a friend of one of our members." "well, she's got more gumption than any one i've seen here so far--seems to take an interest in what she's doing." "pretty, too, isn't she?" said quincel. the director strolled away without answering. in the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in the ball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director, who volunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over and speak with her. "were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly. "no," said carrie. "you do so well, i thought you might have had some experience." carrie only smiled consciously. he walked away to listen to bamberger, who was feebly spouting some ardent line. mrs. morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at carrie with envious and snapping black eyes. "she's some cheap professional," she gave herself the satisfaction of thinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly. the rehearsal ended for one day, and carrie went home feeling that she had acquitted herself satisfactorily. the words of the director were ringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tell hurstwood. she wanted him to know just how well she was doing. drouet, too, was an object for her confidences. she could hardly wait until he should ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up. the drummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and her little experience did not appeal to him as important. he let the conversation drop, save for what she chose to recite without solicitation, and carrie was not good at that. he took it for granted that she was doing very well and he was relieved of further worry. consequently he threw carrie into repression, which was irritating. she felt his indifference keenly and longed to see hurstwood. it was as if he were now the only friend she had on earth. the next morning drouet was interested again, but the damage had been done. she got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time she got it he would be waiting for her in the park. when she came, he shone upon her as the morning sun. "well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?" "well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after drouet. "now, tell me just what you did. was it pleasant?" carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as she proceeded. "well, that's delightful," said hurstwood. "i'm so glad. i must get over there to see you. when is the next rehearsal?" "tuesday," said carrie, "but they don't allow visitors." "i imagine i could get in," said hurstwood significantly. she was completely restored and delighted by his consideration, but she made him promise not to come around. "now, you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly. "just remember that i want you to succeed. we will make the performance worth while. you do that now." "i'll try," said carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm. "that's the girl," said hurstwood fondly. "now, remember," shaking an affectionate finger at her, "your best." "i will," she answered, looking back. the whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. she tripped along, the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. oh, blessed are the children of endeavour in this, that they try and are hopeful. and blessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve. chapter xviii just over the border: a hail and farewell by the evening of the th the subtle hand of hurstwood had made itself apparent. he had given the word among his friends--and they were many and influential--that here was something which they ought to attend, and, as a consequence, the sale of tickets by mr. quincel, acting for the lodge, had been large. small four-line notes had appeared in all of the daily newspapers. these he had arranged for by the aid of one of his newspaper friends on the "times," mr. harry mcgarren, the managing editor. "say, harry," hurstwood said to him one evening, as the latter stood at the bar drinking before wending his belated way homeward, "you can help the boys out, i guess." "what is it?" said mcgarren, pleased to be consulted by the opulent manager. "the custer lodge is getting up a little entertainment for their own good, and they'd like a little newspaper notice. you know what i mean--a squib or two saying that it's going to take place." "certainly," said mcgarren, "i can fix that for you, george." at the same time hurstwood kept himself wholly in the background. the members of custer lodge could scarcely understand why their little affair was taking so well. mr. harry quincel was looked upon as quite a star for this sort of work. by the time the th had arrived hurstwood's friends had rallied like romans to a senator's call. a well-dressed, good-natured, flatteringly-inclined audience was assured from the moment he thought of assisting carrie. that little student had mastered her part to her own satisfaction, much as she trembled for her fate when she should once face the gathered throng, behind the glare of the footlights. she tried to console herself with the thought that a score of other persons, men and women, were equally tremulous concerning the outcome of their efforts, but she could not disassociate the general danger from her own individual liability. she feared that she would forget her lines, that she might be unable to master the feeling which she now felt concerning her own movements in the play. at times she wished that she had never gone into the affair; at others, she trembled lest she should be paralysed with fear and stand white and gasping, not knowing what to say and spoiling the entire performance. in the matter of the company, mr. bamberger had disappeared. that hopeless example had fallen under the lance of the director's criticism. mrs. morgan was still present, but envious and determined, if for nothing more than spite, to do as well as carrie at least. a loafing professional had been called in to assume the rôle of ray, and, while he was a poor stick of his kind, he was not troubled by any of those qualms which attack the spirit of those who have never faced an audience. he swashed about (cautioned though he was to maintain silence concerning his past theatrical relationships) in such a self-confident manner that he was like to convince every one of his identity by mere matter of circumstantial evidence. "it is so easy," he said to mrs. morgan, in the usual affected stage voice. "an audience would be the last thing to trouble me. it's the spirit of the part, you know, that is difficult." carrie disliked his appearance, but she was too much the actress not to swallow his qualities with complaisance, seeing that she must suffer his fictitious love for the evening. at six she was ready to go. theatrical paraphernalia had been provided over and above her care. she had practised her make-up in the morning, had rehearsed and arranged her material for the evening by one o'clock, and had gone home to have a final look at her part, waiting for the evening to come. on this occasion the lodge sent a carriage. drouet rode with her as far as the door, and then went about the neighbouring stores, looking for some good cigars. the little actress marched nervously into her dressing-room and began that painfully anticipated matter of make-up which was to transform her, a simple maiden, to laura, the belle of society. the flare of the gas-jets, the open trunks, suggestive of travel and display, the scattered contents of the make-up box--rouge, pearl powder, whiting, burnt cork, india ink, pencils for the eyelids, wigs, scissors, looking-glasses, drapery--in short, all the nameless paraphernalia of disguise, have a remarkable atmosphere of their own. since her arrival in the city many things had influenced her, but always in a far-removed manner. this new atmosphere was more friendly. it was wholly unlike the great brilliant mansions which waved her coldly away, permitting her only awe and distant wonder. this took her by the hand kindly, as one who says, "my dear, come in." it opened for her as if for its own. she had wondered at the greatness of the names upon the bill-boards, the marvel of the long notices in the papers, the beauty of the dresses upon the stage, the atmosphere of carriages, flowers, refinement. here was no illusion. here was an open door to see all of that. she had come upon it as one who stumbles upon a secret passage, and, behold, she was in the chamber of diamonds and delight! as she dressed with a flutter, in her little stage room, hearing the voices outside, seeing mr. quincel hurrying here and there, noting mrs. morgan and mrs. hoagland at their nervous work of preparation, seeing all the twenty members of the cast moving about and worrying over what the result would be, she could not help thinking what a delight this would be if it would endure; how perfect a state, if she could only do well now, and then some time get a place as a real actress. the thought had taken a mighty hold upon her. it hummed in her ears as the melody of an old song. outside in the little lobby another scene was being enacted. without the interest of hurstwood, the little hall would probably have been comfortably filled, for the members of the lodge were moderately interested in its welfare. hurstwood's word, however, had gone the rounds. it was to be a full-dress affair. the four boxes had been taken. dr. norman mcneill hale and his wife were to occupy one. this was quite a card. c. r. walker, dry-goods merchant and possessor of at least two hundred thousand dollars, had taken another; a well-known coal merchant had been induced to take the third, and hurstwood and his friends the fourth. among the latter was drouet. the people who were now pouring here were not celebrities, nor even local notabilities, in a general sense. they were the lights of a certain circle--the circle of small fortunes and secret order distinctions. these gentlemen elks knew the standing of one another. they had regard for the ability which could amass a small fortune, own a nice home, keep a barouche or carriage, perhaps, wear fine clothes, and maintain a good mercantile position. naturally, hurstwood, who was a little above the order of mind which accepted this standard as perfect, who had shrewdness and much assumption of dignity, who held an imposing and authoritative position, and commanded friendship by intuitive tact in handling people, was quite a figure. he was more generally known than most others in the same circle, and was looked upon as some one whose reserve covered a mine of influence and solid financial prosperity. to-night he was in his element. he came with several friends directly from rector's in a carriage. in the lobby he met drouet, who was just returning from a trip for more cigars. all five now joined in an animated conversation concerning the company present and the general drift of lodge affairs. "who's here?" said hurstwood, passing into the theatre proper, where the lights were turned up and a company of gentlemen were laughing and talking in the open space back of the seats. "why, how do you do, mr. hurstwood?" came from the first individual recognised. "glad to see you," said the latter, grasping his hand lightly. "looks quite an affair, doesn't it?" "yes, indeed," said the manager. "custer seems to have the backing of its members," observed the friend. "so it should," said the knowing manager. "i'm glad to see it." "well, george," said another rotund citizen, whose avoirdupois made necessary an almost alarming display of starched shirt bosom, "how goes it with you?" "excellent," said the manager. "what brings you over here? you're not a member of custer." "good-nature," returned the manager. "like to see the boys, you know." "wife here?" "she couldn't come to-night. she's not well." "sorry to hear it--nothing serious, i hope." "no, just feeling a little ill." "i remember mrs. hurstwood when she was travelling once with you over to st. joe--" and here the newcomer launched off in a trivial recollection, which was terminated by the arrival of more friends. "why, george, how are you?" said another genial west side politician and lodge member. "my, but i'm glad to see you again; how are things, anyhow?" "very well; i see you got that nomination for alderman." "yes, we whipped them out over there without much trouble." "what do you suppose hennessy will do now?" "oh, he'll go back to his brick business. he has a brick-yard, you know." "i didn't know that," said the manager. "felt pretty sore, i suppose, over his defeat." "perhaps," said the other, winking shrewdly. some of the more favoured of his friends whom he had invited began to roll up in carriages now. they came shuffling in with a great show of finery and much evident feeling of content and importance. "here we are," said hurstwood, turning to one from a group with whom he was talking. "that's right," returned the newcomer, a gentleman of about forty-five. "and say," he whispered, jovially, pulling hurstwood over by the shoulder so that he might whisper in his ear, "if this isn't a good show, i'll punch your head." "you ought to pay for seeing your old friends. bother the show!" to another who inquired, "is it something really good?" the manager replied: "i don't know. i don't suppose so." then, lifting his hand graciously, "for the lodge." "lots of boys out, eh?" "yes, look up shanahan. he was just asking for you a moment ago." it was thus that the little theatre resounded to a babble of successful voices, the creak of fine clothes, the commonplace of good-nature, and all largely because of this man's bidding. look at him any time within the half hour before the curtain was up, he was a member of an eminent group--a rounded company of five or more whose stout figures, large white bosoms, and shining pins bespoke the character of their success. the gentlemen who brought their wives called him out to shake hands. seats clicked, ushers bowed while he looked blandly on. he was evidently a light among them, reflecting in his personality the ambitions of those who greeted him. he was acknowledged, fawned upon, in a way lionised. through it all one could see the standing of the man. it was greatness in a way, small as it was. chapter xix an hour in elfland: a clamour half heard at last the curtain was ready to go up. all the details of the make-up had been completed, and the company settled down as the leader of the small, hired orchestra tapped significantly upon his music rack with his baton and began the soft curtain-raising strain. hurstwood ceased talking, and went with drouet and his friend sagar morrison around to the box. "now, we'll see how the little girl does," he said to drouet, in a tone which no one else could hear. on the stage, six of the characters had already appeared in the opening parlour scene. drouet and hurstwood saw at a glance that carrie was not among them, and went on talking in a whisper. mrs. morgan, mrs. hoagland, and the actor who had taken bamberger's part were representing the principal rôles in this scene. the professional, whose name was patton, had little to recommend him outside of his assurance, but this at the present moment was most palpably needed. mrs. morgan, as pearl, was stiff with fright. mrs. hoagland was husky in the throat. the whole company was so weak-kneed that the lines were merely spoken, and nothing more. it took all the hope and uncritical good-nature of the audience to keep from manifesting pity by that unrest which is the agony of failure. hurstwood was perfectly indifferent. he took it for granted that it would be worthless. all he cared for was to have it endurable enough to allow for pretension and congratulation afterward. after the first rush of fright, however, the players got over the danger of collapse. they rambled weakly forward, losing nearly all the expression which was intended, and making the thing dull in the extreme, when carrie came in. one glance at her, and both hurstwood and drouet saw plainly that she also was weak-kneed. she came faintly across the stage, saying: "and you, sir; we have been looking for you since eight o'clock," but with so little colour and in such a feeble voice that it was positively painful. "she's frightened," whispered drouet to hurstwood. the manager made no answer. she had a line presently which was supposed to be funny. "well, that's as much as to say that i'm a sort of life pill." it came out so flat, however, that it was a deathly thing. drouet fidgeted. hurstwood moved his toe the least bit. there was another place in which laura was to rise and, with a sense of impending disaster, say, sadly: "i wish you hadn't said that, pearl. you know the old proverb, 'call a maid by a married name.'" the lack of feeling in the thing was ridiculous. carrie did not get it at all. she seemed to be talking in her sleep. it looked as if she were certain to be a wretched failure. she was more hopeless than mrs. morgan, who had recovered somewhat, and was now saying her lines clearly at least. drouet looked away from the stage at the audience. the latter held out silently, hoping for a general change, of course. hurstwood fixed his eye on carrie, as if to hypnotise her into doing better. he was pouring determination of his own in her direction. he felt sorry for her. in a few more minutes it fell to her to read the letter sent in by the strange villain. the audience had been slightly diverted by a conversation between the professional actor and a character called snorky, impersonated by a short little american, who really developed some humour as a half-crazed, one-armed soldier, turned messenger for a living. he bawled his lines out with such defiance that, while they really did not partake of the humour intended, they were funny. now he was off, however, and it was back to pathos, with carrie as the chief figure. she did not recover. she wandered through the whole scene between herself and the intruding villain, straining the patience of the audience, and finally exiting, much to their relief. "she's too nervous," said drouet, feeling in the mildness of the remark that he was lying for once. "better go back and say a word to her." drouet was glad to do anything for relief. he fairly hustled around to the side entrance, and was let in by the friendly doorkeeper. carrie was standing in the wings, weakly waiting her next cue, all the snap and nerve gone out of her. "say, cad," he said, looking at her, "you mustn't be nervous. wake up. those guys out there don't amount to anything. what are you afraid of?" "i don't know," said carrie. "i just don't seem to be able to do it." she was grateful for the drummer's presence, though. she had found the company so nervous that her own strength had gone. "come on," said drouet. "brace up. what are you afraid of? go on out there now, and do the trick. what do you care?" carrie revived a little under the drummer's electrical, nervous condition. "did i do so very bad?" "not a bit. all you need is a little more ginger. do it as you showed me. get that toss of your head you had the other night." carrie remembered her triumph in the room. she tried to think she could do it. "what's next?" he said, looking at her part, which she had been studying. "why, the scene between ray and me when i refuse him." "well, now you do that lively," said the drummer. "put in snap, that's the thing. act as if you didn't care." "your turn next, miss madenda," said the prompter. "oh, dear," said carrie. "well, you're a chump for being afraid," said drouet. "come on now, brace up. i'll watch you from right here." "will you?" said carrie. "yes, now go on. don't be afraid." the prompter signalled her. she started out, weak as ever, but suddenly her nerve partially returned. she thought of drouet looking. "ray," she said, gently, using a tone of voice much more calm than when she had last appeared. it was the scene which had pleased the director at the rehearsal. "she's easier," thought hurstwood to himself. she did not do the part as she had at rehearsal, but she was better. the audience was at least not irritated. the improvement of the work of the entire company took away direct observation from her. they were making very fair progress, and now it looked as if the play would be passable, in the less trying parts at least. carrie came off warm and nervous. "well," she said, looking at him, "was it any better?" "well, i should say so. that's the way. put life into it. you did that about a thousand per cent. better than you did the other scene. now go on and fire up. you can do it. knock 'em." "was it really better?" "better, i should say so. what comes next?" "that ball-room scene." "well, you can do that all right," he said. "i don't know," answered carrie. "why, woman," he exclaimed, "you did it for me! now you go out there and do it. it'll be fun for you. just do as you did in the room. if you'll reel it off that way, i'll bet you make a hit. now, what'll you bet? you do it." the drummer usually allowed his ardent good-nature to get the better of his speech. he really did think that carrie had acted this particular scene very well, and he wanted her to repeat it in public. his enthusiasm was due to the mere spirit of the occasion. when the time came, he buoyed carrie up most effectually. he began to make her feel as if she had done very well. the old melancholy of desire began to come back as he talked at her, and by the time the situation rolled around she was running high in feeling. "i think i can do this." "sure you can. now you go ahead and see." on the stage, mrs. van dam was making her cruel insinuation against laura. carrie listened, and caught the infection of something--she did not know what. her nostrils sniffed thinly. "it means," the professional actor began, speaking as ray, "that society is a terrible avenger of insult. have you ever heard of the siberian wolves? when one of the pack falls through weakness, the others devour him. it is not an elegant comparison, but there is something wolfish in society. laura has mocked it with a pretence, and society, which is made up of pretence, will bitterly resent the mockery." at the sound of her stage name carrie started. she began to feel the bitterness of the situation. the feelings of the outcast descended upon her. she hung at the wing's edge, wrapt in her own mounting thoughts. she hardly heard anything more, save her own rumbling blood. "come, girls," said mrs. van dam, solemnly, "let us look after our things. they are no longer safe when such an accomplished thief enters." "cue," said the prompter, close to her side, but she did not hear. already she was moving forward with a steady grace, born of inspiration. she dawned upon the audience, handsome and proud, shifting, with the necessity of the situation, to a cold, white, helpless object, as the social pack moved away from her scornfully. hurstwood blinked his eyes and caught the infection. the radiating waves of feeling and sincerity were already breaking against the farthest walls of the chamber. the magic of passion, which will yet dissolve the world, was here at work. there was a drawing, too, of attention, a riveting of feeling, heretofore wandering. "ray! ray! why do you not come back to her?" was the cry of pearl. every eye was fixed on carrie, still proud and scornful. they moved as she moved. their eyes were with her eyes. mrs. morgan, as pearl, approached her. "let us go home," she said. "no," answered carrie, her voice assuming for the first time a penetrating quality which it had never known. "stay with him!" she pointed an almost accusing hand toward her lover. then, with a pathos which struck home because of its utter simplicity, "he shall not suffer long." hurstwood realised that he was seeing something extraordinarily good. it was heightened for him by the applause of the audience as the curtain descended and the fact that it was carrie. he thought now that she was beautiful. she had done something which was above his sphere. he felt a keen delight in realising that she was his. "fine," he said, and then, seized by a sudden impulse, arose and went about to the stage door. when he came in upon carrie she was still with drouet. his feelings for her were most exuberant. he was almost swept away by the strength and feeling she exhibited. his desire was to pour forth his praise with the unbounded feelings of a lover, but here was drouet, whose affection was also rapidly reviving. the latter was more fascinated, if anything, than hurstwood. at least, in the nature of things, it took a more ruddy form. "well, well," said drouet, "you did out of sight. that was simply great. i knew you could do it. oh, but you're a little daisy!" carrie's eyes flamed with the light of achievement. "did i do all right?" "did you? well, i guess. didn't you hear the applause?" there was some faint sound of clapping yet. "i thought i got it something like--i felt it." just then hurstwood came in. instinctively he felt the change in drouet. he saw that the drummer was near to carrie, and jealousy leaped alight in his bosom. in a flash of thought, he reproached himself for having sent him back. also, he hated him as an intruder. he could scarcely pull himself down to the level where he would have to congratulate carrie as a friend. nevertheless, the man mastered himself, and it was a triumph. he almost jerked the old subtle light to his eyes. "i thought," he said, looking at carrie, "i would come around and tell you how well you did, mrs. drouet. it was delightful." carrie took the cue, and replied: "oh, thank you." "i was just telling her," put in drouet, now delighted with his possession, "that i thought she did fine." "indeed you did," said hurstwood, turning upon carrie eyes in which she read more than the words. carrie laughed luxuriantly. "if you do as well in the rest of the play, you will make us all think you are a born actress." carrie smiled again. she felt the acuteness of hurstwood's position, and wished deeply that she could be alone with him, but she did not understand the change in drouet. hurstwood found that he could not talk, repressed as he was, and grudging drouet every moment of his presence, he bowed himself out with the elegance of a faust. outside he set his teeth with envy. "damn it!" he said, "is he always going to be in the way?" he was moody when he got back to the box, and could not talk for thinking of his wretched situation. as the curtain for the next act arose, drouet came back. he was very much enlivened in temper and inclined to whisper, but hurstwood pretended interest. he fixed his eyes on the stage, although carrie was not there, a short bit of melodramatic comedy preceding her entrance. he did not see what was going on, however. he was thinking his own thoughts, and they were wretched. the progress of the play did not improve matters for him. carrie, from now on, was easily the centre of interest. the audience, which had been inclined to feel that nothing could be good after the first gloomy impression, now went to the other extreme and saw power where it was not. the general feeling reacted on carrie. she presented her part with some felicity, though nothing like the intensity which had aroused the feeling at the end of the long first act. both hurstwood and drouet viewed her pretty figure with rising feelings. the fact that such ability should reveal itself in her, that they should see it set forth under such effective circumstances, framed almost in massy gold and shone upon by the appropriate lights of sentiment and personality, heightened her charm for them. she was more than the old carrie to drouet. he longed to be at home with her until he could tell her. he awaited impatiently the end, when they should go home alone. hurstwood, on the contrary, saw in the strength of her new attractiveness his miserable predicament. he could have cursed the man beside him. by the lord, he could not even applaud feelingly as he would. for once he must simulate when it left a taste in his mouth. it was in the last act that carrie's fascination for her lovers assumed its most effective character. hurstwood listened to its progress, wondering when carrie would come on. he had not long to wait. the author had used the artifice of sending all the merry company for a drive, and now carrie came in alone. it was the first time that hurstwood had had a chance to see her facing the audience quite alone, for nowhere else had she been without a foil of some sort. he suddenly felt, as she entered, that her old strength--the power that had grasped him at the end of the first act--had come back. she seemed to be gaining feeling, now that the play was drawing to a close and the opportunity for great action was passing. "poor pearl," she said, speaking with natural pathos. "it is a sad thing to want for happiness, but it is a terrible thing to see another groping about blindly for it, when it is almost within the grasp." she was gazing now sadly out upon the open sea, her arm resting listlessly upon the polished door-post. hurstwood began to feel a deep sympathy for her and for himself. he could almost feel that she was talking to him. he was, by a combination of feelings and entanglements, almost deluded by that quality of voice and manner which, like a pathetic strain of music, seems ever a personal and intimate thing. pathos has this quality, that it seems ever addressed to one alone. "and yet, she can be very happy with him," went on the little actress. "her sunny temper, her joyous face will brighten any home." she turned slowly toward the audience without seeing. there was so much simplicity in her movements that she seemed wholly alone. then she found a seat by a table, and turned over some books, devoting a thought to them. "with no longings for what i may not have," she breathed in conclusion--and it was almost a sigh--"my existence hidden from all save two in the wide world, and making my joy out of the joy of that innocent girl who will soon be his wife." hurstwood was sorry when a character, known as peach blossom, interrupted her. he stirred irritably, for he wished her to go on. he was charmed by the pale face, the lissome figure, draped in pearl grey, with a coiled string of pears at the throat. carrie had the air of one who was weary and in need of protection, and, under the fascinating make-believe of the moment, he rose in feeling until he was ready in spirit to go to her and ease her out of her misery by adding to his own delight. in a moment carrie was alone again, and was saying, with animation: "i must return to the city, no matter what dangers may lurk here. i must go, secretly if i can; openly, if i must." there was a sound of horses' hoofs outside, and then ray's voice saying: "no, i shall not ride again. put him up." he entered, and then began a scene which had as much to do with the creation of the tragedy of affection in hurstwood as anything in his peculiar and involved career. for carrie had resolved to make something of this scene, and, now that the cue had come, it began to take a feeling hold upon her. both hurstwood and drouet noted the rising sentiment as she proceeded. "i thought you had gone with pearl," she said to her lover. "i did go part of the way, but i left the party a mile down the road." "you and pearl had no disagreement?" "no--yes; that is, we always have. our social barometers always stand at 'cloudy' and 'overcast.'" "and whose fault is that?" she said, easily. "not mine," he answered, pettishly. "i know i do all i can--i say all i can--but she----" this was rather awkwardly put by patton, but carrie redeemed it with a grace which was inspiring. "but she is your wife," she said, fixing her whole attention upon the stilled actor, and softening the quality of her voice until it was again low and musical. "ray, my friend, courtship is the text from which the whole sermon of married life takes its theme. do not let yours be discontented and unhappy." she put her two little hands together and pressed them appealingly. hurstwood gazed with slightly parted lips. drouet was fidgeting with satisfaction. "to be my wife, yes," went on the actor in a manner which was weak by comparison, but which could not now spoil the tender atmosphere which carrie had created and maintained. she did not seem to feel that he was wretched. she would have done nearly as well with a block of wood. the accessories she needed were within her own imagination. the acting of others could not affect them. "and you repent already?" she said, slowly. "i lost you," he said, seizing her little hand, "and i was at the mercy of any flirt who chose to give me an inviting look. it was your fault--you know it was--why did you leave me?" carrie turned slowly away, and seemed to be mastering some impulse in silence. then she turned back. "ray," she said, "the greatest happiness i have ever felt has been the thought that all your affection was forever bestowed upon a virtuous woman, your equal in family, fortune, and accomplishments. what a revelation do you make to me now! what is it makes you continually war with your happiness?" the last question was asked so simply that it came to the audience and the lover as a personal thing. at last it came to the part where the lover exclaimed, "be to me as you used to be." carrie answered, with affecting sweetness, "i cannot be that to you, but i can speak in the spirit of the laura who is dead to you forever." "be it as you will," said patton. hurstwood leaned forward. the whole audience was silent and intent. "let the woman you look upon be wise or vain," said carrie, her eyes bent sadly upon the lover, who had sunk into a seat, "beautiful or homely, rich or poor, she has but one thing she can really give or refuse--her heart." drouet felt a scratch in his throat. "her beauty, her wit, her accomplishments, she may sell to you; but her love is the treasure without money and without price." the manager suffered this as a personal appeal. it came to him as if they were alone, and he could hardly restrain the tears for sorrow over the hopeless, pathetic, and yet dainty and appealing woman whom he loved. drouet also was beside himself. he was resolving that he would be to carrie what he had never been before. he would marry her, by george! she was worth it. "she asks only in return," said carrie, scarcely hearing the small, scheduled reply of her lover, and putting herself even more in harmony with the plaintive melody now issuing from the orchestra, "that when you look upon her your eyes shall speak devotion; that when you address her your voice shall be gentle, loving, and kind; that you shall not despise her because she cannot understand all at once your vigorous thoughts and ambitious designs; for, when misfortune and evil have defeated your greatest purposes, her love remains to console you. you look to the trees," she continued, while hurstwood restrained his feelings only by the grimmest repression, "for strength and grandeur; do not despise the flowers because their fragrance is all they have to give. remember," she concluded, tenderly, "love is all a woman has to give," and she laid a strange, sweet accent on the all, "but it is the only thing which god permits us to carry beyond the grave." the two men were in the most harrowed state of affection. they scarcely heard the few remaining words with which the scene concluded. they only saw their idol, moving about with appealing grace, continuing a power which to them was a revelation. hurstwood resolved a thousand things, drouet as well. they joined equally in the burst of applause which called carrie out. drouet pounded his hands until they ached. then he jumped up again and started out. as he went, carrie came out, and, seeing an immense basket of flowers being hurried down the aisle toward her, she waited. they were hurstwood's. she looked toward the manager's box for a moment, caught his eye, and smiled. he could have leaped out of the box to enfold her. he forgot the need of circumspectness which his married state enforced. he almost forgot that he had with him in the box those who knew him. by the lord, he would have that lovely girl if it took his all. he would act at once. this should be the end of drouet, and don't you forget it. he would not wait another day. the drummer should not have her. he was so excited that he could not stay in the box. he went into the lobby, and then into the street, thinking. drouet did not return. in a few minutes the last act was over, and he was crazy to have carrie alone. he cursed the luck that could keep him smiling, bowing, shamming, when he wanted to tell her that he loved her, when he wanted to whisper to her alone. he groaned as he saw that his hopes were futile. he must even take her to supper, shamming. he finally went about and asked how she was getting along. the actors were all dressing, talking, hurrying about. drouet was palavering himself with the looseness of excitement and passion. the manager mastered himself only by a great effort. "we are going to supper, of course," he said, with a voice that was a mockery of his heart. "oh, yes," said carrie, smiling. the little actress was in fine feather. she was realising now what it was to be petted. for once she was the admired, the sought-for. the independence of success now made its first faint showing. with the tables turned, she was looking down, rather than up, to her lover. she did not fully realise that this was so, but there was something in condescension coming from her which was infinitely sweet. when she was ready they climbed into the waiting coach and drove down town; once, only, did she find an opportunity to express her feeling, and that was when the manager preceded drouet in the coach and sat beside her. before drouet was fully in she had squeezed hurstwood's hand in a gentle, impulsive manner. the manager was beside himself with affection. he could have sold his soul to be with her alone. "ah," he thought, "the agony of it." drouet hung on, thinking he was all in all. the dinner was spoiled by his enthusiasm. hurstwood went home feeling as if he should die if he did not find affectionate relief. he whispered "to-morrow" passionately to carrie, and she understood. he walked away from the drummer and his prize at parting feeling as if he could slay him and not regret. carrie also felt the misery of it. "good-night," he said, simulating an easy friendliness. "good-night," said the little actress, tenderly. "the fool!" he said, now hating drouet. "the idiot! i'll do him yet, and that quick! we'll see to-morrow." "well, if you aren't a wonder," drouet was saying, complacently, squeezing carrie's arm. "you are the dandiest little girl on earth." chapter xx the lure of the spirit: the flesh in pursuit passion in a man of hurstwood's nature takes a vigorous form. it is no musing, dreamy thing. there is none of the tendency to sing outside of my lady's window--to languish and repine in the face of difficulties. in the night he was long getting to sleep because of too much thinking, and in the morning he was early awake, seizing with alacrity upon the same dear subject and pursuing it with vigour. he was out of sorts physically, as well as disordered mentally, for did he not delight in a new manner in his carrie, and was not drouet in the way? never was man more harassed than he by the thoughts of his love being held by the elated, flush-mannered drummer. he would have given anything, it seemed to him, to have the complication ended--to have carrie acquiesce to an arrangement which would dispose of drouet effectually and forever. what to do. he dressed thinking. he moved about in the same chamber with his wife, unmindful of her presence. at breakfast he found himself without an appetite. the meat to which he helped himself remained on his plate untouched. his coffee grew cold, while he scanned the paper indifferently. here and there he read a little thing, but remembered nothing. jessica had not yet come down. his wife sat at one end of the table revolving thoughts of her own in silence. a new servant had been recently installed and had forgot the napkins. on this account the silence was irritably broken by a reproof. "i've told you about this before, maggie," said mrs. hurstwood. "i'm not going to tell you again." hurstwood took a glance at his wife. she was frowning. just now her manner irritated him excessively. her next remark was addressed to him. "have you made up your mind, george, when you will take your vacation?" it was customary for them to discuss the regular summer outing at this season of the year. "not yet," he said, "i'm very busy just now." "well, you'll want to make up your mind pretty soon, won't you, if we're going?" she returned. "i guess we have a few days yet," he said. "hmff," she returned. "don't wait until the season's over." she stirred in aggravation as she said this. "there you go again," he observed. "one would think i never did anything, the way you begin." "well, i want to know about it," she reiterated. "you've got a few days yet," he insisted. "you'll not want to start before the races are over." he was irritated to think that this should come up when he wished to have his thoughts for other purposes. "well, we may. jessica doesn't want to stay until the end of the races." "what did you want with a season ticket, then?" "uh!" she said, using the sound as an exclamation of disgust, "i'll not argue with you," and therewith arose to leave the table. "say," he said, rising, putting a note of determination in his voice which caused her to delay her departure, "what's the matter with you of late? can't i talk with you any more?" "certainly, you can _talk_ with me," she replied, laying emphasis on the word. "well, you wouldn't think so by the way you act. now, you want to know when i'll be ready--not for a month yet. maybe not then." "we'll go without you." "you will, eh?" he sneered. "yes, we will." he was astonished at the woman's determination, but it only irritated him the more. "well, we'll see about that. it seems to me you're trying to run things with a pretty high hand of late. you talk as though you settled my affairs for me. well, you don't. you don't regulate anything that's connected with me. if you want to go, go, but you won't hurry me by any such talk as that." he was thoroughly aroused now. his dark eyes snapped, and he crunched his paper as he laid it down. mrs. hurstwood said nothing more. he was just finishing when she turned on her heel and went out into the hall and upstairs. he paused for a moment, as if hesitating, then sat down and drank a little coffee, and thereafter arose and went for his hat and gloves upon the main floor. his wife had really not anticipated a row of this character. she had come down to the breakfast table feeling a little out of sorts with herself and revolving a scheme which she had in her mind. jessica had called her attention to the fact that the races were not what they were supposed to be. the social opportunities were not what they had thought they would be this year. the beautiful girl found going every day a dull thing. there was an earlier exodus this year of people who were anybody to the watering places and europe. in her own circle of acquaintances several young men in whom she was interested had gone to waukesha. she began to feel that she would like to go too, and her mother agreed with her. accordingly, mrs. hurstwood decided to broach the subject. she was thinking this over when she came down to the table, but for some reason the atmosphere was wrong. she was not sure, after it was all over, just how the trouble had begun. she was determined now, however, that her husband was a brute, and that, under no circumstances, would she let this go by unsettled. she would have more lady-like treatment or she would know why. for his part, the manager was loaded with the care of this new argument until he reached his office and started from there to meet carrie. then the other complications of love, desire, and opposition possessed him. his thoughts fled on before him upon eagles' wings. he could hardly wait until he should meet carrie face to face. what was the night, after all, without her--what the day? she must and should be his. for her part, carrie had experienced a world of fancy and feeling since she had left him, the night before. she had listened to drouet's enthusiastic maunderings with much regard for that part which concerned herself, with very little for that which affected his own gain. she kept him at such lengths as she could, because her thoughts were with her own triumph. she felt hurstwood's passion as a delightful background to her own achievement, and she wondered what he would have to say. she was sorry for him, too, with that peculiar sorrow which finds something complimentary to itself in the misery of another. she was now experiencing the first shades of feeling of that subtle change which removes one out of the ranks of the suppliants into the lines of the dispensers of charity. she was, all in all, exceedingly happy. on the morrow, however, there was nothing in the papers concerning the event, and, in view of the flow of common, everyday things about, it now lost a shade of the glow of the previous evening. drouet himself was not talking so much _of_ as _for_ her. he felt instinctively that, for some reason or other, he needed reconstruction in her regard. "i think," he said, as he spruced around their chambers the next morning, preparatory to going down town, "that i'll straighten out that little deal of mine this month and then we'll get married. i was talking with mosher about that yesterday." "no, you won't," said carrie, who was coming to feel a certain faint power to jest with the drummer. "yes, i will," he exclaimed, more feelingly than usual, adding, with the tone of one who pleads, "don't you believe what i've told you?" carrie laughed a little. "of course i do," she answered. drouet's assurance now misgave him. shallow as was his mental observation, there was that in the things which had happened which made his little power of analysis useless. carrie was still with him, but not helpless and pleading. there was a lilt in her voice which was new. she did not study him with eyes expressive of dependence. the drummer was feeling the shadow of something which was coming. it coloured his feelings and made him develop those little attentions and say those little words which were mere forefendations against danger. shortly afterward he departed, and carrie prepared for her meeting with hurstwood. she hurried at her toilet, which was soon made, and hastened down the stairs. at the corner she passed drouet, but they did not see each other. the drummer had forgotten some bills which he wished to turn into his house. he hastened up the stairs and burst into the room, but found only the chambermaid, who was cleaning up. "hello," he exclaimed, half to himself, "has carrie gone?" "your wife? yes, she went out just a few minutes ago." "that's strange," thought drouet. "she didn't say a word to me. i wonder where she went?" he hastened about, rummaging in his valise for what he wanted, and finally pocketing it. then he turned his attention to his fair neighbour, who was good-looking and kindly disposed towards him. "what are you up to?" he said, smiling. "just cleaning," she replied, stopping and winding a dusting towel about her hand. "tired of it?" "not so very." "let me show you something," he said, affably, coming over and taking out of his pocket a little lithographed card which had been issued by a wholesale tobacco company. on this was printed a picture of a pretty girl, holding a striped parasol, the colours of which could be changed by means of a revolving disk in the back, which showed red, yellow, green, and blue through little interstices made in the ground occupied by the umbrella top. "isn't that clever?" he said, handing it to her and showing her how it worked. "you never saw anything like that before." "isn't it nice?" she answered. "you can have it if you want it," he remarked. "that's a pretty ring you have," he said, touching a commonplace setting which adorned the hand holding the card he had given her. "do you think so?" "that's right," he answered, making use of a pretence at examination to secure her finger. "that's fine." the ice being thus broken, he launched into further observation, pretending to forget that her fingers were still retained by his. she soon withdrew them, however, and retreated a few feet to rest against the window-sill. "i didn't see you for a long time," she said, coquettishly, repulsing one of his exuberant approaches. "you must have been away." "i was," said drouet. "do you travel far?" "pretty far--yes." "do you like it?" "oh, not very well. you get tired of it after a while." "i wish i could travel," said the girl, gazing idly out of the window. "what has become of your friend, mr. hurstwood?" she suddenly asked, bethinking herself of the manager, who, from her own observation, seemed to contain promising material. "he's here in town. what makes you ask about him?" "oh, nothing, only he hasn't been here since you got back." "how did you come to know him?" "didn't i take up his name a dozen times in the last month?" "get out," said the drummer, lightly. "he hasn't called more than half a dozen times since we've been here." "he hasn't, eh?" said the girl, smiling. "that's all you know about it." drouet took on a slightly more serious tone. he was uncertain as to whether she was joking or not. "tease," he said, "what makes you smile that way?" "oh, nothing." "have you seen him recently?" "not since you came back," she laughed. "before?" "certainly." "how often?" "why, nearly every day." she was a mischievous newsmonger, and was keenly wondering what the effect of her words would be. "who did he come to see?" asked the drummer, incredulously. "mrs. drouet." he looked rather foolish at this answer, and then attempted to correct himself so as not to appear a dupe. "well," he said, "what of it?" "nothing," replied the girl, her head cocked coquettishly on one side. "he's an old friend," he went on, getting deeper into the mire. he would have gone on further with his little flirtation, but the taste for it was temporarily removed. he was quite relieved when the girl's name was called from below. "i've got to go," she said, moving away from him airily. "i'll see you later," he said, with a pretence of disturbance at being interrupted. when she was gone, he gave freer play to his feelings. his face, never easily controlled by him, expressed all the perplexity and disturbance which he felt. could it be that carrie had received so many visits and yet said nothing about them? was hurstwood lying? what did the chambermaid mean by it, anyway? he had thought there was something odd about carrie's manner at the time. why did she look so disturbed when he had asked her how many times hurstwood had called? by george! he remembered now. there was something strange about the whole thing. he sat down in a rocking-chair to think the better, drawing up one leg on his knee and frowning mightily. his mind ran on at a great rate. and yet carrie hadn't acted out of the ordinary. it couldn't be, by george, that she was deceiving him. she hadn't acted that way. why, even last night she had been as friendly toward him as could be, and hurstwood too. look how they acted! he could hardly believe they would try to deceive him. his thoughts burst into words. "she did act sort of funny at times. here she had dressed and gone out this morning and never said a word." he scratched his head and prepared to go down town. he was still frowning. as he came into the hall he encountered the girl, who was now looking after another chamber. she had on a white dusting cap, beneath which her chubby face shone good-naturedly. drouet almost forgot his worry in the fact that she was smiling on him. he put his hand familiarly on her shoulder, as if only to greet her in passing. "got over being mad?" she said, still mischievously inclined. "i'm not mad," he answered. "i thought you were," she said, smiling. "quit your fooling about that," he said, in an offhand way. "were you serious?" "certainly," she answered. then, with an air of one who did not intentionally mean to create trouble, "he came lots of times. i thought you knew." the game of deception was up with drouet. he did not try to simulate indifference further. "did he spend the evenings here?" he asked. "sometimes. sometimes they went out." "in the evening?" "yes. you mustn't look so mad, though." "i'm not," he said. "did any one else see him?" "of course," said the girl, as if, after all, it were nothing in particular. "how long ago was this?" "just before you came back." the drummer pinched his lip nervously. "don't say anything, will you?" he asked, giving the girl's arm a gentle squeeze. "certainly not," she returned. "i wouldn't worry over it." "all right," he said, passing on, seriously brooding for once, and yet not wholly unconscious of the fact that he was making a most excellent impression upon the chambermaid. "i'll see her about that," he said to himself, passionately, feeling that he had been unduly wronged. "i'll find out, b'george, whether she'll act that way or not." chapter xxi the lure of the spirit: the flesh in pursuit when carrie came hurstwood had been waiting many minutes. his blood was warm; his nerves wrought up. he was anxious to see the woman who had stirred him so profoundly the night before. "here you are," he said, repressedly, feeling a spring in his limbs and an elation which was tragic in itself. "yes," said carrie. they walked on as if bound for some objective point, while hurstwood drank in the radiance of her presence. the rustle of her pretty skirt was like music to him. "are you satisfied?" he asked, thinking of how well she did the night before. "are you?" he tightened his fingers as he saw the smile she gave him. "it was wonderful." carrie laughed ecstatically. "that was one of the best things i've seen in a long time," he added. he was dwelling on her attractiveness as he had felt it the evening before, and mingling it with the feeling her presence inspired now. carrie was dwelling in the atmosphere which this man created for her. already she was enlivened and suffused with a glow. she felt his drawing toward her in every sound of his voice. "those were such nice flowers you sent me," she said, after a moment or two. "they were beautiful." "glad you liked them," he answered, simply. he was thinking all the time that the subject of his desire was being delayed. he was anxious to turn the talk to his own feelings. all was ripe for it. his carrie was beside him. he wanted to plunge in and expostulate with her, and yet he found himself fishing for words and feeling for a way. "you got home all right," he said, gloomily, of a sudden, his tone modifying itself to one of self-commiseration. "yes," said carrie, easily. he looked at her steadily for a moment, slowing his pace and fixing her with his eye. she felt the flood of feeling. "how about me?" he asked. this confused carrie considerably, for she realised the floodgates were open. she didn't know exactly what to answer. "i don't know," she answered. he took his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, and then let it go. he stopped by the walk side and kicked the grass with his toe. he searched her face with a tender, appealing glance. "won't you come away from him?" he asked, intensely. "i don't know," returned carrie, still illogically drifting and finding nothing at which to catch. as a matter of fact, she was in a most hopeless quandary. here was a man whom she thoroughly liked, who exercised an influence over her, sufficient almost to delude her into the belief that she was possessed of a lively passion for him. she was still the victim of his keen eyes, his suave manners, his fine clothes. she looked and saw before her a man who was most gracious and sympathetic, who leaned toward her with a feeling that was a delight to observe. she could not resist the glow of his temperament, the light of his eye. she could hardly keep from feeling what he felt. and yet she was not without thoughts which were disturbing. what did he know? what had drouet told him? was she a wife in his eyes, or what? would he marry her? even while he talked, and she softened, and her eyes were lighted with a tender glow, she was asking herself if drouet had told him they were not married. there was never anything at all convincing about what drouet said. and yet she was not grieved at hurstwood's love. no strain of bitterness was in it for her, whatever he knew. he was evidently sincere. his passion was real and warm. there was power in what he said. what should she do? she went on thinking this, answering vaguely, languishing affectionately, and altogether drifting, until she was on a borderless sea of speculation. "why don't you come away?" he said, tenderly. "i will arrange for you whatever--" "oh, don't," said carrie. "don't what?" he asked. "what do you mean?" there was a look of confusion and pain in her face. she was wondering why that miserable thought must be brought in. she was struck as by a blade with the miserable provision which was outside the pale of marriage. he himself realised that it was a wretched thing to have dragged in. he wanted to weigh the effects of it, and yet he could not see. he went beating on, flushed by her presence, clearly awakened, intensely enlisted in his plan. "won't you come?" he said, beginning over and with a more reverent feeling. "you know i can't do without you--you know it--it can't go on this way--can it?" "i know," said carrie. "i wouldn't ask if i--i wouldn't argue with you if i could help it. look at me, carrie. put yourself in my place. you don't want to stay away from me, do you?" she shook her head as if in deep thought. "then why not settle the whole thing, once and for all?" "i don't know," said carrie. "don't know! ah, carrie, what makes you say that? don't torment me. be serious." "i am," said carrie, softly. "you can't be, dearest, and say that. not when you know how i love you. look at last night." his manner as he said this was the most quiet imaginable. his face and body retained utter composure. only his eyes moved, and they flashed a subtle, dissolving fire. in them the whole intensity of the man's nature was distilling itself. carrie made no answer. "how can you act this way, dearest?" he inquired, after a time. "you love me, don't you?" he turned on her such a storm of feeling that she was overwhelmed. for the moment all doubts were cleared away. "yes," she answered, frankly and tenderly. "well, then you'll come, won't you--come to-night?" carrie shook her head in spite of her distress. "i can't wait any longer," urged hurstwood. "if that is too soon, come saturday." "when will we be married?" she asked, diffidently, forgetting in her difficult situation that she had hoped he took her to be drouet's wife. the manager started, hit as he was by a problem which was more difficult than hers. he gave no sign of the thoughts that flashed like messages to his mind. "any time you say," he said, with ease, refusing to discolour his present delight with this miserable problem. "saturday?" asked carrie. he nodded his head. "well, if you will marry me then," she said, "i'll go." the manager looked at his lovely prize, so beautiful, so winsome, so difficult to be won, and made strange resolutions. his passion had gotten to that stage now where it was no longer coloured with reason. he did not trouble over little barriers of this sort in the face of so much loveliness. he would accept the situation with all its difficulties; he would not try to answer the objections which cold truth thrust upon him. he would promise anything, everything, and trust to fortune to disentangle him. he would make a try for paradise, whatever might be the result. he would be happy, by the lord, if it cost all honesty of statement, all abandonment of truth. carrie looked at him tenderly. she could have laid her head upon his shoulder, so delightful did it all seem. "well," she said, "i'll try and get ready then." hurstwood looked into her pretty face, crossed with little shadows of wonder and misgiving, and thought he had never seen anything more lovely. "i'll see you again to-morrow," he said, joyously, "and we'll talk over the plans." he walked on with her, elated beyond words, so delightful had been the result. he impressed a long story of joy and affection upon her, though there was but here and there a word. after a half-hour he began to realise that the meeting must come to an end, so exacting is the world. "to-morrow," he said at parting, a gayety of manner adding wonderfully to his brave demeanour. "yes," said carrie, tripping elatedly away. there had been so much enthusiasm engendered that she was believing herself deeply in love. she sighed as she thought of her handsome adorer. yes, she would get ready by saturday. she would go, and they would be happy. chapter xxii the blaze of the tinder: flesh wars with the flesh the misfortune of the hurstwood household was due to the fact that jealousy, having been born of love, did not perish with it. mrs. hurstwood retained this in such form that subsequent influences could transform it into hate. hurstwood was still worthy, in a physical sense, of the affection his wife had once bestowed upon him, but in a social sense he fell short. with his regard died his power to be attentive to her, and this, to a woman, is much greater than outright crime toward another. our self-love dictates our appreciation of the good or evil in another. in mrs. hurstwood it discoloured the very hue of her husband's indifferent nature. she saw design in deeds and phrases which sprung only from a faded appreciation of her presence. as a consequence, she was resentful and suspicious. the jealousy that prompted her to observe every falling away from the little amenities of the married relation on his part served to give her notice of the airy grace with which he still took the world. she could see from the scrupulous care which he exercised in the matter of his personal appearance that his interest in life had abated not a jot. every motion, every glance had something in it of the pleasure he felt in carrie, of the zest this new pursuit of pleasure lent to his days. mrs. hurstwood felt something, sniffing change, as animals do danger, afar off. this feeling was strengthened by actions of a direct and more potent nature on the part of hurstwood. we have seen with what irritation he shirked those little duties which no longer contained any amusement or satisfaction for him, and the open snarls with which, more recently, he resented her irritating goads. these little rows were really precipitated by an atmosphere which was surcharged with dissension. that it would shower, with a sky so full of blackening thunder-clouds, would scarcely be thought worthy of comment. thus, after leaving the breakfast table this morning, raging inwardly at his blank declaration of indifference at her plans, mrs. hurstwood encountered jessica in her dressing-room, very leisurely arranging her hair. hurstwood had already left the house. "i wish you wouldn't be so late coming down to breakfast," she said, addressing jessica, while making for her crochet basket. "now here the things are quite cold, and you haven't eaten." her natural composure was sadly ruffled, and jessica was doomed to feel the fag end of the storm. "i'm not hungry," she answered. "then why don't you say so, and let the girl put away the things, instead of keeping her waiting all morning?" "she doesn't mind," answered jessica, coolly. "well, i do, if she doesn't," returned the mother, "and, anyhow, i don't like you to talk that way to me. you're too young to put on such an air with your mother." "oh, mamma, don't row," answered jessica. "what's the matter this morning, anyway?" "nothing's the matter, and i'm not rowing. you mustn't think because i indulge you in some things that you can keep everybody waiting. i won't have it." "i'm not keeping anybody waiting," returned jessica, sharply, stirred out of a cynical indifference to a sharp defence. "i said i wasn't hungry. i don't want any breakfast." "mind how you address me, missy. i'll not have it. hear me now; i'll not have it!" jessica heard this last while walking out of the room, with a toss of her head and a flick of her pretty skirts indicative of the independence and indifference she felt. she did not propose to be quarrelled with. such little arguments were all too frequent, the result of a growth of natures which were largely independent and selfish. george, jr., manifested even greater touchiness and exaggeration in the matter of his individual rights, and attempted to make all feel that he was a man with a man's privileges--an assumption which, of all things, is most groundless and pointless in a youth of nineteen. hurstwood was a man of authority and some fine feeling, and it irritated him excessively to find himself surrounded more and more by a world upon which he had no hold, and of which he had a lessening understanding. now, when such little things, such as the proposed earlier start to waukesha, came up, they made clear to him his position. he was being made to follow, was not leading. when, in addition, a sharp temper was manifested, and to the process of shouldering him out of his authority was added a rousing intellectual kick, such as a sneer or a cynical laugh, he was unable to keep his temper. he flew into hardly repressed passion, and wished himself clear of the whole household. it seemed a most irritating drag upon all his desires and opportunities. for all this, he still retained the semblance of leadership and control, even though his wife was straining to revolt. her display of temper and open assertion of opposition were based upon nothing more than the feeling that she could do it. she had no special evidence wherewith to justify herself--the knowledge of something which would give her both authority and excuse. the latter was all that was lacking, however, to give a solid foundation to what, in a way, seemed groundless discontent. the clear proof of one overt deed was the cold breath needed to convert the lowering clouds of suspicion into a rain of wrath. an inkling of untoward deeds on the part of hurstwood had come. doctor beale, the handsome resident physician of the neighbourhood, met mrs. hurstwood at her own doorstep some days after hurstwood and carrie had taken the drive west on washington boulevard. dr. beale, coming east on the same drive, had recognised hurstwood, but not before he was quite past him. he was not so sure of carrie--did not know whether it was hurstwood's wife or daughter. "you don't speak to your friends when you meet them out driving, do you?" he said, jocosely, to mrs. hurstwood. "if i see them, i do. where was i?" "on washington boulevard," he answered, expecting her eye to light with immediate remembrance. she shook her head. "yes, out near hoyne avenue. you were with your husband." "i guess you're mistaken," she answered. then, remembering her husband's part in the affair, she immediately fell a prey to a host of young suspicions, of which, however, she gave no sign. "i know i saw your husband," he went on. "i wasn't so sure about you. perhaps it was your daughter." "perhaps it was," said mrs. hurstwood, knowing full well that such was not the case, as jessica had been her companion for weeks. she had recovered herself sufficiently to wish to know more of the details. "was it in the afternoon?" she asked, artfully, assuming an air of acquaintanceship with the matter. "yes, about two or three." "it must have been jessica," said mrs. hurstwood, not wishing to seem to attach any importance to the incident. the physician had a thought or two of his own, but dismissed the matter as worthy of no further discussion on his part at least. mrs. hurstwood gave this bit of information considerable thought during the next few hours, and even days. she took it for granted that the doctor had really seen her husband, and that he had been riding, most likely, with some other woman, after announcing himself as busy to her. as a consequence, she recalled, with rising feeling, how often he had refused to go to places with her, to share in little visits, or, indeed, take part in any of the social amenities which furnished the diversion of her existence. he had been seen at the theatre with people whom he called moy's friends; now he was seen driving, and, most likely, would have an excuse for that. perhaps there were others of whom she did not hear, or why should he be so busy, so indifferent, of late? in the last six weeks he had become strangely irritable--strangely satisfied to pick up and go out, whether things were right or wrong in the house. why? she recalled, with more subtle emotions, that he did not look at her now with any of the old light of satisfaction or approval in his eye. evidently, along with other things, he was taking her to be getting old and uninteresting. he saw her wrinkles, perhaps. she was fading, while he was still preening himself in his elegance and youth. he was still an interested factor in the merry-makings of the world, while she--but she did not pursue the thought. she only found the whole situation bitter, and hated him for it thoroughly. nothing came of this incident at the time, for the truth is it did not seem conclusive enough to warrant any discussion. only the atmosphere of distrust and ill-feeling was strengthened, precipitating every now and then little sprinklings of irritable conversation, enlivened by flashes of wrath. the matter of the waukesha outing was merely a continuation of other things of the same nature. the day after carrie's appearance on the avery stage, mrs. hurstwood visited the races with jessica and a youth of her acquaintance, mr. bart taylor, the son of the owner of a local house-furnishing establishment. they had driven out early, and, as it chanced, encountered several friends of hurstwood, all elks, and two of whom had attended the performance the evening before. a thousand chances the subject of the performance had never been brought up had jessica not been so engaged by the attentions of her young companion, who usurped as much time as possible. this left mrs. hurstwood in the mood to extend the perfunctory greetings of some who knew her into short conversations, and the short conversations of friends into long ones. it was from one who meant but to greet her perfunctorily that this interesting intelligence came. "i see," said this individual, who wore sporting clothes of the most attractive pattern, and had a field-glass strung over his shoulder, "that you did not get over to our little entertainment last evening." "no?" said mrs. hurstwood, inquiringly, and wondering why he should be using the tone he did in noting the fact that she had not been to something she knew nothing about. it was on her lips to say, "what was it?" when he added, "i saw your husband." her wonder was at once replaced by the more subtle quality of suspicion. "yes," she said, cautiously, "was it pleasant? he did not tell me much about it." "very. really one of the best private theatricals i ever attended. there was one actress who surprised us all." "indeed," said mrs. hurstwood. "it's too bad you couldn't have been there, really. i was sorry to hear you weren't feeling well." feeling well! mrs. hurstwood could have echoed the words after him open-mouthed. as it was, she extricated herself from her mingled impulse to deny and question, and said, almost raspingly: "yes, it is too bad." "looks like there will be quite a crowd here to-day, doesn't it?" the acquaintance observed, drifting off upon another topic. the manager's wife would have questioned farther, but she saw no opportunity. she was for the moment wholly at sea, anxious to think for herself, and wondering what new deception was this which caused him to give out that she was ill when she was not. another case of her company not wanted, and excuses being made. she resolved to find out more. "were you at the performance last evening?" she asked of the next of hurstwood's friends who greeted her, as she sat in her box. "yes. you didn't get around." "no," she answered, "i was not feeling very well." "so your husband told me," he answered. "well, it was really very enjoyable. turned out much better than i expected." "were there many there?" "the house was full. it was quite an elk night. i saw quite a number of your friends--mrs. harrison, mrs. barnes, mrs. collins." "quite a social gathering." "indeed it was. my wife enjoyed it very much." mrs. hurstwood bit her lip. "so," she thought, "that's the way he does. tells my friends i am sick and cannot come." she wondered what could induce him to go alone. there was something back of this. she rummaged her brain for a reason. by evening, when hurstwood reached home, she had brooded herself into a state of sullen desire for explanation and revenge. she wanted to know what this peculiar action of his imported. she was certain there was more behind it all than what she had heard, and evil curiosity mingled well with distrust and the remnants of her wrath of the morning. she, impending disaster itself, walked about with gathered shadow at the eyes and the rudimentary muscles of savagery fixing the hard lines of her mouth. on the other hand, as we may well believe, the manager came home in the sunniest mood. his conversation and agreement with carrie had raised his spirits until he was in the frame of mind of one who sings joyously. he was proud of himself, proud of his success, proud of carrie. he could have been genial to all the world, and he bore no grudge against his wife. he meant to be pleasant, to forget her presence, to live in the atmosphere of youth and pleasure which had been restored to him. so now, the house, to his mind, had a most pleasing and comfortable appearance. in the hall he found an evening paper, laid there by the maid and forgotten by mrs. hurstwood. in the dining-room the table was clean laid with linen and napery and shiny with glasses and decorated china. through an open door he saw into the kitchen, where the fire was crackling in the stove and the evening meal already well under way. out in the small back yard was george, jr., frolicking with a young dog he had recently purchased, and in the parlour jessica was playing at the piano, the sounds of a merry waltz filling every nook and corner of the comfortable home. every one, like himself, seemed to have regained his good spirits, to be in sympathy with youth and beauty, to be inclined to joy and merry-making. he felt as if he could say a good word all around himself, and took a most genial glance at the spread table and polished sideboard before going upstairs to read his paper in the comfortable arm-chair of the sitting-room which looked through the open windows into the street. when he entered there, however, he found his wife brushing her hair and musing to herself the while. he came lightly in, thinking to smooth over any feeling that might still exist by a kindly word and a ready promise, but mrs. hurstwood said nothing. he seated himself in the large chair, stirred lightly in making himself comfortable, opened his paper, and began to read. in a few moments he was smiling merrily over a very comical account of a baseball game which had taken place between the chicago and detroit teams. the while he was doing this mrs. hurstwood was observing him casually through the medium of the mirror which was before her. she noticed his pleasant and contented manner, his airy grace and smiling humour, and it merely aggravated her the more. she wondered how he could think to carry himself so in her presence after the cynicism, indifference, and neglect he had heretofore manifested and would continue to manifest so long as she would endure it. she thought how she should like to tell him--what stress and emphasis she would lend her assertions, how she should drive over this whole affair until satisfaction should be rendered her. indeed, the shining sword of her wrath was but weakly suspended by a thread of thought. in the meanwhile hurstwood encountered a humorous item concerning a stranger who had arrived in the city and became entangled with a bunco-steerer. it amused him immensely, and at last he stirred and chuckled to himself. he wished that he might enlist his wife's attention and read it to her. "ha, ha," he exclaimed softly, as if to himself, "that's funny." mrs. hurstwood kept on arranging her hair, not so much as deigning a glance. he stirred again and went on to another subject. at last he felt as if his good-humour must find some outlet. julia was probably still out of humour over that affair of this morning, but that could easily be straightened. as a matter of fact, she was in the wrong, but he didn't care. she could go to waukesha right away if she wanted to. the sooner the better. he would tell her that as soon as he got a chance, and the whole thing would blow over. "did you notice," he said, at last, breaking forth concerning another item which he had found, "that they have entered suit to compel the illinois central to get off the lake front, julia?" he asked. she could scarcely force herself to answer, but managed to say "no," sharply. hurstwood pricked up his ears. there was a note in her voice which vibrated keenly. "it would be a good thing if they did," he went on, half to himself, half to her, though he felt that something was amiss in that quarter. he withdrew his attention to his paper very circumspectly, listening mentally for the little sounds which should show him what was on foot. as a matter of fact, no man as clever as hurstwood--as observant and sensitive to atmospheres of many sorts, particularly upon his own plane of thought--would have made the mistake which he did in regard to his wife, wrought up as she was, had he not been occupied mentally with a very different train of thought. had not the influence of carrie's regard for him, the elation which her promise aroused in him, lasted over, he would not have seen the house in so pleasant a mood. it was not extraordinarily bright and merry this evening. he was merely very much mistaken, and would have been much more fitted to cope with it had he come home in his normal state. after he had studied his paper a few moments longer, he felt that he ought to modify matters in some way or other. evidently his wife was not going to patch up peace at a word. so he said: "where did george get the dog he has there in the yard?" "i don't know," she snapped. he put his paper down on his knees and gazed idly out of the window. he did not propose to lose his temper, but merely to be persistent and agreeable, and by a few questions bring around a mild understanding of some sort. "why do you feel so bad about that affair of this morning?" he said, at last. "we needn't quarrel about that. you know you can go to waukesha if you want to." "so you can stay here and trifle around with some one else?" she exclaimed, turning to him a determined countenance upon which was drawn a sharp and wrathful sneer. he stopped as if slapped in the face. in an instant his persuasive, conciliatory manner fled. he was on the defensive at a wink and puzzled for a word to reply. "what do you mean?" he said at last, straightening himself and gazing at the cold, determined figure before him, who paid no attention, but went on arranging herself before the mirror. "you know what i mean," she said, finally, as if there were a world of information which she held in reserve--which she did not need to tell. "well, i don't," he said, stubbornly, yet nervous and alert for what should come next. the finality of the woman's manner took away his feeling of superiority in battle. she made no answer. "hmph!" he murmured, with a movement of his head to one side. it was the weakest thing he had ever done. it was totally unassured. mrs. hurstwood noticed the lack of colour in it. she turned upon him, animal-like, able to strike an effectual second blow. "i want the waukesha money to-morrow morning," she said. he looked at her in amazement. never before had he seen such a cold, steely determination in her eye--such a cruel look of indifference. she seemed a thorough master of her mood--thoroughly confident and determined to wrest all control from him. he felt that all his resources could not defend him. he must attack. "what do you mean?" he said, jumping up. "you want! i'd like to know what's got into you to-night." "nothing's _got_ into me," she said, flaming. "i want that money. you can do your swaggering afterwards." "swaggering, eh! what! you'll get nothing from me. what do you mean by your insinuations, anyhow?" "where were you last night?" she answered. the words were hot as they came. "who were you driving with on washington boulevard? who were you with at the theatre when george saw you? do you think i'm a fool to be duped by you? do you think i'll sit at home here and take your 'too busys' and 'can't come,' while you parade around and make out that i'm unable to come? i want you to know that lordly airs have come to an end so far as i am concerned. you can't dictate to me nor my children. i'm through with you entirely." "it's a lie," he said, driven to a corner and knowing no other excuse. "lie, eh!" she said, fiercely, but with returning reserve; "you may call it a lie if you want to, but i know." "it's a lie, i tell you," he said, in a low, sharp voice. "you've been searching around for some cheap accusation for months, and now you think you have it. you think you'll spring something and get the upper hand. well, i tell you, you can't. as long as i'm in this house i'm master of it, and you or any one else won't dictate to me--do you hear?" he crept toward her with a light in his eye that was ominous. something in the woman's cool, cynical, upper-handish manner, as if she were already master, caused him to feel for the moment as if he could strangle her. she gazed at him--a pythoness in humour. "i'm not dictating to you," she returned; "i'm telling you what i want." the answer was so cool, so rich in bravado, that somehow it took the wind out of his sails. he could not attack her, he could not ask her for proofs. somehow he felt evidence, law, the remembrance of all his property which she held in her name, to be shining in her glance. he was like a vessel, powerful and dangerous, but rolling and floundering without sail. "and i'm telling you," he said in the end, slightly recovering himself, "what you'll not get." "we'll see about it," she said. "i'll find out what my rights are. perhaps you'll talk to a lawyer, if you won't to me." it was a magnificent play, and had its effect. hurstwood fell back beaten. he knew now that he had more than mere bluff to contend with. he felt that he was face to face with a dull proposition. what to say he hardly knew. all the merriment had gone out of the day. he was disturbed, wretched, resentful. what should he do? "do as you please," he said, at last. "i'll have nothing more to do with you," and out he strode. chapter xxiii a spirit in travail: one rung put behind when carrie reached her own room she had already fallen a prey to those doubts and misgivings which are ever the result of a lack of decision. she could not persuade herself as to the advisability of her promise, or that now, having given her word, she ought to keep it. she went over the whole ground in hurstwood's absence, and discovered little objections that had not occurred to her in the warmth of the manager's argument. she saw where she had put herself in a peculiar light, namely, that of agreeing to marry when she was already supposedly married. she remembered a few things drouet had done, and now that it came to walking away from him without a word, she felt as if she were doing wrong. now, she was comfortably situated, and to one who is more or less afraid of the world, this is an urgent matter, and one which puts up strange, uncanny arguments. "you do not know what will come. there are miserable things outside. people go a-begging. women are wretched. you never can tell what will happen. remember the time you were hungry. stick to what you have." curiously, for all her leaning towards hurstwood, he had not taken a firm hold on her understanding. she was listening, smiling, approving, and yet not finally agreeing. this was due to a lack of power on his part, a lack of that majesty of passion that sweeps the mind from its seat, fuses and melts all arguments and theories into a tangled mass, and destroys for the time being the reasoning power. this majesty of passion is possessed by nearly every man once in his life, but it is usually an attribute of youth and conduces to the first successful mating. hurstwood, being an older man, could scarcely be said to retain the fire of youth, though he did possess a passion warm and unreasoning. it was strong enough to induce the leaning toward him which, on carrie's part, we have seen. she might have been said to be imagining herself in love, when she was not. women frequently do this. it flows from the fact that in each exists a bias toward affection, a craving for the pleasure of being loved. the longing to be shielded, bettered, sympathised with, is one of the attributes of the sex. this, coupled with sentiment and a natural tendency to emotion, often makes refusing difficult. it persuades them that they are in love. once at home, she changed her clothes and straightened the rooms for herself. in the matter of the arrangement of the furniture she never took the house-maid's opinion. that young woman invariably put one of the rocking-chairs in the corner, and carrie as regularly moved it out. to-day she hardly noticed that it was in the wrong place, so absorbed was she in her own thoughts. she worked about the room until drouet put in appearance at five o'clock. the drummer was flushed and excited and full of determination to know all about her relations with hurstwood. nevertheless, after going over the subject in his mind the livelong day, he was rather weary of it and wished it over with. he did not foresee serious consequences of any sort, and yet he rather hesitated to begin. carrie was sitting by the window when he came in, rocking and looking out. "well," she said innocently, weary of her own mental discussion and wondering at his haste and ill-concealed excitement, "what makes you hurry so?" drouet hesitated, now that he was in her presence, uncertain as to what course to pursue. he was no diplomat. he could neither read nor see. "when did you get home?" he asked foolishly. "oh, an hour or so ago. what makes you ask that?" "you weren't here," he said, "when i came back this morning, and i thought you had gone out." "so i did," said carrie simply. "i went for a walk." drouet looked at her wonderingly. for all his lack of dignity in such matters he did not know how to begin. he stared at her in the most flagrant manner until at last she said: "what makes you stare at me so? what's the matter?" "nothing," he answered. "i was just thinking." "just thinking what?" she returned smilingly, puzzled by his attitude. "oh, nothing--nothing much." "well, then, what makes you look so?" drouet was standing by the dresser, gazing at her in a comic manner. he had laid off his hat and gloves and was now fidgeting with the little toilet pieces which were nearest him. he hesitated to believe that the pretty woman before him was involved in anything so unsatisfactory to himself. he was very much inclined to feel that it was all right, after all. yet the knowledge imparted to him by the chambermaid was rankling in his mind. he wanted to plunge in with a straight remark of some sort, but he knew not what. "where did you go this morning?" he finally asked weakly. "why, i went for a walk," said carrie. "sure you did?" he asked. "yes, what makes you ask?" she was beginning to see now that he knew something. instantly she drew herself into a more reserved position. her cheeks blanched slightly. "i thought maybe you didn't," he said, beating about the bush in the most useless manner. carrie gazed at him, and as she did so her ebbing courage halted. she saw that he himself was hesitating, and with a woman's intuition realised that there was no occasion for great alarm. "what makes you talk like that?" she asked, wrinkling her pretty forehead. "you act so funny to-night." "i feel funny," he answered. they looked at one another for a moment, and then drouet plunged desperately into his subject. "what's this about you and hurstwood?" he asked. "me and hurstwood--what do you mean?" "didn't he come here a dozen times while i was away?" "a dozen times," repeated carrie, guiltily. "no, but what do you mean?" "somebody said that you went out riding with him and that he came here every night." "no such thing," answered carrie. "it isn't true. who told you that?" she was flushing scarlet to the roots of her hair, but drouet did not catch the full hue of her face, owing to the modified light of the room. he was regaining much confidence as carrie defended herself with denials. "well, some one," he said. "you're sure you didn't?" "certainly," said carrie. "you know how often he came." drouet paused for a moment and thought. "i know what you told me," he said finally. he moved nervously about, while carrie looked at him confusedly. "well, i know that i didn't tell you any such thing as that," said carrie, recovering herself. "if i were you," went on drouet, ignoring her last remark, "i wouldn't have anything to do with him. he's a married man, you know." "who--who is?" said carrie, stumbling at the word. "why, hurstwood," said drouet, noting the effect and feeling that he was delivering a telling blow. "hurstwood!" exclaimed carrie, rising. her face had changed several shades since this announcement was made. she looked within and without herself in a half-dazed way. "who told you this?" she asked, forgetting that her interest was out of order and exceedingly incriminating. "why, i know it. i've always known it," said drouet. carrie was feeling about for a right thought. she was making a most miserable showing, and yet feelings were generating within her which were anything but crumbling cowardice. "i thought i told you," he added. "no, you didn't," she contradicted, suddenly recovering her voice. "you didn't do anything of the kind." drouet listened to her in astonishment. this was something new. "i thought i did," he said. carrie looked around her very solemnly, and then went over to the window. "you oughtn't to have had anything to do with him," said drouet in an injured tone, "after all i've done for you." "you," said carrie, "you! what have you done for me?" her little brain had been surging with contradictory feelings--shame at exposure, shame at hurstwood's perfidy, anger at drouet's deception, the mockery he had made of her. now one clear idea came into her head. he was at fault. there was no doubt about it. why did he bring hurstwood out--hurstwood, a married man, and never say a word to her? never mind now about hurstwood's perfidy--why had he done this? why hadn't he warned her? there he stood now, guilty of this miserable breach of confidence and talking about what he had done for her! "well, i like that," exclaimed drouet, little realising the fire his remark had generated. "i think i've done a good deal." "you have, eh?" she answered. "you've deceived me--that's what you've done. you've brought your old friends out here under false pretences. you've made me out to be--oh," and with this her voice broke and she pressed her two little hands together tragically. "i don't see what that's got to do with it," said the drummer quaintly. "no," she answered, recovering herself and shutting her teeth. "no, of course you don't see. there isn't anything you see. you couldn't have told me in the first place, could you? you had to make me out wrong until it was too late. now you come sneaking around with your information and your talk about what you have done." drouet had never suspected this side of carrie's nature. she was alive with feeling, her eyes snapping, her lips quivering, her whole body sensible of the injury she felt, and partaking of her wrath. "who's sneaking?" he asked, mildly conscious of error on his part, but certain that he was wronged. "you are," stamped carrie. "you're a horrid, conceited coward, that's what you are. if you had any sense of manhood in you, you wouldn't have thought of doing any such thing." the drummer stared. "i'm not a coward," he said. "what do you mean by going with other men, anyway?" "other men!" exclaimed carrie. "other men--you know better than that. i did go with mr. hurstwood, but whose fault was it? didn't you bring him here? you told him yourself that he should come out here and take me out. now, after it's all over, you come and tell me that i oughtn't to go with him and that he's a married man." she paused at the sound of the last two words and wrung her hands. the knowledge of hurstwood's perfidy wounded her like a knife. "oh," she sobbed, repressing herself wonderfully and keeping her eyes dry. "oh, oh!" "well, i didn't think you'd be running around with him when i was away," insisted drouet. "didn't think!" said carrie, now angered to the core by the man's peculiar attitude. "of course not. you thought only of what would be to your satisfaction. you thought you'd make a toy of me--a plaything. well, i'll show you that you won't. i'll have nothing more to do with you at all. you can take your old things and keep them," and unfastening a little pin he had given her, she flung it vigorously upon the floor and began to move about as if to gather up the things which belonged to her. by this drouet was not only irritated but fascinated the more. he looked at her in amazement, and finally said: "i don't see where your wrath comes in. i've got the right of this thing. you oughtn't to have done anything that wasn't right after all i did for you." "what have you done for me?" asked carrie blazing, her head thrown back and her lips parted. "i think i've done a good deal," said the drummer, looking around. "i've given you all the clothes you wanted, haven't i? i've taken you everywhere you wanted to go. you've had as much as i've had, and more too." carrie was not ungrateful, whatever else might be said of her. in so far as her mind could construe, she acknowledged benefits received. she hardly knew how to answer this, and yet her wrath was not placated. she felt that the drummer had injured her irreparably. "did i ask you to?" she returned. "well, i did it," said drouet, "and you took it." "you talk as though i had persuaded you," answered carrie. "you stand there and throw up what you've done. i don't want your old things. i'll not have them. you take them to-night and do what you please with them. i'll not stay here another minute." "that's nice!" he answered, becoming angered now at the sense of his own approaching loss. "use everything and abuse me and then walk off. that's just like a woman. i take you when you haven't got anything, and then when some one else comes along, why i'm no good. i always thought it'd come out that way." he felt really hurt as he thought of his treatment, and looked as if he saw no way of obtaining justice. "it's not so," said carrie, "and i'm not going with anybody else. you have been as miserable and inconsiderate as you can be. i hate you, i tell you, and i wouldn't live with you another minute. you're a big, insulting"--here she hesitated and used no word at all--"or you wouldn't talk that way." she had secured her hat and jacket and slipped the latter on over her little evening dress. some wisps of wavy hair had loosened from the bands at the side of her head and were straggling over her hot, red cheeks. she was angry, mortified, grief-stricken. her large eyes were full of the anguish of tears, but her lids were not yet wet. she was distracted and uncertain, deciding and doing things without an aim or conclusion, and she had not the slightest conception of how the whole difficulty would end. "well, that's a fine finish," said drouet. "pack up and pull out, eh? you take the cake. i bet you were knocking around with hurstwood or you wouldn't act like that. i don't want the old rooms. you needn't pull out for me. you can have them for all i care, but b'george, you haven't done me right." "i'll not live with you," said carrie. "i don't want to live with you. you've done nothing but brag around ever since you've been here." "aw, i haven't anything of the kind," he answered. carrie walked over to the door. "where are you going?" he said, stepping over and heading her off. "let me out," she said. "where are you going?" he repeated. he was, above all, sympathetic, and the sight of carrie wandering out, he knew not where, affected him, despite his grievance. carrie merely pulled at the door. the strain of the situation was too much for her, however. she made one more vain effort and then burst into tears. "now, be reasonable, cad," said drouet gently. "what do you want to rush out for this way? you haven't any place to go. why not stay here now and be quiet? i'll not bother you. i don't want to stay here any longer." carrie had gone sobbing from the door to the window. she was so overcome she could not speak. "be reasonable now," he said. "i don't want to hold you. you can go if you want to, but why don't you think it over? lord knows, i don't want to stop you." he received no answer. carrie was quieting, however, under the influence of his plea. "you stay here now, and i'll go," he added at last. carrie listened to this with mingled feelings. her mind was shaken loose from the little mooring of logic that it had. she was stirred by this thought, angered by that--her own injustice, hurstwood's, drouet's, their respective qualities of kindness and favour, the threat of the world outside, in which she had failed once before, the impossibility of this state inside, where the chambers were no longer justly hers, the effect of the argument upon her nerves, all combined to make her a mass of jangling fibres--an anchorless, storm-beaten little craft which could do absolutely nothing but drift. "say," said drouet, coming over to her after a few moments, with a new idea, and putting his hand upon her. "don't!" said carrie, drawing away, but not removing her handkerchief from her eyes. "never mind about this quarrel now. let it go. you stay here until the month's out, anyhow, and then you can tell better what you want to do. eh?" carrie made no answer. "you'd better do that," he said. "there's no use your packing up now. you can't go anywhere." still he got nothing for his words. "if you'll do that, we'll call it off for the present and i'll get out." carrie lowered her handkerchief slightly and looked out of the window. "will you do that?" he asked. still no answer. "will you?" he repeated. she only looked vaguely into the street. "aw! come on," he said, "tell me. will you?" "i don't know," said carrie softly, forced to answer. "promise me you'll do that," he said, "and we'll quit talking about it. it'll be the best thing for you." carrie heard him, but she could not bring herself to answer reasonably. she felt that the man was gentle, and that his interest in her had not abated, and it made her suffer a pang of regret. she was in a most helpless plight. as for drouet, his attitude had been that of the jealous lover. now his feelings were a mixture of anger at deception, sorrow at losing carrie, misery at being defeated. he wanted his rights in some way or other, and yet his rights included the retaining of carrie, the making her feel her error. "will you?" he urged. "well, i'll see," said carrie. this left the matter as open as before, but it was something. it looked as if the quarrel would blow over, if they could only get some way of talking to one another. carrie was ashamed, and drouet aggrieved. he pretended to take up the task of packing some things in a valise. now, as carrie watched him out of the corner of her eye, certain sound thoughts came into her head. he had erred, true, but what had she done? he was kindly and good-natured for all his egotism. throughout this argument he had said nothing very harsh. on the other hand, there was hurstwood--a greater deceiver than he. he had pretended all this affection, all this passion, and he was lying to her all the while. oh, the perfidy of men! and she had loved him. there could be nothing more in that quarter. she would see hurstwood no more. she would write him and let him know what she thought. thereupon what would she do? here were these rooms. here was drouet, pleading for her to remain. evidently things could go on here somewhat as before, if all were arranged. it would be better than the street, without a place to lay her head. all this she thought of as drouet rummaged the drawers for collars and laboured long and painstakingly at finding a shirt-stud. he was in no hurry to rush this matter. he felt an attraction to carrie which would not down. he could not think that the thing would end by his walking out of the room. there must be some way round, some way to make her own up that he was right and she was wrong--to patch up a peace and shut out hurstwood for ever. mercy, how he turned at the man's shameless duplicity. "do you think," he said, after a few moments' silence, "that you'll try and get on the stage?" he was wondering what she was intending. "i don't know what i'll do yet," said carrie. "if you do, maybe i can help you. i've got a lot of friends in that line." she made no answer to this. "don't go and try to knock around now without any money. let me help you," he said. "it's no easy thing to go on your own hook here." carrie only rocked back and forth in her chair. "i don't want you to go up against a hard game that way." he bestirred himself about some other details and carrie rocked on. "why don't you tell me all about this thing," he said, after a time, "and let's call it off? you don't really care for hurstwood, do you?" "why do you want to start on that again?" said carrie. "you were to blame." "no, i wasn't," he answered. "yes, you were, too," said carrie. "you shouldn't have ever told me such a story as that." "but you didn't have much to do with him, did you?" went on drouet, anxious for his own peace of mind to get some direct denial from her. "i won't talk about it," said carrie, pained at the quizzical turn the peace arrangement had taken. "what's the use of acting like that now, cad?" insisted the drummer, stopping in his work and putting up a hand expressively. "you might let me know where i stand, at least." "i won't," said carrie, feeling no refuge but in anger. "whatever has happened is your own fault." "then you do care for him?" said drouet, stopping completely and experiencing a rush of feeling. "oh, stop!" said carrie. "well, i'll not be made a fool of," exclaimed drouet. "you may trifle around with him if you want to, but you can't lead me. you can tell me or not, just as you want to, but i won't fool any longer!" he shoved the last few remaining things he had laid out into his valise and snapped it with a vengeance. then he grabbed his coat, which he had laid off to work, picked up his gloves, and started out. "you can go to the deuce as far as i am concerned," he said, as he reached the door. "i'm no sucker," and with that he opened it with a jerk and closed it equally vigorously. carrie listened at her window view, more astonished than anything else at this sudden rise of passion in the drummer. she could hardly believe her senses--so good-natured and tractable had he invariably been. it was not for her to see the wellspring of human passion. a real flame of love is a subtle thing. it burns as a will-o'-the-wisp, dancing onward to fairylands of delight. it roars as a furnace. too often jealousy is the quality upon which it feeds. chapter xxiv ashes of tinder: a face at the window that night hurstwood remained down town entirely, going to the palmer house for a bed after his work was through. he was in a fevered state of mind, owing to the blight his wife's action threatened to cast upon his entire future. while he was not sure how much significance might be attached to the threat she had made, he was sure that her attitude, if long continued, would cause him no end of trouble. she was determined, and had worsted him in a very important contest. how would it be from now on? he walked the floor of his little office, and later that of his room, putting one thing and another together to no avail. mrs. hurstwood, on the contrary, had decided not to lose her advantage by inaction. now that she had practically cowed him, she would follow up her work with demands, the acknowledgment of which would make her word law in the future. he would have to pay her the money which she would now regularly demand or there would be trouble. it did not matter what he did. she really did not care whether he came home any more or not. the household would move along much more pleasantly without him, and she could do as she wished without consulting any one. now she proposed to consult a lawyer and hire a detective. she would find out at once just what advantages she could gain. hurstwood walked the floor, mentally arranging the chief points of his situation. "she has that property in her name," he kept saying to himself. "what a fool trick that was. curse it! what a fool move that was." he also thought of his managerial position. "if she raises a row now i'll lose this thing. they won't have me around if my name gets in the papers. my friends, too!" he grew more angry as he thought of the talk any action on her part would create. how would the papers talk about it? every man he knew would be wondering. he would have to explain and deny and make a general mark of himself. then moy would come and confer with him and there would be the devil to pay. many little wrinkles gathered between his eyes as he contemplated this, and his brow moistened. he saw no solution of anything--not a loophole left. through all this thoughts of carrie flashed upon him, and the approaching affair of saturday. tangled as all his matters were, he did not worry over that. it was the one pleasing thing in this whole rout of trouble. he could arrange that satisfactorily, for carrie would be glad to wait, if necessary. he would see how things turned out to-morrow, and then he would talk to her. they were going to meet as usual. he saw only her pretty face and neat figure and wondered why life was not arranged so that such joy as he found with her could be steadily maintained. how much more pleasant it would be. then he would take up his wife's threat again, and the wrinkles and moisture would return. in the morning he came over from the hotel and opened his mail, but there was nothing in it outside the ordinary run. for some reason he felt as if something might come that way, and was relieved when all the envelopes had been scanned and nothing suspicious noticed. he began to feel the appetite that had been wanting before he had reached the office, and decided before going out to the park to meet carrie to drop in at the grand pacific and have a pot of coffee and some rolls. while the danger had not lessened, it had not as yet materialised, and with him no news was good news. if he could only get plenty of time to think, perhaps something would turn up. surely, surely, this thing would not drift along to catastrophe and he not find a way out. his spirits fell, however, when, upon reaching the park, he waited and waited and carrie did not come. he held his favourite post for an hour or more, then arose and began to walk about restlessly. could something have happened out there to keep her away? could she have been reached by his wife? surely not. so little did he consider drouet that it never once occurred to him to worry about his finding out. he grew restless as he ruminated, and then decided that perhaps it was nothing. she had not been able to get away this morning. that was why no letter notifying him had come. he would get one to-day. it would probably be on his desk when he got back. he would look for it at once. after a time he gave up waiting and drearily headed for the madison car. to add to his distress, the bright blue sky became overcast with little fleecy clouds which shut out the sun. the wind veered to the east, and by the time he reached his office it was threatening to drizzle all afternoon. he went in and examined his letters, but there was nothing from carrie. fortunately, there was nothing from his wife either. he thanked his stars that he did not have to confront that proposition just now when he needed to think so much. he walked the floor again, pretending to be in an ordinary mood, but secretly troubled beyond the expression of words. at one-thirty he went to rector's for lunch, and when he returned a messenger was waiting for him. he looked at the little chap with a feeling of doubt. "i'm to bring an answer," said the boy. hurstwood recognised his wife's writing. he tore it open and read without a show of feeling. it began in the most formal manner and was sharply and coldly worded throughout. "i want you to send the money i asked for at once. i need it to carry out my plans. you can stay away if you want to. it doesn't matter in the least. but i must have some money. so don't delay, but send it by the boy." when he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands. the audacity of the thing took his breath. it roused his ire also--the deepest element of revolt in him. his first impulse was to write but four words in reply--"go to the devil!"--but he compromised by telling the boy that there would be no reply. then he sat down in his chair and gazed without seeing, contemplating the result of his work. what would she do about that? the confounded wretch! was she going to try to bulldoze him into submission? he would go up there and have it out with her, that's what he would do. she was carrying things with too high a hand. these were his first thoughts. later, however, his old discretion asserted itself. something had to be done. a climax was near and she would not sit idle. he knew her well enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it up. possibly matters would go into a lawyer's hands at once. "damn her!" he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, "i'll make it hot for her if she causes me trouble. i'll make her change her tone if i have to use force to do it!" he arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street. the long drizzle had begun. pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers at the bottom. hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrellaless; umbrellas were up. the street looked like a sea of round black cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving. trucks and vans were rattling in a noisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they could. he scarcely noticed the picture. he was forever confronting his wife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he worked her bodily harm. at four o'clock another note came, which simply said that if the money was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before fitzgerald and moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get it. hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing. yes, he would send her the money. he'd take it to her--he would go up there and have a talk with her, and that at once. he put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella. he would have some arrangement of this thing. he called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the north side. on the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the case. what did she know? what had she done? maybe she'd got hold of carrie, who knows--or--or drouet. perhaps she really had evidence, and was prepared to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush. she was shrewd. why should she taunt him this way unless she had good grounds? he began to wish that he had compromised in some way or other--that he had sent the money. perhaps he could do it up here. he would go in and see, anyhow. he would have no row. by the time he reached his own street he was keenly alive to the difficulties of his situation and wished over and over that some solution would offer itself, that he could see his way out. he alighted and went up the steps to the front door, but it was with a nervous palpitation of the heart. he pulled out his key and tried to insert it, but another key was on the inside. he shook at the knob, but the door was locked. then he rang the bell. no answer. he rang again--this time harder. still no answer. he jangled it fiercely several times in succession, but without avail. then he went below. there was a door which opened under the steps into the kitchen, protected by an iron grating, intended as a safeguard against burglars. when he reached this he noticed that it also was bolted and that the kitchen windows were down. what could it mean? he rang the bell and then waited. finally, seeing that no one was coming, he turned and went back to his cab. "i guess they've gone out," he said apologetically to the individual who was hiding his red face in a loose tarpaulin rain-coat. "i saw a young girl up in that winder," returned the cabby. hurstwood looked, but there was no face there now. he climbed moodily into the cab, relieved and distressed. so this was the game, was it? shut him out and make him pay. well, by the lord, that did beat all! chapter xxv ashes of tinder: the loosing of stays when hurstwood got back to his office again he was in a greater quandary than ever. lord, lord, he thought, what had he got into? how could things have taken such a violent turn, and so quickly? he could hardly realise how it had all come about. it seemed a monstrous, unnatural, unwarranted condition which had suddenly descended upon him without his let or hindrance. meanwhile he gave a thought now and then to carrie. what could be the trouble in that quarter? no letter had come, no word of any kind, and yet here it was late in the evening and she had agreed to meet him that morning. to-morrow they were to have met and gone off--where? he saw that in the excitement of recent events he had not formulated a plan upon that score. he was desperately in love, and would have taken great chances to win her under ordinary circumstances, but now--now what? supposing she had found out something? supposing she, too, wrote him and told him that she knew all--that she would have nothing more to do with him? it would be just like this to happen as things were going now. meanwhile he had not sent the money. he strolled up and down the polished floor of the resort, his hands in his pockets, his brow wrinkled, his mouth set. he was getting some vague comfort out of a good cigar, but it was no panacea for the ill which affected him. every once in a while he would clinch his fingers and tap his foot--signs of the stirring mental process he was undergoing. his whole nature was vigorously and powerfully shaken up, and he was finding what limits the mind has to endurance. he drank more brandy and soda than he had any evening in months. he was altogether a fine example of great mental perturbation. for all his study nothing came of the evening except this--he sent the money. it was with great opposition, after two or three hours of the most urgent mental affirmation and denial, that at last he got an envelope, placed in it the requested amount, and slowly sealed it up. then he called harry, the boy of all work around the place. "you take this to this address," he said, handing him the envelope, "and give it to mrs. hurstwood." "yes, sir," said the boy. "if she isn't there bring it back." "yes, sir." "you've seen my wife?" he asked as a precautionary measure as the boy turned to go. "oh, yes, sir. i know her." "all right, now. hurry right back." "any answer?" "i guess not." the boy hastened away and the manager fell to his musings. now he had done it. there was no use speculating over that. he was beaten for to-night and he might just as well make the best of it. but, oh, the wretchedness of being forced this way! he could see her meeting the boy at the door and smiling sardonically. she would take the envelope and know that she had triumphed. if he only had that letter back he wouldn't send it. he breathed heavily and wiped the moisture from his face. for relief, he arose and joined in conversation with a few friends who were drinking. he tried to get the interest of things about him, but it was not to be. all the time his thoughts would run out to his home and see the scene being therein enacted. all the time he was wondering what she would say when the boy handed her the envelope. in about an hour and three-quarters the boy returned. he had evidently delivered the package, for, as he came up, he made no sign of taking anything out of his pocket. "well?" said hurstwood. "i gave it to her." "my wife?" "yes, sir." "any answer?" "she said it was high time." hurstwood scowled fiercely. there was no more to be done upon that score that night. he went on brooding over his situation until midnight, when he repaired again to the palmer house. he wondered what the morning would bring forth, and slept anything but soundly upon it. next day he went again to the office and opened his mail, suspicious and hopeful of its contents. no word from carrie. nothing from his wife, which was pleasant. the fact that he had sent the money and that she had received it worked to the ease of his mind, for, as the thought that he had done it receded, his chagrin at it grew less and his hope of peace more. he fancied, as he sat at his desk, that nothing would be done for a week or two. meanwhile, he would have time to think. this process of _thinking_ began by a reversion to carrie and the arrangement by which he was to get her away from drouet. how about that now? his pain at her failure to meet or write him rapidly increased as he devoted himself to this subject. he decided to write her care of the west side post-office and ask for an explanation, as well as to have her meet him. the thought that this letter would probably not reach her until monday chafed him exceedingly. he must get some speedier method--but how? he thought upon it for a half-hour, not contemplating a messenger or a cab direct to the house, owing to the exposure of it, but finding that time was slipping away to no purpose, he wrote the letter and then began to think again. the hours slipped by, and with them the possibility of the union he had contemplated. he had thought to be joyously aiding carrie by now in the task of joining her interests to his, and here it was afternoon and nothing done. three o'clock came, four, five, six, and no letter. the helpless manager paced the floor and grimly endured the gloom of defeat. he saw a busy saturday ushered out, the sabbath in, and nothing done. all day, the bar being closed, he brooded alone, shut out from home, from the excitement of his resort, from carrie, and without the ability to alter his condition one iota. it was the worst sunday he had spent in his life. in monday's second mail he encountered a very legal-looking letter, which held his interest for some time. it bore the imprint of the law offices of mcgregor, james and hay, and with a very formal "dear sir," and "we beg to state," went on to inform him briefly that they had been retained by mrs. julia hurstwood to adjust certain matters which related to her sustenance and property rights, and would he kindly call and see them about the matter at once. he read it through carefully several times, and then merely shook his head. it seemed as if his family troubles were just beginning. "well!" he said after a time, quite audibly, "i don't know." then he folded it up and put it in his pocket. to add to his misery there was no word from carrie. he was quite certain now that she knew he was married and was angered at his perfidy. his loss seemed all the more bitter now that he needed her most. he thought he would go out and insist on seeing her if she did not send him word of some sort soon. he was really affected most miserably of all by this desertion. he had loved her earnestly enough, but now that the possibility of losing her stared him in the face she seemed much more attractive. he really pined for a word, and looked out upon her with his mind's eye in the most wistful manner. he did not propose to lose her, whatever she might think. come what might, he would adjust this matter, and soon. he would go to her and tell her all his family complications. he would explain to her just where he stood and how much he needed her. surely she couldn't go back on him now? it wasn't possible. he would plead until her anger would melt--until she would forgive him. suddenly he thought: "supposing she isn't out there--suppose she has gone?" he was forced to take his feet. it was too much to think of and sit still. nevertheless, his rousing availed him nothing. on tuesday it was the same way. he did manage to bring himself into the mood to go out to carrie, but when he got in ogden place he thought he saw a man watching him and went away. he did not go within a block of the house. one of the galling incidents of this visit was that he came back on a randolph street car, and without noticing arrived almost opposite the building of the concern with which his son was connected. this sent a pang through his heart. he had called on his boy there several times. now the lad had not sent him a word. his absence did not seem to be noticed by either of his children. well, well, fortune plays a man queer tricks. he got back to his office and joined in a conversation with friends. it was as if idle chatter deadened the sense of misery. that night he dined at rector's and returned at once to his office. in the bustle and show of the latter was his only relief. he troubled over many little details and talked perfunctorily to everybody. he stayed at his desk long after all others had gone, and only quitted it when the night watchman on his round pulled at the front door to see if it was safely locked. on wednesday he received another polite note from mcgregor, james and hay. it read: "_dear sir_: we beg to inform you that we are instructed to wait until to-morrow (thursday) at one o'clock, before filing suit against you, on behalf of mrs. julia hurstwood, for divorce and alimony. if we do not hear from you before that time we shall consider that you do not wish to compromise the matter in any way and act accordingly. "very truly yours, etc." "compromise!" exclaimed hurstwood bitterly. "compromise!" again he shook his head. so here it was spread out clear before him, and now he knew what to expect. if he didn't go and see them they would sue him promptly. if he did, he would be offered terms that would make his blood boil. he folded the letter and put it with the other one. then he put on his hat and went for a turn about the block. chapter xxvi the ambassador fallen: a search for the gate carrie, left alone by drouet, listened to his retreating steps, scarcely realising what had happened. she knew that he had stormed out. it was some moments before she questioned whether he would return, not now exactly, but ever. she looked around her upon the rooms, out of which the evening light was dying, and wondered why she did not feel quite the same towards them. she went over to the dresser and struck a match, lighting the gas. then she went back to the rocker to think. it was some time before she could collect her thoughts, but when she did, this truth began to take on importance. she was quite alone. suppose drouet did not come back? suppose she should never hear anything more of him? this fine arrangement of chambers would not last long. she would have to quit them. to her credit, be it said, she never once counted on hurstwood. she could only approach that subject with a pang of sorrow and regret. for a truth, she was rather shocked and frightened by this evidence of human depravity. he would have tricked her without turning an eyelash. she would have been led into a newer and worse situation. and yet she could not keep out the pictures of his looks and manners. only this one deed seemed strange and miserable. it contrasted sharply with all she felt and knew concerning the man. but she was alone. that was the greater thought just at present. how about that? would she go out to work again? would she begin to look around in the business district? the stage! oh, yes. drouet had spoken about that. was there any hope there? she moved to and fro, in deep and varied thoughts, while the minutes slipped away and night fell completely. she had had nothing to eat, and yet there she sat, thinking it over. she remembered that she was hungry and went to the little cupboard in the rear room where were the remains of one of their breakfasts. she looked at these things with certain misgivings. the contemplation of food had more significance than usual. while she was eating she began to wonder how much money she had. it struck her as exceedingly important, and without ado she went to look for her purse. it was on the dresser, and in it were seven dollars in bills and some change. she quailed as she thought of the insignificance of the amount and rejoiced because the rent was paid until the end of the month. she began also to think what she would have done if she had gone out into the street when she first started. by the side of that situation, as she looked at it now, the present seemed agreeable. she had a little time at least, and then, perhaps, everything would come out all right, after all. drouet had gone, but what of it? he did not seem seriously angry. he only acted as if he were huffy. he would come back--of course he would. there was his cane in the corner. here was one of his collars. he had left his light overcoat in the wardrobe. she looked about and tried to assure herself with the sight of a dozen such details, but, alas, the secondary thought arrived. supposing he did come back. then what? here was another proposition nearly, if not quite, as disturbing. she would have to talk with and explain to him. he would want her to admit that he was right. it would be impossible for her to live with him. on friday carrie remembered her appointment with hurstwood, and the passing of the hour when she should, by all right of promise, have been in his company served to keep the calamity which had befallen her exceedingly fresh and clear. in her nervousness and stress of mind she felt it necessary to act, and consequently put on a brown street dress, and at eleven o'clock started to visit the business portion once again. she must look for work. the rain, which threatened at twelve and began at one, served equally well to cause her to retrace her steps and remain within doors as it did to reduce hurstwood's spirits and give him a wretched day. the morrow was saturday, a half-holiday in many business quarters, and besides it was a balmy, radiant day, with the trees and grass shining exceedingly green after the rain of the night before. when she went out the sparrows were twittering merrily in joyous choruses. she could not help feeling, as she looked across the lovely park, that life was a joyous thing for those who did not need to worry, and she wished over and over that something might interfere now to preserve for her the comfortable state which she had occupied. she did not want drouet or his money when she thought of it, nor anything more to do with hurstwood, but only the content and ease of mind she had experienced, for, after all, she had been happy--happier, at least, than she was now when confronted by the necessity of making her way alone. when she arrived in the business part it was quite eleven o'clock, and the business had little longer to run. she did not realise this at first, being affected by some of the old distress which was a result of her earlier adventure into this strenuous and exacting quarter. she wandered about, assuring herself that she was making up her mind to look for something, and at the same time feeling that perhaps it was not necessary to be in such haste about it. the thing was difficult to encounter, and she had a few days. besides, she was not sure that she was really face to face again with the bitter problem of self-sustenance. anyhow, there was one change for the better. she knew that she had improved in appearance. her manner had vastly changed. her clothes were becoming, and men--well-dressed men, some of the kind who before had gazed at her indifferently from behind their polished railings and imposing office partitions--now gazed into her face with a soft light in their eyes. in a way, she felt the power and satisfaction of the thing, but it did not wholly reassure her. she looked for nothing save what might come legitimately and without the appearance of special favour. she wanted something, but no man should buy her by false protestations or favour. she proposed to earn her living honestly. "this store closes at one on saturdays," was a pleasing and satisfactory legend to see upon doors which she felt she ought to enter and inquire for work. it gave her an excuse, and after encountering quite a number of them, and noting that the clock registered . , she decided that it would be no use to seek further to-day, so she got on a car and went to lincoln park. there was always something to see there--the flowers, the animals, the lake--and she flattered herself that on monday she would be up betimes and searching. besides, many things might happen between now and monday. sunday passed with equal doubts, worries, assurances, and heaven knows what vagaries of mind and spirit. every half-hour in the day the thought would come to her most sharply, like the tail of a swishing whip, that action--immediate action--was imperative. at other times she would look about her and assure herself that things were not so bad--that certainly she would come out safe and sound. at such times she would think of drouet's advice about going on the stage, and saw some chance for herself in that quarter. she decided to take up that opportunity on the morrow. accordingly, she arose early monday morning and dressed herself carefully. she did not know just how such applications were made, but she took it to be a matter which related more directly to the theatre buildings. all you had to do was to inquire of some one about the theatre for the manager and ask for a position. if there was anything, you might get it, or, at least, he could tell you how. she had had no experience with this class of individuals whatsoever, and did not know the salacity and humour of the theatrical tribe. she only knew of the position which mr. hale occupied, but, of all things, she did not wish to encounter that personage, on account of her intimacy with his wife. there was, however, at this time, one theatre, the chicago opera house, which was considerably in the public eye, and its manager, david a. henderson, had a fair local reputation. carrie had seen one or two elaborate performances there and had heard of several others. she knew nothing of henderson nor of the methods of applying, but she instinctively felt that this would be a likely place, and accordingly strolled about in that neighbourhood. she came bravely enough to the showy entrance way, with the polished and begilded lobby, set with framed pictures out of the current attraction, leading up to the quiet box-office, but she could get no further. a noted comic opera comedian was holding forth that week, and the air of distinction and prosperity overawed her. she could not imagine that there would be anything in such a lofty sphere for her. she almost trembled at the audacity which might have carried her on to a terrible rebuff. she could find heart only to look at the pictures which were showy and then walk out. it seemed to her as if she had made a splendid escape and that it would be foolhardy to think of applying in that quarter again. this little experience settled her hunting for one day. she looked around elsewhere, but it was from the outside. she got the location of several playhouses fixed in her mind--notably the grand opera house and mcvickar's, both of which were leading in attractions--and then came away. her spirits were materially reduced, owing to the newly restored sense of magnitude of the great interests and the insignificance of her claims upon society, such as she understood them to be. that night she was visited by mrs. hale, whose chatter and protracted stay made it impossible to dwell upon her predicament or the fortune of the day. before retiring, however, she sat down to think, and gave herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. drouet had not put in an appearance. she had had no word from any quarter, she had spent a dollar of her precious sum in procuring food and paying car fare. it was evident that she would not endure long. besides, she had discovered no resource. in this situation her thoughts went out to her sister in van buren street, whom she had not seen since the night of her flight, and to her home at columbia city, which seemed now a part of something that could not be again. she looked for no refuge in that direction. nothing but sorrow was brought her by thoughts of hurstwood, which would return. that he could have chosen to dupe her in so ready a manner seemed a cruel thing. tuesday came, and with it appropriate indecision and speculation. she was in no mood, after her failure of the day before, to hasten forth upon her work-seeking errand, and yet she rebuked herself for what she considered her weakness the day before. accordingly she started out to revisit the chicago opera house, but possessed scarcely enough courage to approach. she did manage to inquire at the box-office, however. "manager of the company or the house?" asked the smartly dressed individual who took care of the tickets. he was favourably impressed by carrie's looks. "i don't know," said carrie, taken back by the question. "you couldn't see the manager of the house to-day, anyhow," volunteered the young man. "he's out of town." he noted her puzzled look, and then added: "what is it you wish to see about?" "i want to see about getting a position," she answered. "you'd better see the manager of the company," he returned, "but he isn't here now." "when will he be in?" asked carrie, somewhat relieved by this information. "well, you might find him in between eleven and twelve. he's here after two o'clock." carrie thanked him and walked briskly out, while the young man gazed after her through one of the side windows of his gilded coop. "good-looking," he said to himself, and proceeded to visions of condescensions on her part which were exceedingly flattering to himself. one of the principal comedy companies of the day was playing an engagement at the grand opera house. here carrie asked to see the manager of the company. she little knew the trivial authority of this individual, or that had there been a vacancy an actor would have been sent on from new york to fill it. "his office is upstairs," said a man in the box-office. several persons were in the manager's office, two lounging near a window, another talking to an individual sitting at a roll-top desk--the manager. carrie glanced nervously about, and began to fear that she should have to make her appeal before the assembled company, two of whom--the occupants of the window--were already observing her carefully. "i can't do it," the manager was saying; "it's a rule of mr. frohman's never to allow visitors back of the stage. no, no!" carrie timidly waited, standing. there were chairs, but no one motioned her to be seated. the individual to whom the manager had been talking went away quite crestfallen. that luminary gazed earnestly at some papers before him, as if they were of the greatest concern. "did you see that in the 'herald' this morning about nat goodwin, harris?" "no," said the person addressed. "what was it?" "made quite a curtain address at hooley's last night. better look it up." harris reached over to a table and began to look for the "herald." "what is it?" said the manager to carrie, apparently noticing her for the first time. he thought he was going to be held up for free tickets. carrie summoned up all her courage, which was little at best. she realised that she was a novice, and felt as if a rebuff were certain. of this she was so sure that she only wished now to pretend she had called for advice. "can you tell me how to go about getting on the stage?" it was the best way after all to have gone about the matter. she was interesting, in a manner, to the occupant of the chair, and the simplicity of her request and attitude took his fancy. he smiled, as did the others in the room, who, however, made some slight effort to conceal their humour. "i don't know," he answered, looking her brazenly over. "have you ever had any experience upon the stage?" "a little," answered carrie. "i have taken part in amateur performances." she thought she had to make some sort of showing in order to retain his interest. "never studied for the stage?" he said, putting on an air intended as much to impress his friends with his discretion as carrie. "no, sir." "well, i don't know," he answered, tipping lazily back in his chair while she stood before him. "what makes you want to get on the stage?" she felt abashed at the man's daring, but could only smile in answer to his engaging smirk, and say: "i need to make a living." "oh," he answered, rather taken by her trim appearance, and feeling as if he might scrape up an acquaintance with her. "that's a good reason, isn't it? well, chicago is not a good place for what you want to do. you ought to be in new york. there's more chance there. you could hardly expect to get started out here." carrie smiled genially, grateful that he should condescend to advise her even so much. he noticed the smile, and put a slightly different construction on it. he thought he saw an easy chance for a little flirtation. "sit down," he said, pulling a chair forward from the side of his desk and dropping his voice so that the two men in the room should not hear. those two gave each other the suggestion of a wink. "well, i'll be going, barney," said one, breaking away and so addressing the manager. "see you this afternoon." "all right," said the manager. the remaining individual took up a paper as if to read. "did you have any idea what sort of part you would like to get?" asked the manager softly. "oh, no," said carrie. "i would take anything to begin with." "i see," he said. "do you live here in the city?" "yes, sir." the manager smiled most blandly. "have you ever tried to get in as a chorus girl?" he asked, assuming a more confidential air. carrie began to feel that there was something exuberant and unnatural in his manner. "no," she said. "that's the way most girls begin," he went on, "who go on the stage. it's a good way to get experience." he was turning on her a glance of the companionable and persuasive manner. "i didn't know that," said carrie. "it's a difficult thing," he went on, "but there's always a chance, you know." then, as if he suddenly remembered, he pulled out his watch and consulted it. "i've an appointment at two," he said, "and i've got to go to lunch now. would you care to come and dine with me? we can talk it over there." "oh, no," said carrie, the whole motive of the man flashing on her at once. "i have an engagement myself." "that's too bad," he said, realising that he had been a little beforehand in his offer and that carrie was about to go away. "come in later. i may know of something." "thank you," she answered, with some trepidation, and went out. "she was good-looking, wasn't she?" said the manager's companion, who had not caught all the details of the game he had played. "yes, in a way," said the other, sore to think the game had been lost. "she'd never make an actress, though. just another chorus girl--that's all." this little experience nearly destroyed her ambition to call upon the manager at the chicago opera house, but she decided to do so after a time. he was of a more sedate turn of mind. he said at once that there was no opening of any sort, and seemed to consider her search foolish. "chicago is no place to get a start," he said. "you ought to be in new york." still she persisted, and went to mcvickar's, where she could not find any one. "the old homestead" was running there, but the person to whom she was referred was not to be found. these little expeditions took up her time until quite four o'clock, when she was weary enough to go home. she felt as if she ought to continue and inquire elsewhere, but the results so far were too dispiriting. she took the car and arrived at ogden place in three-quarters of an hour, but decided to ride on to the west side branch of the post-office, where she was accustomed to receive hurstwood's letters. there was one there now, written saturday, which she tore open and read with mingled feelings. there was so much warmth in it and such tense complaint at her having failed to meet him, and her subsequent silence, that she rather pitied the man. that he loved her was evident enough. that he had wished and dared to do so, married as he was, was the evil. she felt as if the thing deserved an answer, and consequently decided that she would write and let him know that she knew of his married state and was justly incensed at his deception. she would tell him that it was all over between them. at her room, the wording of this missive occupied her for some time, for she fell to the task at once. it was most difficult. "you do not need to have me explain why i did not meet you," she wrote in part. "how could you deceive me so? you cannot expect me to have anything more to do with you. i wouldn't under any circumstances. oh, how could you act so?" she added in a burst of feeling. "you have caused me more misery than you can think. i hope you will get over your infatuation for me. we must not meet any more. good-bye." she took the letter the next morning, and at the corner dropped it reluctantly into the letter-box, still uncertain as to whether she should do so or not. then she took the car and went down town. this was the dull season with the department stores, but she was listened to with more consideration than was usually accorded to young women applicants, owing to her neat and attractive appearance. she was asked the same old questions with which she was already familiar. "what can you do? have you ever worked in a retail store before? are you experienced?" at the fair, see and company's, and all the great stores it was much the same. it was the dull season, she might come in a little later, possibly they would like to have her. when she arrived at the house at the end of the day, weary and disheartened, she discovered that drouet had been there. his umbrella and light overcoat were gone. she thought she missed other things, but could not be sure. everything had not been taken. so his going was crystallising into staying. what was she to do now? evidently she would be facing the world in the same old way within a day or two. her clothes would get poor. she put her two hands together in her customary expressive way and pressed her fingers. large tears gathered in her eyes and broke hot across her cheeks. she was alone, very much alone. drouet really had called, but it was with a very different mind from that which carrie had imagined. he expected to find her, to justify his return by claiming that he came to get the remaining portion of his wardrobe, and before he got away again to patch up a peace. accordingly, when he arrived, he was disappointed to find carrie out. he trifled about, hoping that she was somewhere in the neighbourhood and would soon return. he constantly listened, expecting to hear her foot on the stair. when he did so, it was his intention to make believe that he had just come in and was disturbed at being caught. then he would explain his need of his clothes and find out how things stood. wait as he did, however, carrie did not come. from pottering around among the drawers, in momentary expectation of her arrival, he changed to looking out of the window, and from that to resting himself in the rocking-chair. still no carrie. he began to grow restless and lit a cigar. after that he walked the floor. then he looked out of the window and saw clouds gathering. he remembered an appointment at three. he began to think that it would be useless to wait, and got hold of his umbrella and light coat, intending to take these things, any way. it would scare her, he hoped. to-morrow he would come back for the others. he would find out how things stood. as he started to go he felt truly sorry that he had missed her. there was a little picture of her on the wall, showing her arrayed in the little jacket he had first bought her--her face a little more wistful than he had seen it lately. he was really touched by it, and looked into the eyes of it with a rather rare feeling for him. "you didn't do me right, cad," he said, as if he were addressing her in the flesh. then he went to the door, took a good look around, and went out. chapter xxvii when waters engulf us we reach for a star it was when he returned from his disturbed stroll about the streets, after receiving the decisive note from mcgregor, james and hay, that hurstwood found the letter carrie had written him that morning. he thrilled intensely as he noted the handwriting, and rapidly tore it open. "then," he thought, "she loves me or she would not have written to me at all." he was slightly depressed at the tenor of the note for the first few minutes, but soon recovered. "she wouldn't write at all if she didn't care for me." this was his one resource against the depression which held him. he could extract little from the wording of the letter, but the spirit he thought he knew. there was really something exceedingly human--if not pathetic--in his being thus relieved by a clearly worded reproof. he who had for so long remained satisfied with himself now looked outside of himself for comfort--and to such a source. the mystic cords of affection! how they bind us all. the colour came to his cheeks. for the moment he forgot the letter from mcgregor, james and hay. if he could only have carrie, perhaps he could get out of the whole entanglement--perhaps it would not matter. he wouldn't care what his wife did with herself if only he might not lose carrie. he stood up and walked about, dreaming his delightful dream of a life continued with this lovely possessor of his heart. it was not long, however, before the old worry was back for consideration, and with it what weariness! he thought of the morrow and the suit. he had done nothing, and here was the afternoon slipping away. it was now a quarter of four. at five the attorneys would have gone home. he still had the morrow until noon. even as he thought, the last fifteen minutes passed away and it was five. then he abandoned the thought of seeing them any more that day and turned to carrie. it is to be observed that the man did not justify himself to himself. he was not troubling about that. his whole thought was the possibility of persuading carrie. nothing was wrong in that. he loved her dearly. their mutual happiness depended upon it. would that drouet were only away! while he was thinking thus elatedly, he remembered that he wanted some clean linen in the morning. this he purchased, together with a half-dozen ties, and went to the palmer house. as he entered he thought he saw drouet ascending the stairs with a key. surely not drouet! then he thought, perhaps they had changed their abode temporarily. he went straight up to the desk. "is mr. drouet stopping here?" he asked of the clerk. "i think he is," said the latter, consulting his private registry list. "yes." "is that so?" exclaimed hurstwood, otherwise concealing his astonishment. "alone?" he added. "yes," said the clerk. hurstwood turned away and set his lips so as best to express and conceal his feelings. "how's that?" he thought. "they've had a row." he hastened to his room with rising spirits and changed his linen. as he did so, he made up his mind that if carrie was alone, or if she had gone to another place, it behooved him to find out. he decided to call at once. "i know what i'll do," he thought. "i'll go to the door and ask if mr. drouet is at home. that will bring out whether he is there or not and where carrie is." he was almost moved to some muscular display as he thought of it. he decided to go immediately after supper. on coming down from his room at six, he looked carefully about to see if drouet was present and then went out to lunch. he could scarcely eat, however, he was so anxious to be about his errand. before starting he thought it well to discover where drouet would be, and returned to his hotel. "has mr. drouet gone out?" he asked of the clerk. "no," answered the latter, "he's in his room. do you wish to send up a card?" "no, i'll call around later," answered hurstwood, and strolled out. he took a madison car and went direct to ogden place, this time walking boldly up to the door. the chambermaid answered his knock. "is mr. drouet in?" said hurstwood blandly. "he is out of the city," said the girl, who had heard carrie tell this to mrs. hale. "is mrs. drouet in?" "no, she has gone to the theatre." "is that so?" said hurstwood, considerably taken back; then, as if burdened with something important, "you don't know to which theatre?" the girl really had no idea where she had gone, but not liking hurstwood, and wishing to cause him trouble, answered: "yes, hooley's." "thank you," returned the manager, and, tipping his hat slightly, went away. "i'll look in at hooley's," thought he, but as a matter of fact he did not. before he had reached the central portion of the city he thought the whole matter over and decided it would be useless. as much as he longed to see carrie, he knew she would be with some one and did not wish to intrude with his plea there. a little later he might do so--in the morning. only in the morning he had the lawyer question before him. this little pilgrimage threw quite a wet blanket upon his rising spirits. he was soon down again to his old worry, and reached the resort anxious to find relief. quite a company of gentlemen were making the place lively with their conversation. a group of cook county politicians were conferring about a round cherry-wood table in the rear portion of the room. several young merry-makers were chattering at the bar before making a belated visit to the theatre. a shabbily-genteel individual, with a red nose and an old high hat, was sipping a quiet glass of ale alone at one end of the bar. hurstwood nodded to the politicians and went into his office. about ten o'clock a friend of his, mr. frank l. taintor, a local sport and racing man, dropped in, and seeing hurstwood alone in his office came to the door. "hello, george!" he exclaimed. "how are you, frank?" said hurstwood, somewhat relieved by the sight of him. "sit down," and he motioned him to one of the chairs in the little room. "what's the matter, george?" asked taintor. "you look a little glum. haven't lost at the track, have you?" "i'm not feeling very well to-night. i had a slight cold the other day." "take whiskey, george," said taintor. "you ought to know that." hurstwood smiled. while they were still conferring there, several other of hurstwood's friends entered, and not long after eleven, the theatres being out, some actors began to drop in--among them some notabilities. then began one of those pointless social conversations so common in american resorts where the would-be _gilded_ attempt to rub off gilt from those who have it in abundance. if hurstwood had one leaning, it was toward notabilities. he considered that, if anywhere, he belonged among them. he was too proud to toady, too keen not to strictly observe the plane he occupied when there were those present who did not appreciate him, but, in situations like the present, where he could shine as a gentleman and be received without equivocation as a friend and equal among men of known ability, he was most delighted. it was on such occasions, if ever, that he would "take something." when the social flavour was strong enough he would even unbend to the extent of drinking glass for glass with his associates, punctiliously observing his turn to pay as if he were an outsider like the others. if he ever approached intoxication--or rather that ruddy warmth and comfortableness which precedes the more sloven state--it was when individuals such as these were gathered about him, when he was one of a circle of chatting celebrities. to-night, disturbed as was his state, he was rather relieved to find company, and now that notabilities were gathered, he laid aside his troubles for the nonce, and joined in right heartily. it was not long before the imbibing began to tell. stories began to crop up--those ever-enduring, droll stories which form the major portion of the conversation among american men under such circumstances. twelve o'clock arrived, the hour for closing, and with it the company took leave. hurstwood shook hands with them most cordially. he was very roseate physically. he had arrived at that state where his mind, though clear, was, nevertheless, warm in its fancies. he felt as if his troubles were not very serious. going into his office, he began to turn over certain accounts, awaiting the departure of the bartenders and the cashier, who soon left. it was the manager's duty, as well as his custom, after all were gone to see that everything was safely closed up for the night. as a rule, no money except the cash taken in after banking hours was kept about the place, and that was locked in the safe by the cashier, who, with the owners, was joint keeper of the secret combination, but, nevertheless, hurstwood nightly took the precaution to try the cash drawers and the safe in order to see that they were tightly closed. then he would lock his own little office and set the proper light burning near the safe, after which he would take his departure. never in his experience had he found anything out of order, but to-night, after shutting down his desk, he came out and tried the safe. his way was to give a sharp pull. this time the door responded. he was slightly surprised at that, and looking in found the money cases as left for the day, apparently unprotected. his first thought was, of course, to inspect the drawers and shut the door. "i'll speak to mayhew about this to-morrow," he thought. the latter had certainly imagined upon going out a half-hour before that he had turned the knob on the door so as to spring the lock. he had never failed to do so before. but to-night mayhew had other thoughts. he had been revolving the problem of a business of his own. "i'll look in here," thought the manager, pulling out the money drawers. he did not know why he wished to look in there. it was quite a superfluous action, which another time might not have happened at all. as he did so, a layer of bills, in parcels of a thousand, such as banks issue, caught his eye. he could not tell how much they represented, but paused to view them. then he pulled out the second of the cash drawers. in that were the receipts of the day. "i didn't know fitzgerald and moy ever left any money this way," his mind said to itself. "they must have forgotten it." he looked at the other drawer and paused again. "count them," said a voice in his ear. he put his hand into the first of the boxes and lifted the stack, letting the separate parcels fall. they were bills of fifty and one hundred dollars done in packages of a thousand. he thought he counted ten such. "why don't i shut the safe?" his mind said to itself, lingering. "what makes me pause here?" for answer there came the strangest words: "did you ever have ten thousand dollars in ready money?" lo, the manager remembered that he had never had so much. all his property had been slowly accumulated, and now his wife owned that. he was worth more than forty thousand, all told--but she would get that. he puzzled as he thought of these things, then pushed in the drawers and closed the door, pausing with his hand upon the knob, which might so easily lock it all beyond temptation. still he paused. finally he went to the windows and pulled down the curtains. then he tried the door, which he had previously locked. what was this thing, making him suspicious? why did he wish to move about so quietly. he came back to the end of the counter as if to rest his arm and think. then he went and unlocked his little office door and turned on the light. he also opened his desk, sitting down before it, only to think strange thoughts. "the safe is open," said a voice. "there is just the least little crack in it. the lock has not been sprung." the manager floundered among a jumble of thoughts. now all the entanglement of the day came back. also the thought that here was a solution. that money would do it. if he had that and carrie. he rose up and stood stock-still, looking at the floor. "what about it?" his mind asked, and for answer he put his hand slowly up and scratched his head. the manager was no fool to be led blindly away by such an errant proposition as this, but his situation was peculiar. wine was in his veins. it had crept up into his head and given him a warm view of the situation. it also coloured the possibilities of ten thousand for him. he could see great opportunities with that. he could get carrie. oh, yes, he could! he could get rid of his wife. that letter, too, was waiting discussion to-morrow morning. he would not need to answer that. he went back to the safe and put his hand on the knob. then he pulled the door open and took the drawer with the money quite out. with it once out and before him, it seemed a foolish thing to think about leaving it. certainly it would. why, he could live quietly with carrie for years. lord! what was that? for the first time he was tense, as if a stern hand had been laid upon his shoulder. he looked fearfully around. not a soul was present. not a sound. some one was shuffling by on the sidewalk. he took the box and the money and put it back in the safe. then he partly closed the door again. to those who have never wavered in conscience, the predicament of the individual whose mind is less strongly constituted and who trembles in the balance between duty and desire is scarcely appreciable, unless graphically portrayed. those who have never heard that solemn voice of the ghostly clock which ticks with awful distinctness, "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," "thou shalt," "thou shalt not," are in no position to judge. not alone in sensitive, highly organised natures is such a mental conflict possible. the dullest specimen of humanity, when drawn by desire toward evil, is recalled by a sense of right, which is proportionate in power and strength to his evil tendency. we must remember that it may not be a knowledge of right, for no knowledge of right is predicated of the animal's instinctive recoil at evil. men are still led by instinct before they are regulated by knowledge. it is instinct which recalls the criminal--it is instinct (where highly organised reasoning is absent) which gives the criminal his feeling of danger, his fear of wrong. at every first adventure, then, into some untried evil, the mind wavers. the clock of thought ticks out its wish and its denial. to those who have never experienced such a mental dilemma, the following will appeal on the simple ground of revelation. when hurstwood put the money back, his nature again resumed its ease and daring. no one had observed him. he was quite alone. no one could tell what he wished to do. he could work this thing out for himself. the imbibation of the evening had not yet worn off. moist as was his brow, tremble as did his hand once after the nameless fright, he was still flushed with the fumes of liquor. he scarcely noticed that the time was passing. he went over his situation once again, his eye always seeing the money in a lump, his mind always seeing what it would do. he strolled into his little room, then to the door, then to the safe again. he put his hand on the knob and opened it. there was the money! surely no harm could come from looking at it! he took out the drawer again and lifted the bills. they were so smooth, so compact, so portable. how little they made, after all. he decided he would take them. yes, he would. he would put them in his pocket. then he looked at that and saw they would not go there. his hand satchel! to be sure, his hand satchel. they would go in that--all of it would. no one would think anything of it either. he went into the little office and took it from the shelf in the corner. now he set it upon his desk and went out toward the safe. for some reason he did not want to fill it out in the big room. first he brought the bills and then the loose receipts of the day. he would take it all. he put the empty drawers back and pushed the iron door almost to, then stood beside it meditating. the wavering of a mind under such circumstances is an almost inexplicable thing, and yet it is absolutely true. hurstwood could not bring himself to act definitely. he wanted to think about it--to ponder over it, to decide whether it were best. he was drawn by such a keen desire for carrie, driven by such a state of turmoil in his own affairs that he thought constantly it would be best, and yet he wavered. he did not know what evil might result from it to him--how soon he might come to grief. the true ethics of the situation never once occurred to him, and never would have, under any circumstances. after he had all the money in the hand bag, a revulsion of feeling seized him. he would not do it--no! think of what a scandal it would make. the police! they would be after him. he would have to fly, and where? oh, the terror of being a fugitive from justice! he took out the two boxes and put all the money back. in his excitement he forgot what he was doing, and put the sums in the wrong boxes. as he pushed the door to, he thought he remembered doing it wrong and opened the door again. there were the two boxes mixed. he took them out and straightened the matter, but now the terror had gone. why be afraid? while the money was in his hand the lock clicked. it had sprung! did he do it? he grabbed at the knob and pulled vigorously. it had closed. heavens! he was in for it now, sure enough. the moment he realised that the safe was locked for a surety, the sweat burst out upon his brow and he trembled violently. he looked about him and decided instantly. there was no delaying now. "supposing i do lay it on the top," he said, "and go away, they'll know who took it. i'm the last to close up. besides, other things will happen." at once he became the man of action. "i must get out of this," he thought. he hurried into his little room, took down his light overcoat and hat, locked his desk, and grabbed the satchel. then he turned out all but one light and opened the door. he tried to put on his old assured air, but it was almost gone. he was repenting rapidly. "i wish i hadn't done that," he said. "that was a mistake." he walked steadily down the street, greeting a night watchman whom he knew who was trying doors. he must get out of the city, and that quickly. "i wonder how the trains run?" he thought. instantly he pulled out his watch and looked. it was nearly half-past one. at the first drug store he stopped, seeing a long-distance telephone booth inside. it was a famous drug store, and contained one of the first private telephone booths ever erected. "i want to use your 'phone a minute," he said to the night clerk. the latter nodded. "give me ," he called to central, after looking up the michigan central depot number. soon he got the ticket agent. "how do the trains leave here for detroit?" he asked. the man explained the hours. "no more to-night?" "nothing with a sleeper. yes, there is, too," he added. "there is a mail train out of here at three o'clock." "all right," said hurstwood. "what time does that get to detroit?" he was thinking if he could only get there and cross the river into canada, he could take his time about getting to montreal. he was relieved to learn that it would reach there by noon. "mayhew won't open the safe till nine," he thought. "they can't get on my track before noon." then he thought of carrie. with what speed must he get her, if he got her at all. she would have to come along. he jumped into the nearest cab standing by. "to ogden place," he said sharply. "i'll give you a dollar more if you make good time." the cabby beat his horse into a sort of imitation gallop, which was fairly fast, however. on the way hurstwood thought what to do. reaching the number, he hurried up the steps and did not spare the bell in waking the servant. "is mrs. drouet in?" he asked. "yes," said the astonished girl. "tell her to dress and come to the door at once. her husband is in the hospital, injured, and wants to see her." the servant girl hurried upstairs, convinced by the man's strained and emphatic manner. "what!" said carrie, lighting the gas and searching for her clothes. "mr. drouet is hurt and in the hospital. he wants to see you. the cab's downstairs." carrie dressed very rapidly, and soon appeared below, forgetting everything save the necessities. "drouet is hurt," said hurstwood quickly. "he wants to see you. come quickly." carrie was so bewildered that she swallowed the whole story. "get in," said hurstwood, helping her and jumping after. the cabby began to turn the horse around. "michigan central depot," he said, standing up and speaking so low that carrie could not hear, "as fast as you can go." chapter xxviii a pilgrim, an outlaw: the spirit detained the cab had not travelled a short block before carrie, settling herself and thoroughly waking in the night atmosphere, asked: "what's the matter with him? is he hurt badly?" "it isn't anything very serious," hurstwood said solemnly. he was very much disturbed over his own situation, and now that he had carrie with him, he only wanted to get safely out of reach of the law. therefore he was in no mood for anything save such words as would further his plans distinctly. carrie did not forget that there was something to be settled between her and hurstwood, but the thought was ignored in her agitation. the one thing was to finish this strange pilgrimage. "where is he?" "way out on the south side," said hurstwood. "we'll have to take the train. it's the quickest way." carrie said nothing, and the horse gambolled on. the weirdness of the city by night held her attention. she looked at the long receding rows of lamps and studied the dark, silent houses. "how did he hurt himself?" she asked--meaning what was the nature of his injuries. hurstwood understood. he hated to lie any more than necessary, and yet he wanted no protests until he was out of danger. "i don't know exactly," he said. "they just called me up to go and get you and bring you out. they said there wasn't any need for alarm, but that i shouldn't fail to bring you." the man's serious manner convinced carrie, and she became silent, wondering. hurstwood examined his watch and urged the man to hurry. for one in so delicate a position he was exceedingly cool. he could only think of how needful it was to make the train and get quietly away. carrie seemed quite tractable, and he congratulated himself. in due time they reached the depot, and after helping her out he handed the man a five-dollar bill and hurried on. "you wait here," he said to carrie, when they reached the waiting-room, "while i get the tickets." "have i much time to catch that train for detroit?" he asked of the agent. "four minutes," said the latter. he paid for two tickets as circumspectly as possible. "is it far?" said carrie, as he hurried back. "not very," he said. "we must get right in." he pushed her before him at the gate, stood between her and the ticket man while the latter punched their tickets, so that she could not see, and then hurried after. there was a long line of express and passenger cars and one or two common day coaches. as the train had only recently been made up and few passengers were expected, there were only one or two brakemen waiting. they entered the rear day coach and sat down. almost immediately, "all aboard," resounded faintly from the outside, and the train started. carrie began to think it was a little bit curious--this going to a depot--but said nothing. the whole incident was so out of the natural that she did not attach too much weight to anything she imagined. "how have you been?" asked hurstwood gently, for he now breathed easier. "very well," said carrie, who was so disturbed that she could not bring a proper attitude to bear in the matter. she was still nervous to reach drouet and see what could be the matter. hurstwood contemplated her and felt this. he was not disturbed that it should be so. he did not trouble because she was moved sympathetically in the matter. it was one of the qualities in her which pleased him exceedingly. he was only thinking how he should explain. even this was not the most serious thing in his mind, however. his own deed and present flight were the great shadows which weighed upon him. "what a fool i was to do that," he said over and over. "what a mistake!" in his sober senses, he could scarcely realise that the thing had been done. he could not begin to feel that he was a fugitive from justice. he had often read of such things, and had thought they must be terrible, but now that the thing was upon him, he only sat and looked into the past. the future was a thing which concerned the canadian line. he wanted to reach that. as for the rest, he surveyed his actions for the evening, and counted them parts of a great mistake. "still," he said, "what could i have done?" then he would decide to make the best of it, and would begin to do so by starting the whole inquiry over again. it was a fruitless, harassing round, and left him in a queer mood to deal with the proposition he had in the presence of carrie. the train clacked through the yards along the lake front, and ran rather slowly to twenty-fourth street. brakes and signals were visible without. the engine gave short calls with its whistle, and frequently the bell rang. several brakemen came through, bearing lanterns. they were locking the vestibules and putting the cars in order for a long run. presently it began to gain speed, and carrie saw the silent streets flashing by in rapid succession. the engine also began its whistle-calls of four parts, with which it signalled danger to important crossings. "is it very far?" asked carrie. "not so very," said hurstwood. he could hardly repress a smile at her simplicity. he wanted to explain and conciliate her, but he also wanted to be well out of chicago. in the lapse of another half-hour it became apparent to carrie that it was quite a run to wherever he was taking her, anyhow. "is it in chicago?" she asked nervously. they were now far beyond the city limits, and the train was scudding across the indiana line at a great rate. "no," he said, "not where we are going." there was something in the way he said this which aroused her in an instant. her pretty brow began to contract. "we are going to see charlie, aren't we?" she asked. he felt that the time was up. an explanation might as well come now as later. therefore, he shook his head in the most gentle negative. "what?" said carrie. she was nonplussed at the possibility of the errand being different from what she had thought. he only looked at her in the most kindly and mollifying way. "well, where are you taking me, then?" she asked, her voice showing the quality of fright. "i'll tell you, carrie, if you'll be quiet. i want you to come along with me to another city." "oh," said carrie, her voice rising into a weak cry. "let me off. i don't want to go with you." she was quite appalled at the man's audacity. this was something which had never for a moment entered her head. her one thought now was to get off and away. if only the flying train could be stopped, the terrible trick would be amended. she arose and tried to push out into the aisle--anywhere. she knew she had to do something. hurstwood laid a gentle hand on her. "sit still, carrie," he said. "sit still. it won't do you any good to get up here. listen to me and i'll tell you what i'll do. wait a moment." she was pushing at his knees, but he only pulled her back. no one saw this little altercation, for very few persons were in the car, and they were attempting to doze. "i won't," said carrie, who was, nevertheless, complying against her will. "let me go," she said. "how dare you?" and large tears began to gather in her eyes. hurstwood was now fully aroused to the immediate difficulty, and ceased to think of his own situation. he must do something with this girl, or she would cause him trouble. he tried the art of persuasion with all his powers aroused. "look here now, carrie," he said, "you mustn't act this way. i didn't mean to hurt your feelings. i don't want to do anything to make you feel bad." "oh," sobbed carrie, "oh, oh--oo--o!" "there, there," he said, "you mustn't cry. won't you listen to me? listen to me a minute, and i'll tell you why i came to do this thing. i couldn't help it. i assure you i couldn't. won't you listen?" her sobs disturbed him so that he was quite sure she did not hear a word he said. "won't you listen?" he asked. "no, i won't," said carrie, flashing up. "i want you to take me out of this, or i'll tell the conductor. i won't go with you. it's a shame," and again sobs of fright cut off her desire for expression. hurstwood listened with some astonishment. he felt that she had just cause for feeling as she did, and yet he wished that he could straighten this thing out quickly. shortly the conductor would come through for the tickets. he wanted no noise, no trouble of any kind. before everything he must make her quiet. "you couldn't get out until the train stops again," said hurstwood. "it won't be very long until we reach another station. you can get out then if you want to. i won't stop you. all i want you to do is to listen a moment. you'll let me tell you, won't you?" carrie seemed not to listen. she only turned her head toward the window, where outside all was black. the train was speeding with steady grace across the fields and through patches of wood. the long whistles came with sad, musical effect as the lonely woodland crossings were approached. now the conductor entered the car and took up the one or two fares that had been added at chicago. he approached hurstwood, who handed out the tickets. poised as she was to act, carrie made no move. she did not look about. when the conductor had gone again hurstwood felt relieved. "you're angry at me because i deceived you," he said. "i didn't mean to, carrie. as i live i didn't. i couldn't help it. i couldn't stay away from you after the first time i saw you." he was ignoring the last deception as something that might go by the board. he wanted to convince her that his wife could no longer be a factor in their relationship. the money he had stolen he tried to shut out of his mind. "don't talk to me," said carrie, "i hate you. i want you to go away from me. i am going to get out at the very next station." she was in a tremble of excitement and opposition as she spoke. "all right," he said, "but you'll hear me out, won't you? after all you have said about loving me, you might hear me. i don't want to do you any harm. i'll give you the money to go back with when you go. i merely want to tell you, carrie. you can't stop me from loving you, whatever you may think." he looked at her tenderly, but received no reply. "you think i have deceived you badly, but i haven't. i didn't do it willingly. i'm through with my wife. she hasn't any claims on me. i'll never see her any more. that's why i'm here to-night. that's why i came and got you." "you said charlie was hurt," said carrie, savagely. "you deceived me. you've been deceiving me all the time, and now you want to force me to run away with you." she was so excited that she got up and tried to get by him again. he let her, and she took another seat. then he followed. "don't run away from me, carrie," he said gently. "let me explain. if you will only hear me out you will see where i stand. i tell you my wife is nothing to me. she hasn't been anything for years or i wouldn't have ever come near you. i'm going to get a divorce just as soon as i can. i'll never see her again. i'm done with all that. you're the only person i want. if i can have you i won't ever think of another woman again." carrie heard all this in a very ruffled state. it sounded sincere enough, however, despite all he had done. there was a tenseness in hurstwood's voice and manner which could but have some effect. she did not want anything to do with him. he was married, he had deceived her once, and now again, and she thought him terrible. still there is something in such daring and power which is fascinating to a woman, especially if she can be made to feel that it is all prompted by love of her. the progress of the train was having a great deal to do with the solution of this difficult situation. the speeding wheels and disappearing country put chicago farther and farther behind. carrie could feel that she was being borne a long distance off--that the engine was making an almost through run to some distant city. she felt at times as if she could cry out and make such a row that some one would come to her aid; at other times it seemed an almost useless thing--so far was she from any aid, no matter what she did. all the while hurstwood was endeavouring to formulate his plea in such a way that it would strike home and bring her into sympathy with him. "i was simply put where i didn't know what else to do." carrie deigned no suggestion of hearing this. "when i saw you wouldn't come unless i could marry you, i decided to put everything else behind me and get you to come away with me. i'm going off now to another city. i want to go to montreal for a while, and then anywhere you want to. we'll go and live in new york, if you say." "i'll not have anything to do with you," said carrie. "i want to get off this train. where are we going?" "to detroit," said hurstwood. "oh!" said carrie, in a burst of anguish. so distant and definite a point seemed to increase the difficulty. "won't you come along with me?" he said, as if there was great danger that she would not. "you won't need to do anything but travel with me. i'll not trouble you in any way. you can see montreal and new york, and then if you don't want to stay you can go back. it will be better than trying to go back to-night." the first gleam of fairness shone in this proposition for carrie. it seemed a plausible thing to do, much as she feared his opposition if she tried to carry it out. montreal and new york! even now she was speeding toward those great, strange lands, and could see them if she liked. she thought, but made no sign. hurstwood thought he saw a shade of compliance in this. he redoubled his ardour. "think," he said, "what i've given up. i can't go back to chicago any more. i've got to stay away and live alone now, if you don't come with me. you won't go back on me entirely, will you, carrie?" "i don't want you to talk to me," she answered forcibly. hurstwood kept silent for a while. carrie felt the train to be slowing down. it was the moment to act if she was to act at all. she stirred uneasily. "don't think of going, carrie," he said. "if you ever cared for me at all, come along and let's start right. i'll do whatever you say. i'll marry you, or i'll let you go back. give yourself time to think it over. i wouldn't have wanted you to come if i hadn't loved you. i tell you, carrie, before god, i can't live without you. i won't!" there was the tensity of fierceness in the man's plea which appealed deeply to her sympathies. it was a dissolving fire which was actuating him now. he was loving her too intensely to think of giving her up in this, his hour of distress. he clutched her hand nervously and pressed it with all the force of an appeal. the train was now all but stopped. it was running by some cars on a side track. everything outside was dark and dreary. a few sprinkles on the window began to indicate that it was raining. carrie hung in a quandary, balancing between decision and helplessness. now the train stopped, and she was listening to his plea. the engine backed a few feet and all was still. she wavered, totally unable to make a move. minute after minute slipped by and still she hesitated, he pleading. "will you let me come back if i want to?" she asked, as if she now had the upper hand and her companion was utterly subdued. "of course," he answered, "you know i will." carrie only listened as one who has granted a temporary amnesty. she began to feel as if the matter were in her hands entirely. the train was again in rapid motion. hurstwood changed the subject. "aren't you very tired?" he said. "no," she answered. "won't you let me get you a berth in the sleeper?" she shook her head, though for all her distress and his trickery she was beginning to notice what she had always felt--his thoughtfulness. "oh, yes," he said, "you will feel so much better." she shook her head. "let me fix my coat for you, anyway," and he arose and arranged his light coat in a comfortable position to receive her head. "there," he said tenderly, "now see if you can't rest a little." he could have kissed her for her compliance. he took his seat beside her and thought a moment. "i believe we're in for a heavy rain," he said. "so it looks," said carrie, whose nerves were quieting under the sound of the rain drops, driven by a gusty wind, as the train swept on frantically through the shadow to a newer world. the fact that he had in a measure mollified carrie was a source of satisfaction to hurstwood, but it furnished only the most temporary relief. now that her opposition was out of the way, he had all of his time to devote to the consideration of his own error. his condition was bitter in the extreme, for he did not want the miserable sum he had stolen. he did not want to be a thief. that sum or any other could never compensate for the state which he had thus foolishly doffed. it could not give him back his host of friends, his name, his house and family, nor carrie, as he had meant to have her. he was shut out from chicago--from his easy, comfortable state. he had robbed himself of his dignity, his merry meetings, his pleasant evenings. and for what? the more he thought of it the more unbearable it became. he began to think that he would try and restore himself to his old state. he would return the miserable thievings of the night and explain. perhaps moy would understand. perhaps they would forgive him and let him come back. by noontime the train rolled into detroit and he began to feel exceedingly nervous. the police must be on his track by now. they had probably notified all the police of the big cities, and detectives would be watching for him. he remembered instances in which defaulters had been captured. consequently, he breathed heavily and paled somewhat. his hands felt as if they must have something to do. he simulated interest in several scenes without which he did not feel. he repeatedly beat his foot upon the floor. carrie noticed his agitation, but said nothing. she had no idea what it meant or that it was important. he wondered now why he had not asked whether this train went on through to montreal or some canadian point. perhaps he could have saved time. he jumped up and sought the conductor. "does any part of this train go to montreal?" he asked. "yes, the next sleeper back does." he would have asked more, but it did not seem wise, so he decided to inquire at the depot. the train rolled into the yards, clanging and puffing. "i think we had better go right on through to montreal," he said to carrie. "i'll see what the connections are when we get off." he was exceedingly nervous, but did his best to put on a calm exterior. carrie only looked at him with large, troubled eyes. she was drifting mentally, unable to say to herself what to do. the train stopped and hurstwood led the way out. he looked warily around him, pretending to look after carrie. seeing nothing that indicated studied observation, he made his way to the ticket office. "the next train for montreal leaves when?" he asked. "in twenty minutes," said the man. he bought two tickets and pullman berths. then he hastened back to carrie. "we go right out again," he said, scarcely noticing that carrie looked tired and weary. "i wish i was out of all this," she exclaimed gloomily. "you'll feel better when we reach montreal," he said. "i haven't an earthly thing with me," said carrie; "not even a handkerchief." "you can buy all you want as soon as you get there, dearest," he explained. "you can call in a dressmaker." now the crier called the train ready and they got on. hurstwood breathed a sigh of relief as it started. there was a short run to the river, and there they were ferried over. they had barely pulled the train off the ferry-boat when he settled back with a sigh. "it won't be so very long now," he said, remembering her in his relief. "we get there the first thing in the morning." carrie scarcely deigned to reply. "i'll see if there is a dining-car," he added. "i'm hungry." chapter xxix the solace of travel: the boats of the sea to the untravelled, territory other than their own familiar heath is invariably fascinating. next to love, it is the one thing which solaces and delights. things new are too important to be neglected, and mind, which is a mere reflection of sensory impressions, succumbs to the flood of objects. thus lovers are forgotten, sorrows laid aside, death hidden from view. there is a world of accumulated feeling back of the trite dramatic expression--"i am going away." as carrie looked out upon the flying scenery she almost forgot that she had been tricked into this long journey against her will and that she was without the necessary apparel for travelling. she quite forgot hurstwood's presence at times, and looked away to homely farmhouses and cosey cottages in villages with wondering eyes. it was an interesting world to her. her life had just begun. she did not feel herself defeated at all. neither was she blasted in hope. the great city held much. possibly she would come out of bondage into freedom--who knows? perhaps she would be happy. these thoughts raised her above the level of erring. she was saved in that she was hopeful. the following morning the train pulled safely into montreal and they stepped down, hurstwood glad to be out of danger, carrie wondering at the novel atmosphere of the northern city. long before, hurstwood had been here, and now he remembered the name of the hotel at which he had stopped. as they came out of the main entrance of the depot he heard it called anew by a busman. "we'll go right up and get rooms," he said. at the clerk's office hurstwood swung the register about while the clerk came forward. he was thinking what name he would put down. with the latter before him he found no time for hesitation. a name he had seen out of the car window came swiftly to him. it was pleasing enough. with an easy hand he wrote, "g. w. murdock and wife." it was the largest concession to necessity he felt like making. his initials he could not spare. when they were shown their room carrie saw at once that he had secured her a lovely chamber. "you have a bath there," said he. "now you can clean up when you get ready." carrie went over and looked out the window, while hurstwood looked at himself in the glass. he felt dusty and unclean. he had no trunk, no change of linen, not even a hair-brush. "i'll ring for soap and towels," he said, "and send you up a hair-brush. then you can bathe and get ready for breakfast. i'll go for a shave and come back and get you, and then we'll go out and look for some clothes for you." he smiled good-naturedly as he said this. "all right," said carrie. she sat down in one of the rocking-chairs, while hurstwood waited for the boy, who soon knocked. "soap, towels, and a pitcher of ice-water." "yes, sir." "i'll go now," he said to carrie, coming toward her and holding out his hands, but she did not move to take them. "you're not mad at me, are you?" he asked softly. "oh, no!" she answered, rather indifferently. "don't you care for me at all?" she made no answer, but looked steadily toward the window. "don't you think you could love me a little?" he pleaded, taking one of her hands, which she endeavoured to draw away. "you once said you did." "what made you deceive me so?" asked carrie. "i couldn't help it," he said, "i wanted you too much." "you didn't have any right to want me," she answered, striking cleanly home. "oh, well, carrie," he answered, "here i am. it's too late now. won't you try and care for me a little?" he looked rather worsted in thought as he stood before her. she shook her head negatively. "let me start all over again. be my wife from to-day on." carrie rose up as if to step away, he holding her hand. now he slipped his arm about her and she struggled, but in vain. he held her quite close. instantly there flamed up in his body the all-compelling desire. his affection took an ardent form. "let me go," said carrie, who was folded close to him. "won't you love me?" he said. "won't you be mine from now on?" carrie had never been ill-disposed toward him. only a moment before she had been listening with some complacency, remembering her old affection for him. he was so handsome, so daring! now, however, this feeling had changed to one of opposition, which rose feebly. it mastered her for a moment, and then, held close as she was, began to wane. something else in her spoke. this man, to whose bosom she was being pressed, was strong; he was passionate, he loved her, and she was alone. if she did not turn to him--accept of his love--where else might she go? her resistance half dissolved in the flood of his strong feeling. she found him lifting her head and looking into her eyes. what magnetism there was she could never know. his many sins, however, were for the moment all forgotten. he pressed her closer and kissed her, and she felt that further opposition was useless. "will you marry me?" she asked, forgetting how. "this very day," he said, with all delight. now the hall-boy pounded on the door and he released his hold upon her regretfully. "you get ready now, will you," he said, "at once?" "yes," she answered. "i'll be back in three-quarters of an hour." carrie, flushed and excited, moved away as he admitted the boy. below stairs, he halted in the lobby to look for a barber shop. for the moment, he was in fine feather. his recent victory over carrie seemed to atone for much he had endured during the last few days. life seemed worth fighting for. this eastward flight from all things customary and attached seemed as if it might have happiness in store. the storm showed a rainbow at the end of which might be a pot of gold. he was about to cross to a little red-and-white striped bar which was fastened up beside a door when a voice greeted him familiarly. instantly his heart sank. "why, hello, george, old man!" said the voice. "what are you doing down here?" hurstwood was already confronted, and recognised his friend kenny, the stock-broker. "just attending to a little private matter," he answered, his mind working like a key-board of a telephone station. this man evidently did not know--he had not read the papers. "well, it seems strange to see you way up here," said mr. kenny genially. "stopping here?" "yes," said hurstwood uneasily, thinking of his handwriting on the register. "going to be in town long?" "no, only a day or so." "is that so? had your breakfast?" "yes," said hurstwood, lying blandly. "i'm just going for a shave." "won't you come have a drink?" "not until afterwards," said the ex-manager. "i'll see you later. are you stopping here?" "yes," said mr. kenny, and then, turning the word again, added: "how are things out in chicago?" "about the same as usual," said hurstwood, smiling genially. "wife with you?" "no." "well, i must see more of you to-day. i'm just going in here for breakfast. come in when you're through." "i will," said hurstwood, moving away. the whole conversation was a trial to him. it seemed to add complications with every word. this man called up a thousand memories. he represented everything he had left. chicago, his wife, the elegant resort--all these were in his greeting and inquiries. and here he was in this same hotel expecting to confer with him, unquestionably waiting to have a good time with him. all at once the chicago papers would arrive. the local papers would have accounts in them this very day. he forgot his triumph with carrie in the possibility of soon being known for what he was, in this man's eyes, a safe-breaker. he could have groaned as he went into the barber shop. he decided to escape and seek a more secluded hotel. accordingly, when he came out he was glad to see the lobby clear, and hastened toward the stairs. he would get carrie and go out by the ladies' entrance. they would have breakfast in some more inconspicuous place. across the lobby, however, another individual was surveying him. he was of a commonplace irish type, small of stature, cheaply dressed, and with a head that seemed a smaller edition of some huge ward politician's. this individual had been evidently talking with the clerk, but now he surveyed the ex-manager keenly. hurstwood felt the long-range examination and recognised the type. instinctively he felt that the man was a detective--that he was being watched. he hurried across, pretending not to notice, but in his mind was a world of thoughts. what would happen now? what could these people do? he began to trouble concerning the extradition laws. he did not understand them absolutely. perhaps he could be arrested. oh, if carrie should find out! montreal was too warm for him. he began to long to be out of it. carrie had bathed and was waiting when he arrived. she looked refreshed--more delightful than ever, but reserved. since he had gone she had resumed somewhat of her cold attitude towards him. love was not blazing in her heart. he felt it, and his troubles seemed increased. he could not take her in his arms; he did not even try. something about her forbade it. in part his opinion was the result of his own experiences and reflections below stairs. "you're ready, are you?" he said kindly. "yes," she answered. "we'll go out for breakfast. this place down here doesn't appeal to me very much." "all right," said carrie. they went out, and at the corner the commonplace irish individual was standing, eyeing him. hurstwood could scarcely refrain from showing that he knew of this chap's presence. the insolence in the fellow's eye was galling. still they passed, and he explained to carrie concerning the city. another restaurant was not long in showing itself, and here they entered. "what a queer town this is," said carrie, who marvelled at it solely because it was not like chicago. "it isn't as lively as chicago," said hurstwood. "don't you like it?" "no," said carrie, whose feelings were already localised in the great western city. "well, it isn't as interesting," said hurstwood. "what's here?" asked carrie, wondering at his choosing to visit this town. "nothing much," returned hurstwood. "it's quite a resort. there's some pretty scenery about here." carrie listened, but with a feeling of unrest. there was much about her situation which destroyed the possibility of appreciation. "we won't stay here long," said hurstwood, who was now really glad to note her dissatisfaction. "you pick out your clothes as soon as breakfast is over and we'll run down to new york soon. you'll like that. it's a lot more like a city than any place outside chicago." he was really planning to slip out and away. he would see what these detectives would do--what move his employers at chicago would make--then he would slip away--down to new york, where it was easy to hide. he knew enough about that city to know that its mysteries and possibilities of mystification were infinite. the more he thought, however, the more wretched his situation became. he saw that getting here did not exactly clear up the ground. the firm would probably employ detectives to watch him--pinkerton men or agents of mooney and boland. they might arrest him the moment he tried to leave canada. so he might be compelled to remain here months, and in what a state! back at the hotel hurstwood was anxious and yet fearful to see the morning papers. he wanted to know how far the news of his criminal deed had spread. so he told carrie he would be up in a few moments, and went to secure and scan the dailies. no familiar or suspicious faces were about, and yet he did not like reading in the lobby, so he sought the main parlour on the floor above and, seated by a window there, looked them over. very little was given to his crime, but it was there, several "sticks" in all, among all the riffraff of telegraphed murders, accidents, marriages, and other news. he wished, half sadly, that he could undo it all. every moment of his time in this far-off abode of safety but added to his feeling that he had made a great mistake. there could have been an easier way out if he had only known. he left the papers before going to the room, thinking thus to keep them out of the hands of carrie. "well, how are you feeling?" he asked of her. she was engaged in looking out of the window. "oh, all right," she answered. he came over, and was about to begin a conversation with her, when a knock came at their door. "maybe it's one of my parcels," said carrie. hurstwood opened the door, outside of which stood the individual whom he had so thoroughly suspected. "you're mr. hurstwood, are you?" said the latter, with a volume of affected shrewdness and assurance. "yes," said hurstwood calmly. he knew the type so thoroughly that some of his old familiar indifference to it returned. such men as these were of the lowest stratum welcomed at the resort. he stepped out and closed the door. "well, you know what i am here for, don't you?" said the man confidentially. "i can guess," said hurstwood softly. "well, do you intend to try and keep the money?" "that's my affair," said hurstwood grimly. "you can't do it, you know," said the detective, eyeing him coolly. "look here, my man," said hurstwood authoritatively, "you don't understand anything about this case, and i can't explain to you. whatever i intend to do i'll do without advice from the outside. you'll have to excuse me." "well, now, there's no use of your talking that way," said the man, "when you're in the hands of the police. we can make a lot of trouble for you if we want to. you're not registered right in this house, you haven't got your wife with you, and the newspapers don't know you're here yet. you might as well be reasonable." "what do you want to know?" asked hurstwood. "whether you're going to send back that money or not." hurstwood paused and studied the floor. "there's no use explaining to you about this," he said at last. "there's no use of your asking me. i'm no fool, you know. i know just what you can do and what you can't. you can create a lot of trouble if you want to. i know that all right, but it won't help you to get the money. now, i've made up my mind what to do. i've already written fitzgerald and moy, so there's nothing i can say. you wait until you hear more from them." all the time he had been talking he had been moving away from the door, down the corridor, out of the hearing of carrie. they were now near the end where the corridor opened into the large general parlour. "you won't give it up?" said the man. the words irritated hurstwood greatly. hot blood poured into his brain. many thoughts formulated themselves. he was no thief. he didn't want the money. if he could only explain to fitzgerald and moy, maybe it would be all right again. "see here," he said, "there's no use my talking about this at all. i respect your power all right, but i'll have to deal with the people who know." "well, you can't get out of canada with it," said the man. "i don't want to get out," said hurstwood. "when i get ready there'll be nothing to stop me for." he turned back, and the detective watched him closely. it seemed an intolerable thing. still he went on and into the room. "who was it?" asked carrie. "a friend of mine from chicago." the whole of this conversation was such a shock that, coming as it did after all the other worry of the past week, it sufficed to induce a deep gloom and moral revulsion in hurstwood. what hurt him most was the fact that he was being pursued as a thief. he began to see the nature of that social injustice which sees but one side--often but a single point in a long tragedy. all the newspapers noted but one thing, his taking the money. how and wherefore were but indifferently dealt with. all the complications which led up to it were unknown. he was accused without being understood. sitting in his room with carrie the same day, he decided to send the money back. he would write fitzgerald and moy, explain all, and then send it by express. maybe they would forgive him. perhaps they would ask him back. he would make good the false statement he had made about writing them. then he would leave this peculiar town. for an hour he thought over this plausible statement of the tangle. he wanted to tell them about his wife, but couldn't. he finally narrowed it down to an assertion that he was light-headed from entertaining friends, had found the safe open, and having gone so far as to take the money out, had accidentally closed it. this act he regretted very much. he was sorry he had put them to so much trouble. he would undo what he could by sending the money back--the major portion of it. the remainder he would pay up as soon as he could. was there any possibility of his being restored? this he only hinted at. the troubled state of the man's mind may be judged by the very construction of this letter. for the nonce he forgot what a painful thing it would be to resume his old place, even if it were given him. he forgot that he had severed himself from the past as by a sword, and that if he did manage to in some way reunite himself with it, the jagged line of separation and reunion would always show. he was always forgetting something--his wife, carrie, his need of money, present situation, or something--and so did not reason clearly. nevertheless, he sent the letter, waiting a reply before sending the money. meanwhile, he accepted his present situation with carrie, getting what joy out of it he could. out came the sun by noon, and poured a golden flood through their open windows. sparrows were twittering. there were laughter and song in the air. hurstwood could not keep his eyes from carrie. she seemed the one ray of sunshine in all his trouble. oh, if she would only love him wholly--only throw her arms around him in the blissful spirit in which he had seen her in the little park in chicago--how happy he would be! it would repay him; it would show him that he had not lost all. he would not care. "carrie," he said, getting up once and coming over to her, "are you going to stay with me from now on?" she looked at him quizzically, but melted with sympathy as the value of the look upon his face forced itself upon her. it was love now, keen and strong--love enhanced by difficulty and worry. she could not help smiling. "let me be everything to you from now on," he said. "don't make me worry any more. i'll be true to you. we'll go to new york and get a nice flat. i'll go into business again, and we'll be happy. won't you be mine?" carrie listened quite solemnly. there was no great passion in her, but the drift of things and this man's proximity created a semblance of affection. she felt rather sorry for him--a sorrow born of what had only recently been a great admiration. true love she had never felt for him. she would have known as much if she could have analysed her feelings, but this thing which she now felt aroused by his great feeling broke down the barriers between them. "you'll stay with me, won't you?" he asked. "yes," she said, nodding her head. he gathered her to himself, imprinting kisses upon her lips and cheeks. "you must marry me, though," she said. "i'll get a license to-day," he answered. "how?" she asked. "under a new name," he answered. "i'll take a new name and live a new life. from now on i'm murdock." "oh, don't take that name," said carrie. "why not?" he said. "i don't like it." "well, what shall i take?" he asked. "oh, anything, only don't take that." he thought a while, still keeping his arms about her, and then said: "how would wheeler do?" "that's all right," said carrie. "well, then, wheeler," he said. "i'll get the license this afternoon." they were married by a baptist minister, the first divine they found convenient. at last the chicago firm answered. it was by mr. moy's dictation. he was astonished that hurstwood had done this; very sorry that it had come about as it had. if the money were returned, they would not trouble to prosecute him, as they really bore him no ill-will. as for his returning, or their restoring him to his former position, they had not quite decided what the effect of it would be. they would think it over and correspond with him later, possibly, after a little time, and so on. the sum and substance of it was that there was no hope, and they wanted the money with the least trouble possible. hurstwood read his doom. he decided to pay $ , to the agent whom they said they would send, keeping $ , for his own use. he telegraphed his acquiescence, explained to the representative who called at the hotel the same day, took a certificate of payment, and told carrie to pack her trunk. he was slightly depressed over this newest move at the time he began to make it, but eventually restored himself. he feared that even yet he might be seized and taken back, so he tried to conceal his movements, but it was scarcely possible. he ordered carrie's trunk sent to the depot, where he had it sent by express to new york. no one seemed to be observing him, but he left at night. he was greatly agitated lest at the first station across the border or at the depot in new york there should be waiting for him an officer of the law. carrie, ignorant of his theft and his fears, enjoyed the entry into the latter city in the morning. the round green hills sentinelling the broad, expansive bosom of the hudson held her attention by their beauty as the train followed the line of the stream. she had heard of the hudson river, the great city of new york, and now she looked out, filling her mind with the wonder of it. as the train turned east at spuyten duyvil and followed the east bank of the harlem river, hurstwood nervously called her attention to the fact that they were on the edge of the city. after her experience with chicago, she expected long lines of cars--a great highway of tracks--and noted the difference. the sight of a few boats in the harlem and more in the east river tickled her young heart. it was the first sign of the great sea. next came a plain street with five-story brick flats, and then the train plunged into the tunnel. "grand central station!" called the trainman, as, after a few minutes of darkness and smoke, daylight reappeared. hurstwood arose and gathered up his small grip. he was screwed up to the highest tension. with carrie he waited at the door and then dismounted. no one approached him, but he glanced furtively to and fro as he made for the street entrance. so excited was he that he forgot all about carrie, who fell behind, wondering at his self-absorption. as he passed through the depot proper the strain reached its climax and began to wane. all at once he was on the sidewalk, and none but cabmen hailed him. he heaved a great breath and turned, remembering carrie. "i thought you were going to run off and leave me," she said. "i was trying to remember which car takes us to the gilsey," he answered. carrie hardly heard him, so interested was she in the busy scene. "how large is new york?" she asked. "oh, a million or more," said hurstwood. he looked around and hailed a cab, but he did so in a changed way. for the first time in years the thought that he must count these little expenses flashed through his mind. it was a disagreeable thing. he decided he would lose no time living in hotels but would rent a flat. accordingly he told carrie, and she agreed. "we'll look to-day, if you want to," she said. suddenly he thought of his experience in montreal. at the more important hotels he would be certain to meet chicagoans whom he knew. he stood up and spoke to the driver. "take me to the belford," he said, knowing it to be less frequented by those whom he knew. then he sat down. "where is the residence part?" asked carrie, who did not take the tall five-story walls on either hand to be the abodes of families. "everywhere," said hurstwood, who knew the city fairly well. "there are no lawns in new york. all these are houses." "well, then, i don't like it," said carrie, who was coming to have a few opinions of her own. chapter xxx the kingdom of greatness: the pilgrim adream whatever a man like hurstwood could be in chicago, it is very evident that he would be but an inconspicuous drop in an ocean like new york. in chicago, whose population still ranged about , , millionaires were not numerous. the rich had not become so conspicuously rich as to drown all moderate incomes in obscurity. the attention of the inhabitants was not so distracted by local celebrities in the dramatic, artistic, social, and religious fields as to shut the well-positioned man from view. in chicago the two roads to distinction were politics and trade. in new york the roads were any one of a half-hundred, and each had been diligently pursued by hundreds, so that celebrities were numerous. the sea was already full of whales. a common fish must needs disappear wholly from view--remain unseen. in other words, hurstwood was nothing. there is a more subtle result of such a situation as this, which, though not always taken into account, produces the tragedies of the world. the great create an atmosphere which reacts badly upon the small. this atmosphere is easily and quickly felt. walk among the magnificent residences, the splendid equipages, the gilded shops, restaurants, resorts of all kinds; scent the flowers, the silks, the wines; drink of the laughter springing from the soul of luxurious content, of the glances which gleam like light from defiant spears; feel the quality of the smiles which cut like glistening swords and of strides born of place, and you shall know of what is the atmosphere of the high and mighty. little use to argue that of such is not the kingdom of greatness, but so long as the world is attracted by this and the human heart views this as the one desirable realm which it must attain, so long, to that heart, will this remain the realm of greatness. so long, also, will the atmosphere of this realm work its desperate results in the soul of man. it is like a chemical reagent. one day of it, like one drop of the other, will so affect and discolour the views, the aims, the desire of the mind, that it will thereafter remain forever dyed. a day of it to the untried mind is like opium to the untried body. a craving is set up which, if gratified, shall eternally result in dreams and death. aye! dreams unfulfilled--gnawing, luring, idle phantoms which beckon and lead, beckon and lead, until death and dissolution dissolve their power and restore us blind to nature's heart. a man of hurstwood's age and temperament is not subject to the illusions and burning desires of youth, but neither has he the strength of hope which gushes as a fountain in the heart of youth. such an atmosphere could not incite in him the cravings of a boy of eighteen, but in so far as they were excited, the lack of hope made them proportionately bitter. he could not fail to notice the signs of affluence and luxury on every hand. he had been to new york before and knew the resources of its folly. in part it was an awesome place to him, for here gathered all that he most respected on this earth--wealth, place, and fame. the majority of the celebrities with whom he had tipped glasses in his day as manager hailed from this self-centred and populous spot. the most inviting stories of pleasure and luxury had been told of places and individuals here. he knew it to be true that unconsciously he was brushing elbows with fortune the livelong day; that a hundred or five hundred thousand gave no one the privilege of living more than comfortably in so wealthy a place. fashion and pomp required more ample sums, so that the poor man was nowhere. all this he realised, now quite sharply, as he faced the city, cut off from his friends, despoiled of his modest fortune, and even his name, and forced to begin the battle for place and comfort all over again. he was not old, but he was not so dull but that he could feel he soon would be. of a sudden, then, this show of fine clothes, place, and power took on peculiar significance. it was emphasised by contrast with his own distressing state. and it was distressing. he soon found that freedom from fear of arrest was not the _sine qua non_ of his existence. that danger dissolved, the next necessity became the grievous thing. the paltry sum of thirteen hundred and some odd dollars set against the need of rent, clothing, food, and pleasure for years to come was a spectacle little calculated to induce peace of mind in one who had been accustomed to spend five times that sum in the course of a year. he thought upon the subject rather actively the first few days he was in new york, and decided that he must act quickly. as a consequence, he consulted the business opportunities advertised in the morning papers and began investigations on his own account. that was not before he had become settled, however. carrie and he went looking for a flat, as arranged, and found one in seventy-eighth street near amsterdam avenue. it was a five-story building, and their flat was on the third floor. owing to the fact that the street was not yet built up solidly, it was possible to see east to the green tops of the trees in central park and west to the broad waters of the hudson, a glimpse of which was to be had out of the west windows. for the privilege of six rooms and a bath, running in a straight line, they were compelled to pay thirty-five dollars a month--an average, and yet exorbitant, rent for a home at the time. carrie noticed the difference between the size of the rooms here and in chicago and mentioned it. "you'll not find anything better, dear," said hurstwood, "unless you go into one of the old-fashioned houses, and then you won't have any of these conveniences." carrie picked out the new abode because of its newness and bright wood-work. it was one of the very new ones supplied with steam heat, which was a great advantage. the stationary range, hot and cold water, dumb-waiter, speaking tubes, and call-bell for the janitor pleased her very much. she had enough of the instincts of a housewife to take great satisfaction in these things. hurstwood made arrangement with one of the instalment houses whereby they furnished the flat complete and accepted fifty dollars down and ten dollars a month. he then had a little plate, bearing the name g. w. wheeler, made, which he placed on his letter-box in the hall. it sounded exceedingly odd to carrie to be called mrs. wheeler by the janitor, but in time she became used to it and looked upon the name as her own. these house details settled, hurstwood visited some of the advertised opportunities to purchase an interest in some flourishing down-town bar. after the palatial resort in adams street, he could not stomach the commonplace saloons which he found advertised. he lost a number of days looking up these and finding them disagreeable. he did, however, gain considerable knowledge by talking, for he discovered the influence of tammany hall and the value of standing in with the police. the most profitable and flourishing places he found to be those which conducted anything but a legitimate business, such as that controlled by fitzgerald and moy. elegant back rooms and private drinking booths on the second floor were usually adjuncts of very profitable places. he saw by portly keepers, whose shirt fronts shone with large diamonds, and whose clothes were properly cut, that the liquor business here, as elsewhere, yielded the same golden profit. at last he found an individual who had a resort in warren street, which seemed an excellent venture. it was fairly well-appearing and susceptible of improvement. the owner claimed the business to be excellent, and it certainly looked so. "we deal with a very good class of people," he told hurstwood. "merchants, salesmen, and professionals. it's a well-dressed class. no bums. we don't allow 'em in the place." hurstwood listened to the cash-register ring, and watched the trade for a while. "it's profitable enough for two, is it?" he asked. "you can see for yourself if you're any judge of the liquor trade," said the owner. "this is only one of the two places i have. the other is down in nassau street. i can't tend to them both alone. if i had some one who knew the business thoroughly i wouldn't mind sharing with him in this one and letting him manage it." "i've had experience enough," said hurstwood blandly, but he felt a little diffident about referring to fitzgerald and moy. "well, you can suit yourself, mr. wheeler," said the proprietor. he only offered a third interest in the stock, fixtures, and good-will, and this in return for a thousand dollars and managerial ability on the part of the one who should come in. there was no property involved, because the owner of the saloon merely rented from an estate. the offer was genuine enough, but it was a question with hurstwood whether a third interest in that locality could be made to yield one hundred and fifty dollars a month, which he figured he must have in order to meet the ordinary family expenses and be comfortable. it was not the time, however, after many failures to find what he wanted, to hesitate. it looked as though a third would pay a hundred a month now. by judicious management and improvement, it might be made to pay more. accordingly he agreed to enter into partnership, and made over his thousand dollars, preparing to enter the next day. his first inclination was to be elated, and he confided to carrie that he thought he had made an excellent arrangement. time, however, introduced food for reflection. he found his partner to be very disagreeable. frequently he was the worse for liquor, which made him surly. this was the last thing which hurstwood was used to in business. besides, the business varied. it was nothing like the class of patronage which he had enjoyed in chicago. he found that it would take a long time to make friends. these people hurried in and out without seeking the pleasures of friendship. it was no gathering or lounging place. whole days and weeks passed without one such hearty greeting as he had been wont to enjoy every day in chicago. for another thing, hurstwood missed the celebrities--those well-dressed, _élite_ individuals who lend grace to the average bars and bring news from far-off and exclusive circles. he did not see one such in a month. evenings, when still at his post, he would occasionally read in the evening papers incidents concerning celebrities whom he knew--whom he had drunk a glass with many a time. they would visit a bar like fitzgerald and moy's in chicago, or the hoffman house, uptown, but he knew that he would never see them down here. again, the business did not pay as well as he thought. it increased a little, but he found he would have to watch his household expenses, which was humiliating. in the very beginning it was a delight to go home late at night, as he did, and find carrie. he managed to run up and take dinner with her between six and seven, and to remain home until nine o'clock in the morning, but the novelty of this waned after a time, and he began to feel the drag of his duties. the first month had scarcely passed before carrie said in a very natural way: "i think i'll go down this week and buy a dress." "what kind?" said hurstwood. "oh, something for street wear." "all right," he answered, smiling, although he noted mentally that it would be more agreeable to his finances if she didn't. nothing was said about it the next day, but the following morning he asked: "have you done anything about your dress?" "not yet," said carrie. he paused a few moments, as if in thought, and then said: "would you mind putting it off a few days?" "no," replied carrie, who did not catch the drift of his remarks. she had never thought of him in connection with money troubles before. "why?" "well, i'll tell you," said hurstwood. "this investment of mine is taking a lot of money just now. i expect to get it all back shortly, but just at present i am running close." "oh!" answered carrie. "why, certainly, dear. why didn't you tell me before?" "it wasn't necessary," said hurstwood. for all her acquiescence, there was something about the way hurstwood spoke which reminded carrie of drouet and his little deal which he was always about to put through. it was only the thought of a second, but it was a beginning. it was something new in her thinking of hurstwood. other things followed from time to time, little things of the same sort, which in their cumulative effect were eventually equal to a full revelation. carrie was not dull by any means. two persons cannot long dwell together without coming to an understanding of one another. the mental difficulties of an individual reveal themselves whether he voluntarily confesses them or not. trouble gets in the air and contributes gloom, which speaks for itself. hurstwood dressed as nicely as usual, but they were the same clothes he had in canada. carrie noticed that he did not install a large wardrobe, though his own was anything but large. she noticed, also, that he did not suggest many amusements, said nothing about the food, seemed concerned about his business. this was not the easy hurstwood of chicago--not the liberal, opulent hurstwood she had known. the change was too obvious to escape detection. in time she began to feel that a change had come about, and that she was not in his confidence. he was evidently secretive and kept his own counsel. she found herself asking him questions about little things. this is a disagreeable state to a woman. great love makes it seem reasonable, sometimes plausible, but never satisfactory. where great love is not, a more definite and less satisfactory conclusion is reached. as for hurstwood, he was making a great fight against the difficulties of a changed condition. he was too shrewd not to realise the tremendous mistake he had made, and appreciate that he had done well in getting where he was, and yet he could not help contrasting his present state with his former, hour after hour, and day after day. besides, he had the disagreeable fear of meeting old-time friends, ever since one such encounter which he made shortly after his arrival in the city. it was in broadway that he saw a man approaching him whom he knew. there was no time for simulating non-recognition. the exchange of glances had been too sharp, the knowledge of each other too apparent. so the friend, a buyer for one of the chicago wholesale houses, felt, perforce, the necessity of stopping. "how are you?" he said, extending his hand with an evident mixture of feeling and a lack of plausible interest. "very well," said hurstwood, equally embarrassed. "how is it with you?" "all right; i'm down here doing a little buying. are you located here now?" "yes," said hurstwood, "i have a place down in warren street." "is that so?" said the friend. "glad to hear it. i'll come down and see you." "do," said hurstwood. "so long," said the other, smiling affably and going on. "he never asked for my number," thought hurstwood; "he wouldn't think of coming." he wiped his forehead, which had grown damp, and hoped sincerely he would meet no one else. these things told upon his good-nature, such as it was. his one hope was that things would change for the better in a money way. he had carrie. his furniture was being paid for. he was maintaining his position. as for carrie, the amusements he could give her would have to do for the present. he could probably keep up his pretensions sufficiently long without exposure to make good, and then all would be well. he failed therein to take account of the frailties of human nature--the difficulties of matrimonial life. carrie was young. with him and with her varying mental states were common. at any moment the extremes of feeling might be anti-polarised at the dinner table. this often happens in the best regulated families. little things brought out on such occasions need great love to obliterate them afterward. where that is not, both parties count two and two and make a problem after a while. chapter xxxi a pet of good fortune: broadway flaunts its joys the effect of the city and his own situation on hurstwood was paralleled in the case of carrie, who accepted the things which fortune provided with the most genial good-nature. new york, despite her first expression of disapproval, soon interested her exceedingly. its clear atmosphere, more populous thoroughfares, and peculiar indifference struck her forcibly. she had never seen such a little flat as hers, and yet it soon enlisted her affection. the new furniture made an excellent showing, the sideboard which hurstwood himself arranged gleamed brightly. the furniture for each room was appropriate, and in the so-called parlour, or front room, was installed a piano, because carrie said she would like to learn to play. she kept a servant and developed rapidly in household tactics and information. for the first time in her life she felt settled, and somewhat justified in the eyes of society as she conceived of it. her thoughts were merry and innocent enough. for a long while she concerned herself over the arrangement of new york flats, and wondered at ten families living in one building and all remaining strange and indifferent to each other. she also marvelled at the whistles of the hundreds of vessels in the harbour--the long, low cries of the sound steamers and ferry-boats when fog was on. the mere fact that these things spoke from the sea made them wonderful. she looked much at what she could see of the hudson from her west windows and of the great city building up rapidly on either hand. it was much to ponder over, and sufficed to entertain her for more than a year without becoming stale. for another thing, hurstwood was exceedingly interesting in his affection for her. troubled as he was, he never exposed his difficulties to her. he carried himself with the same self-important air, took his new state with easy familiarity, and rejoiced in carrie's proclivities and successes. each evening he arrived promptly to dinner, and found the little dining-room a most inviting spectacle. in a way, the smallness of the room added to its luxury. it looked full and replete. the white-covered table was arrayed with pretty dishes and lighted with a four-armed candelabra, each light of which was topped with a red shade. between carrie and the girl the steaks and chops came out all right, and canned goods did the rest for a while. carrie studied the art of making biscuit, and soon reached the stage where she could show a plate of light, palatable morsels for her labour. in this manner the second, third, and fourth months passed. winter came, and with it a feeling that indoors was best, so that the attending of theatres was not much talked of. hurstwood made great efforts to meet all expenditures without a show of feeling one way or the other. he pretended that he was reinvesting his money in strengthening the business for greater ends in the future. he contented himself with a very moderate allowance of personal apparel, and rarely suggested anything for carrie. thus the first winter passed. in the second year, the business which hurstwood managed did increase somewhat. he got out of it regularly the $ per month which he had anticipated. unfortunately, by this time carrie had reached certain conclusions, and he had scraped up a few acquaintances. being of a passive and receptive rather than an active and aggressive nature, carrie accepted the situation. her state seemed satisfactory enough. once in a while they would go to a theatre together, occasionally in season to the beaches and different points about the city, but they picked up no acquaintances. hurstwood naturally abandoned his show of fine manners with her and modified his attitude to one of easy familiarity. there were no misunderstandings, no apparent differences of opinion. in fact, without money or visiting friends, he led a life which could neither arouse jealousy nor comment. carrie rather sympathised with his efforts and thought nothing upon her lack of entertainment such as she had enjoyed in chicago. new york as a corporate entity and her flat temporarily seemed sufficient. however, as hurstwood's business increased, he, as stated, began to pick up acquaintances. he also began to allow himself more clothes. he convinced himself that his home life was very precious to him, but allowed that he could occasionally stay away from dinner. the first time he did this he sent a message saying that he would be detained. carrie ate alone, and wished that it might not happen again. the second time, also, he sent word, but at the last moment. the third time he forgot entirely and explained afterwards. these events were months apart, each. "where were you, george?" asked carrie, after the first absence. "tied up at the office," he said genially. "there were some accounts i had to straighten." "i'm sorry you couldn't get home," she said kindly. "i was fixing to have such a nice dinner." the second time he gave a similar excuse, but the third time the feeling about it in carrie's mind was a little bit out of the ordinary. "i couldn't get home," he said, when he came in later in the evening, "i was so busy." "couldn't you have sent me word?" asked carrie. "i meant to," he said, "but you know i forgot it until it was too late to do any good." "and i had such a good dinner!" said carrie. now, it so happened that from his observations of carrie he began to imagine that she was of the thoroughly domestic type of mind. he really thought, after a year, that her chief expression in life was finding its natural channel in household duties. notwithstanding the fact that he had observed her act in chicago, and that during the past year he had only seen her limited in her relations to her flat and him by conditions which he made, and that she had not gained any friends or associates, he drew this peculiar conclusion. with it came a feeling of satisfaction in having a wife who could thus be content, and this satisfaction worked its natural result. that is, since he imagined he saw her satisfied, he felt called upon to give only that which contributed to such satisfaction. he supplied the furniture, the decorations, the food, and the necessary clothing. thoughts of entertaining her, leading her out into the shine and show of life, grew less and less. he felt attracted to the outer world, but did not think she would care to go along. once he went to the theatre alone. another time he joined a couple of his new friends at an evening game of poker. since his money-feathers were beginning to grow again he felt like sprucing about. all this, however, in a much less imposing way than had been his wont in chicago. he avoided the gay places where he would be apt to meet those who had known him. now, carrie began to feel this in various sensory ways. she was not the kind to be seriously disturbed by his actions. not loving him greatly, she could not be jealous in a disturbing way. in fact, she was not jealous at all. hurstwood was pleased with her placid manner, when he should have duly considered it. when he did not come home it did not seem anything like a terrible thing to her. she gave him credit for having the usual allurements of men--people to talk to, places to stop, friends to consult with. she was perfectly willing that he should enjoy himself in his way, but she did not care to be neglected herself. her state still seemed fairly reasonable, however. all she did observe was that hurstwood was somewhat different. some time in the second year of their residence in seventy-eighth street the flat across the hall from carrie became vacant, and into it moved a very handsome young woman and her husband, with both of whom carrie afterwards became acquainted. this was brought about solely by the arrangement of the flats, which were united in one place, as it were, by the dumb-waiter. this useful elevator, by which fuel, groceries, and the like were sent up from the basement, and garbage and waste sent down, was used by both residents of one floor; that is, a small door opened into it from each flat. if the occupants of both flats answered to the whistle of the janitor at the same time, they would stand face to face when they opened the dumb-waiter doors. one morning, when carrie went to remove her paper, the newcomer, a handsome brunette of perhaps twenty-three years of age, was there for a like purpose. she was in a night-robe and dressing-gown, with her hair very much tousled, but she looked so pretty and good-natured that carrie instantly conceived a liking for her. the newcomer did no more than smile shamefacedly, but it was sufficient. carrie felt that she would like to know her, and a similar feeling stirred in the mind of the other, who admired carrie's innocent face. "that's a real pretty woman who has moved in next door," said carrie to hurstwood at the breakfast table. "who are they?" asked hurstwood. "i don't know," said carrie. "the name on the bell is vance. some one over there plays beautifully. i guess it must be she." "well, you never can tell what sort of people you're living next to in this town, can you?" said hurstwood, expressing the customary new york opinion about neighbours. "just think," said carrie, "i have been in this house with nine other families for over a year and i don't know a soul. these people have been here over a month and i haven't seen any one before this morning." "it's just as well," said hurstwood. "you never know who you're going to get in with. some of these people are pretty bad company." "i expect so," said carrie, agreeably. the conversation turned to other things, and carrie thought no more upon the subject until a day or two later, when, going out to market, she encountered mrs. vance coming in. the latter recognised her and nodded, for which carrie returned a smile. this settled the probability of acquaintanceship. if there had been no faint recognition on this occasion, there would have been no future association. carrie saw no more of mrs. vance for several weeks, but she heard her play through the thin walls which divided the front rooms of the flats, and was pleased by the merry selection of pieces and the brilliance of their rendition. she could play only moderately herself, and such variety as mrs. vance exercised bordered, for carrie, upon the verge of great art. everything she had seen and heard thus far--the merest scraps and shadows--indicated that these people were, in a measure, refined and in comfortable circumstances. so carrie was ready for any extension of the friendship which might follow. one day carrie's bell rang and the servant, who was in the kitchen, pressed the button which caused the front door of the general entrance on the ground floor to be electrically unlatched. when carrie waited at her own door on the third floor to see who it might be coming up to call on her, mrs. vance appeared. "i hope you'll excuse me," she said. "i went out a while ago and forgot my outside key, so i thought i'd ring your bell." this was a common trick of other residents of the building, whenever they had forgotten their outside keys. they did not apologise for it, however. "certainly," said carrie. "i'm glad you did. i do the same thing sometimes." "isn't it just delightful weather?" said mrs. vance, pausing for a moment. thus, after a few more preliminaries, this visiting acquaintance was well launched, and in the young mrs. vance carrie found an agreeable companion. on several occasions carrie visited her and was visited. both flats were good to look upon, though that of the vances tended somewhat more to the luxurious. "i want you to come over this evening and meet my husband," said mrs. vance, not long after their intimacy began. "he wants to meet you. you play cards, don't you?" "a little," said carrie. "well, we'll have a game of cards. if your husband comes home bring him over." "he's not coming to dinner to-night," said carrie. "well, when he does come we'll call him in." carrie acquiesced, and that evening met the portly vance, an individual a few years younger than hurstwood, and who owed his seemingly comfortable matrimonial state much more to his money than to his good looks. he thought well of carrie upon the first glance and laid himself out to be genial, teaching her a new game of cards and talking to her about new york and its pleasures. mrs. vance played some upon the piano, and at last hurstwood came. "i am very glad to meet you," he said to mrs. vance when carrie introduced him, showing much of the old grace which had captivated carrie. "did you think your wife had run away?" said mr. vance, extending his hand upon introduction. "i didn't know but what she might have found a better husband," said hurstwood. he now turned his attention to mrs. vance, and in a flash carrie saw again what she for some time had sub-consciously missed in hurstwood--the adroitness and flattery of which he was capable. she also saw that she was not well dressed--not nearly as well dressed--as mrs. vance. these were not vague ideas any longer. her situation was cleared up for her. she felt that her life was becoming stale, and therein she felt cause for gloom. the old helpful, urging melancholy was restored. the desirous carrie was whispered to concerning her possibilities. there were no immediate results to this awakening, for carrie had little power of initiative; but, nevertheless, she seemed ever capable of getting herself into the tide of change where she would be easily borne along. hurstwood noticed nothing. he had been unconscious of the marked contrasts which carrie had observed. he did not even detect the shade of melancholy which settled in her eyes. worst of all, she now began to feel the loneliness of the flat and seek the company of mrs. vance, who liked her exceedingly. "let's go to the matinée this afternoon," said mrs. vance, who had stepped across into carrie's flat one morning, still arrayed in a soft pink dressing-gown, which she had donned upon rising. hurstwood and vance had gone their separate ways nearly an hour before. "all right," said carrie, noticing the air of the petted and well-groomed woman in mrs. vance's general appearance. she looked as though she was dearly loved and her every wish gratified. "what shall we see?" "oh, i do want to see nat goodwin," said mrs. vance. "i do think he is the jolliest actor. the papers say this is such a good play." "what time will we have to start?" asked carrie. "let's go at one and walk down broadway from thirty-fourth street," said mrs. vance. "it's such an interesting walk. he's at the madison square." "i'll be glad to go," said carrie. "how much will we have to pay for seats?" "not more than a dollar," said mrs. vance. the latter departed, and at one o'clock reappeared, stunningly arrayed in a dark-blue walking dress, with a nobby hat to match. carrie had gotten herself up charmingly enough, but this woman pained her by contrast. she seemed to have so many dainty little things which carrie had not. there were trinkets of gold, an elegant green leather purse set with her initials, a fancy handkerchief, exceedingly rich in design, and the like. carrie felt that she needed more and better clothes to compare with this woman, and that any one looking at the two would pick mrs. vance for her raiment alone. it was a trying, though rather unjust thought, for carrie had now developed an equally pleasing figure, and had grown in comeliness until she was a thoroughly attractive type of her colour of beauty. there was some difference in the clothing of the two, both of quality and age, but this difference was not especially noticeable. it served, however, to augment carrie's dissatisfaction with her state. the walk down broadway, then as now, was one of the remarkable features of the city. there gathered, before the matinée and afterwards, not only all the pretty women who love a showy parade, but the men who love to gaze upon and admire them. it was a very imposing procession of pretty faces and fine clothes. women appeared in their very best hats, shoes, and gloves, and walked arm in arm on their way to the fine shops or theatres strung along from fourteenth to thirty-fourth streets. equally the men paraded with the very latest they could afford. a tailor might have secured hints on suit measurements, a shoemaker on proper lasts and colours, a hatter on hats. it was literally true that if a lover of fine clothes secured a new suit, it was sure to have its first airing on broadway. so true and well understood was this fact, that several years later a popular song, detailing this and other facts concerning the afternoon parade on matinée days, and entitled "what right has he on broadway?" was published, and had quite a vogue about the music-halls of the city. in all her stay in the city, carrie had never heard of this showy parade; had never even been on broadway when it was taking place. on the other hand, it was a familiar thing to mrs. vance, who not only knew of it as an entity, but had often been in it, going purposely to see and be seen, to create a stir with her beauty and dispel any tendency to fall short in dressiness by contrasting herself with the beauty and fashion of the town. carrie stepped along easily enough after they got out of the car at thirty-fourth street, but soon fixed her eyes upon the lovely company which swarmed by and with them as they proceeded. she noticed suddenly that mrs. vance's manner had rather stiffened under the gaze of handsome men and elegantly dressed ladies, whose glances were not modified by any rules of propriety. to stare seemed the proper and natural thing. carrie found herself stared at and ogled. men in flawless top-coats, high hats, and silver-headed walking sticks elbowed near and looked too often into conscious eyes. ladies rustled by in dresses of stiff cloth, shedding affected smiles and perfume. carrie noticed among them the sprinkling of goodness and the heavy percentage of vice. the rouged and powdered cheeks and lips, the scented hair, the large, misty, and languorous eye, were common enough. with a start she awoke to find that she was in fashion's crowd, on parade in a show place--and such a show place! jewellers' windows gleamed along the path with remarkable frequency. florist shops, furriers, haberdashers, confectioners--all followed in rapid succession. the street was full of coaches. pompous doormen in immense coats, shiny brass belts and buttons, waited in front of expensive salesrooms. coachmen in tan boots, white tights, and blue jackets waited obsequiously for the mistresses of carriages who were shopping inside. the whole street bore the flavour of riches and show, and carrie felt that she was not of it. she could not, for the life of her, assume the attitude and smartness of mrs. vance, who, in her beauty, was all assurance. she could only imagine that it must be evident to many that she was the less handsomely dressed of the two. it cut her to the quick, and she resolved that she would not come here again until she looked better. at the same time she longed to feel the delight of parading here as an equal. ah, then she would be happy! chapter xxxii the feast of belshazzar: a seer to translate such feelings as were generated in carrie by this walk put her in an exceedingly receptive mood for the pathos which followed in the play. the actor whom they had gone to see had achieved his popularity by presenting a mellow type of comedy, in which sufficient sorrow was introduced to lend contrast and relief to humour. for carrie, as we well know, the stage had a great attraction. she had never forgotten her one histrionic achievement in chicago. it dwelt in her mind and occupied her consciousness during many long afternoons in which her rocking-chair and her latest novel contributed the only pleasures of her state. never could she witness a play without having her own ability vividly brought to consciousness. some scenes made her long to be a part of them--to give expression to the feelings which she, in the place of the character represented, would feel. almost invariably she would carry the vivid imaginations away with her and brood over them the next day alone. she lived as much in these things as in the realities which made up her daily life. it was not often that she came to the play stirred to her heart's core by actualities. to-day a low song of longing had been set singing in her heart by the finery, the merriment, the beauty she had seen. oh, these women who had passed her by, hundreds and hundreds strong, who were they? whence came the rich, elegant dresses, the astonishingly coloured buttons, the knick-knacks of silver and gold? where were these lovely creatures housed? amid what elegancies of carved furniture, decorated walls, elaborate tapestries did they move? where were their rich apartments, loaded with all that money could provide? in what stables champed these sleek, nervous horses and rested the gorgeous carriages? where lounged the richly groomed footmen? oh, the mansions, the lights, the perfume, the loaded boudoirs and tables! new york must be filled with such bowers, or the beautiful, insolent, supercilious creatures could not be. some hot-houses held them. it ached her to know that she was not one of them--that, alas, she had dreamed a dream and it had not come true. she wondered at her own solitude these two years past--her indifference to the fact that she had never achieved what she had expected. the play was one of those drawing-room concoctions in which charmingly overdressed ladies and gentlemen suffer the pangs of love and jealousy amid gilded surroundings. such bon-mots are ever enticing to those who have all their days longed for such material surroundings and have never had them gratified. they have the charm of showing suffering under ideal conditions. who would not grieve upon a gilded chair? who would not suffer amid perfumed tapestries, cushioned furniture, and liveried servants? grief under such circumstances becomes an enticing thing. carrie longed to be of it. she wanted to take her sufferings, whatever they were, in such a world, or failing that, at least to simulate them under such charming conditions upon the stage. so affected was her mind by what she had seen, that the play now seemed an extraordinarily beautiful thing. she was soon lost in the world it represented, and wished that she might never return. between the acts she studied the galaxy of matinée attendants in front rows and boxes, and conceived a new idea of the possibilities of new york. she was sure she had not seen it all--that the city was one whirl of pleasure and delight. going out, the same broadway taught her a sharper lesson. the scene she had witnessed coming down was now augmented and at its height. such a crush of finery and folly she had never seen. it clinched her convictions concerning her state. she had not lived, could not lay claim to having lived, until something of this had come into her own life. women were spending money like water; she could see that in every elegant shop she passed. flowers, candy, jewelry, seemed the principal things in which the elegant dames were interested. and she--she had scarcely enough pin money to indulge in such outings as this a few times a month. that night the pretty little flat seemed a commonplace thing. it was not what the rest of the world was enjoying. she saw the servant working at dinner with an indifferent eye. in her mind were running scenes of the play. particularly she remembered one beautiful actress--the sweetheart who had been wooed and won. the grace of this woman had won carrie's heart. her dresses had been all that art could suggest, her sufferings had been so real. the anguish which she had portrayed carrie could feel. it was done as she was sure she could do it. there were places in which she could even do better. hence she repeated the lines to herself. oh, if she could only have such a part, how broad would be her life! she, too, could act appealingly. when hurstwood came, carrie was moody. she was sitting, rocking and thinking, and did not care to have her enticing imaginations broken in upon; so she said little or nothing. "what's the matter, carrie?" said hurstwood after a time, noticing her quiet, almost moody state. "nothing," said carrie. "i don't feel very well to-night." "not sick, are you?" he asked, approaching very close. "oh, no," she said, almost pettishly, "i just don't feel very good." "that's too bad," he said, stepping away and adjusting his vest after his slight bending over. "i was thinking we might go to a show to-night." "i don't want to go," said carrie, annoyed that her fine visions should have thus been broken into and driven out of her mind. "i've been to the matinée this afternoon." "oh, you have?" said hurstwood. "what was it?" "a gold mine." "how was it?" "pretty good," said carrie. "and you don't want to go again to-night?" "i don't think i do," she said. nevertheless, wakened out of her melancholia and called to the dinner table, she changed her mind. a little food in the stomach does wonders. she went again, and in so doing temporarily recovered her equanimity. the great awakening blow had, however, been delivered. as often as she might recover from these discontented thoughts now, they would occur again. time and repetition--ah, the wonder of it! the dropping water and the solid stone--how utterly it yields at last! not long after this matinée experience--perhaps a month--mrs. vance invited carrie to an evening at the theatre with them. she heard carrie say that hurstwood was not coming home to dinner. "why don't you come with us? don't get dinner for yourself. we're going down to sherry's for dinner and then over to the lyceum. come along with us." "i think i will," answered carrie. she began to dress at three o'clock for her departure at half-past five for the noted dining-room which was then crowding delmonico's for position in society. in this dressing carrie showed the influence of her association with the dashing mrs. vance. she had constantly had her attention called by the latter to novelties in everything which pertains to a woman's apparel. "are you going to get such and such a hat?" or, "have you seen the new gloves with the oval pearl buttons?" were but sample phrases out of a large selection. "the next time you get a pair of shoes, dearie," said mrs. vance, "get button, with thick soles and patent-leather tips. they're all the rage this fall." "i will," said carrie. "oh, dear, have you seen the new shirtwaists at altman's? they have some of the loveliest patterns. i saw one there that i know would look stunning on you. i said so when i saw it." carrie listened to these things with considerable interest, for they were suggested with more of friendliness than is usually common between pretty women. mrs. vance liked carrie's stable good-nature so well that she really took pleasure in suggesting to her the latest things. "why don't you get yourself one of those nice serge skirts they're selling at lord & taylor's?" she said one day. "they're the circular style, and they're going to be worn from now on. a dark blue one would look so nice on you." carrie listened with eager ears. these things never came up between her and hurstwood. nevertheless, she began to suggest one thing and another, which hurstwood agreed to without any expression of opinion. he noticed the new tendency on carrie's part, and finally, hearing much of mrs. vance and her delightful ways, suspected whence the change came. he was not inclined to offer the slightest objection so soon, but he felt that carrie's wants were expanding. this did not appeal to him exactly, but he cared for her in his own way, and so the thing stood. still, there was something in the details of the transactions which caused carrie to feel that her requests were not a delight to him. he did not enthuse over the purchases. this led her to believe that neglect was creeping in, and so another small wedge was entered. nevertheless, one of the results of mrs. vance's suggestions was the fact that on this occasion carrie was dressed somewhat to her own satisfaction. she had on her best, but there was comfort in the thought that if she must confine herself to a _best_, it was neat and fitting. she looked the well-groomed woman of twenty-one, and mrs. vance praised her, which brought colour to her plump cheeks and a noticeable brightness into her large eyes. it was threatening rain, and mr. vance, at his wife's request, had called a coach. "your husband isn't coming?" suggested mr. vance, as he met carrie in his little parlour. "no; he said he wouldn't be home for dinner." "better leave a little note for him, telling him where we are. he might turn up." "i will," said carrie, who had not thought of it before. "tell him we'll be at sherry's until eight o'clock. he knows, though, i guess." carrie crossed the hall with rustling skirts, and scrawled the note, gloves on. when she returned a newcomer was in the vance flat. "mrs. wheeler, let me introduce mr. ames, a cousin of mine," said mrs. vance. "he's going along with us, aren't you, bob?" "i'm very glad to meet you," said ames, bowing politely to carrie. the latter caught in a glance the dimensions of a very stalwart figure. she also noticed that he was smooth-shaven, good looking, and young, but nothing more. "mr. ames is just down in new york for a few days," put in vance, "and we're trying to show him around a little." "oh, are you?" said carrie, taking another glance at the newcomer. "yes; i am just on here from indianapolis for a week or so," said young ames, seating himself on the edge of a chair to wait while mrs. vance completed the last touches of her toilet. "i guess you find new york quite a thing to see, don't you?" said carrie, venturing something to avoid a possible deadly silence. "it is rather large to get around in a week," answered ames, pleasantly. he was an exceedingly genial soul, this young man, and wholly free of affectation. it seemed to carrie he was as yet only overcoming the last traces of the bashfulness of youth. he did not seem apt at conversation, but he had the merit of being well dressed and wholly courageous. carrie felt as if it were not going to be hard to talk to him. "well, i guess we're ready now. the coach is outside." "come on, people," said mrs. vance, coming in smiling. "bob, you'll have to look after mrs. wheeler." "i'll try to," said bob smiling, and edging closer to carrie. "you won't need much watching, will you?" he volunteered, in a sort of ingratiating and help-me-out kind of way. "not very, i hope," said carrie. they descended the stairs, mrs. vance offering suggestions, and climbed into the open coach. "all right," said vance, slamming the coach door, and the conveyance rolled away. "what is it we're going to see?" asked ames. "sothern," said vance, "in 'lord chumley.'" "oh, he is so good!" said mrs. vance. "he's just the funniest man." "i notice the papers praise it," said ames. "i haven't any doubt," put in vance, "but we'll all enjoy it very much." ames had taken a seat beside carrie, and accordingly he felt it his bounden duty to pay her some attention. he was interested to find her so young a wife, and so pretty, though it was only a respectful interest. there was nothing of the dashing lady's man about him. he had respect for the married state, and thought only of some pretty marriageable girls in indianapolis. "are you a born new yorker?" asked ames of carrie. "oh, no; i've only been here for two years." "oh, well, you've had time to see a great deal of it, anyhow." "i don't seem to have," answered carrie. "it's about as strange to me as when i first came here." "you're not from the west, are you?" "yes. i'm from wisconsin," she answered. "well, it does seem as if most people in this town haven't been here so very long. i hear of lots of indiana people in my line who are here." "what is your line?" asked carrie. "i'm connected with an electrical company," said the youth. carrie followed up this desultory conversation with occasional interruptions from the vances. several times it became general and partially humorous, and in that manner the restaurant was reached. carrie had noticed the appearance of gayety and pleasure-seeking in the streets which they were following. coaches were numerous, pedestrians many, and in fifty-ninth street the street cars were crowded. at fifty-ninth street and fifth avenue a blaze of lights from several new hotels which bordered the plaza square gave a suggestion of sumptuous hotel life. fifth avenue, the home of the wealthy, was noticeably crowded with carriages, and gentlemen in evening dress. at sherry's an imposing doorman opened the coach door and helped them out. young ames held carrie's elbow as he helped her up the steps. they entered the lobby already swarming with patrons, and then, after divesting themselves of their wraps, went into a sumptuous dining-room. in all carrie's experience she had never seen anything like this. in the whole time she had been in new york hurstwood's modified state had not permitted his bringing her to such a place. there was an almost indescribable atmosphere about it which convinced the newcomer that this was the proper thing. here was the place where the matter of expense limited the patrons to the moneyed or pleasure-loving class. carrie had read of it often in the "morning" and "evening world." she had seen notices of dances, parties, balls, and suppers at sherry's. the misses so-and-so would give a party on wednesday evening at sherry's. young mr. so-and-so would entertain a party of friends at a private luncheon on the sixteenth, at sherry's. the common run of conventional, perfunctory notices of the doings of society, which she could scarcely refrain from scanning each day, had given her a distinct idea of the gorgeousness and luxury of this wonderful temple of gastronomy. now, at last, she was really in it. she had come up the imposing steps, guarded by the large and portly doorman. she had seen the lobby, guarded by another large and portly gentleman, and been waited upon by uniformed youths who took care of canes, overcoats, and the like. here was the splendid dining-chamber, all decorated and aglow, where the wealthy ate. ah, how fortunate was mrs. vance; young, beautiful, and well off--at least, sufficiently so to come here in a coach. what a wonderful thing it was to be rich. vance led the way through lanes of shining tables, at which were seated parties of two, three, four, five, or six. the air of assurance and dignity about it all was exceedingly noticeable to the novitiate. incandescent lights, the reflection of their glow in polished glasses, and the shine of gilt upon the walls, combined into one tone of light which it requires minutes of complacent observation to separate and take particular note of. the white shirt fronts of the gentlemen, the bright costumes of the ladies, diamonds, jewels, fine feathers--all were exceedingly noticeable. carrie walked with an air equal to that of mrs. vance, and accepted the seat which the head waiter provided for her. she was keenly aware of all the little things that were done--the little genuflections and attentions of the waiters and head waiter which americans pay for. the air with which the latter pulled out each chair, and the wave of the hand with which he motioned them to be seated, were worth several dollars in themselves. once seated, there began that exhibition of showy, wasteful, and unwholesome gastronomy as practised by wealthy americans, which is the wonder and astonishment of true culture and dignity the world over. the large bill of fare held an array of dishes sufficient to feed an army, sidelined with prices which made reasonable expenditure a ridiculous impossibility--an order of soup at fifty cents or a dollar, with a dozen kinds to choose from; oysters in forty styles and at sixty cents the half-dozen; entrées, fish, and meats at prices which would house one over night in an average hotel. one dollar fifty and two dollars seemed to be the most common figures upon this most tastefully printed bill of fare. carrie noticed this, and in scanning it the price of spring chicken carried her back to that other bill of fare and far different occasion when, for the first time, she sat with drouet in a good restaurant in chicago. it was only momentary--a sad note as out of an old song--and then it was gone. but in that flash was seen the other carrie--poor, hungry, drifting at her wits' ends, and all chicago a cold and closed world, from which she only wandered because she could not find work. on the walls were designs in colour, square spots of robin's-egg blue, set in ornate frames of gilt, whose corners were elaborate mouldings of fruit and flowers, with fat cupids hovering in angelic comfort. on the ceilings were coloured traceries with more gilt, leading to a centre where spread a cluster of lights--incandescent globes mingled with glittering prisms and stucco tendrils of gilt. the floor was of a reddish hue, waxed and polished, and in every direction were mirrors--tall, brilliant, bevel-edged mirrors--reflecting and re-reflecting forms, faces, and candelabra a score and a hundred times. the tables were not so remarkable in themselves, and yet the imprint of sherry upon the napery, the name of tiffany upon the silverware, the name of haviland upon the china, and over all the glow of the small, red-shaded candelabra and the reflected tints of the walls on garments and faces, made them seem remarkable. each waiter added an air of exclusiveness and elegance by the manner in which he bowed, scraped, touched, and trifled with things. the exclusively personal attention which he devoted to each one, standing half bent, ear to one side, elbows akimbo, saying: "soup--green turtle, yes. one portion, yes. oysters--certainly--half-dozen--yes. asparagus. olives--yes." it would be the same with each one, only vance essayed to order for all, inviting counsel and suggestions. carrie studied the company with open eyes. so this was high life in new york. it was so that the rich spent their days and evenings. her poor little mind could not rise above applying each scene to all society. every fine lady must be in the crowd on broadway in the afternoon, in the theatre at the matinée, in the coaches and dining-halls at night. it must be glow and shine everywhere, with coaches waiting, and footmen attending, and she was out of it all. in two long years she had never even been in such a place as this. vance was in his element here, as hurstwood would have been in former days. he ordered freely of soup, oysters, roast meats, and side dishes, and had several bottles of wine brought, which were set down beside the table in a wicker basket. ames was looking away rather abstractedly at the crowd and showed an interesting profile to carrie. his forehead was high, his nose rather large and strong, his chin moderately pleasing. he had a good, wide, well-shaped mouth, and his dark-brown hair was parted slightly on one side. he seemed to have the least touch of boyishness to carrie, and yet he was a man full grown. "do you know," he said, turning back to carrie, after his reflection, "i sometimes think it is a shame for people to spend so much money this way." carrie looked at him a moment with the faintest touch of surprise at his seriousness. he seemed to be thinking about something over which she had never pondered. "do you?" she answered, interestedly. "yes," he said, "they pay so much more than these things are worth. they put on so much show." "i don't know why people shouldn't spend when they have it," said mrs. vance. "it doesn't do any harm," said vance, who was still studying the bill of fare, though he had ordered. ames was looking away again, and carrie was again looking at his forehead. to her he seemed to be thinking about strange things. as he studied the crowd his eye was mild. "look at that woman's dress over there," he said, again turning to carrie, and nodding in a direction. "where?" said carrie, following his eyes. "over there in the corner--way over. do you see that brooch?" "isn't it large?" said carrie. "one of the largest clusters of jewels i have ever seen," said ames. "it is, isn't it?" said carrie. she felt as if she would like to be agreeable to this young man, and also there came with it, or perhaps preceded it, the slightest shade of a feeling that he was better educated than she was--that his mind was better. he seemed to look it, and the saving grace in carrie was that she could understand that people could be wiser. she had seen a number of people in her life who reminded her of what she had vaguely come to think of as scholars. this strong young man beside her, with his clear, natural look, seemed to get a hold of things which she did not quite understand, but approved of. it was fine to be so, as a man, she thought. the conversation changed to a book that was having its vogue at the time--"moulding a maiden," by albert ross. mrs. vance had read it. vance had seen it discussed in some of the papers. "a man can make quite a strike writing a book," said vance. "i notice this fellow ross is very much talked about." he was looking at carrie as he spoke. "i hadn't heard of him," said carrie, honestly. "oh, i have," said mrs. vance. "he's written lots of things. this last story is pretty good." "he doesn't amount to much," said ames. carrie turned her eyes toward him as to an oracle. "his stuff is nearly as bad as 'dora thorne,'" concluded ames. carrie felt this as a personal reproof. she read "dora thorne," or had a great deal in the past. it seemed only fair to her, but she supposed that people thought it very fine. now this clear-eyed, fine-headed youth, who looked something like a student to her, made fun of it. it was poor to him, not worth reading. she looked down, and for the first time felt the pain of not understanding. yet there was nothing sarcastic or supercilious in the way ames spoke. he had very little of that in him. carrie felt that it was just kindly thought of a high order--the right thing to think, and wondered what else was right, according to him. he seemed to notice that she listened and rather sympathised with him, and from now on he talked mostly to her. as the waiter bowed and scraped about, felt the dishes to see if they were hot enough, brought spoons and forks, and did all those little attentive things calculated to impress the luxury of the situation upon the diner, ames also leaned slightly to one side and told her of indianapolis in an intelligent way. he really had a very bright mind, which was finding its chief development in electrical knowledge. his sympathies for other forms of information, however, and for types of people, were quick and warm. the red glow on his head gave it a sandy tinge and put a bright glint in his eye. carrie noticed all these things as he leaned toward her and felt exceedingly young. this man was far ahead of her. he seemed wiser than hurstwood, saner and brighter than drouet. he seemed innocent and clean, and she thought that he was exceedingly pleasant. she noticed, also, that his interest in her was a far-off one. she was not in his life, nor any of the things that touched his life, and yet now, as he spoke of these things, they appealed to her. "i shouldn't care to be rich," he told her, as the dinner proceeded and the supply of food warmed up his sympathies; "not rich enough to spend my money this way." "oh, wouldn't you?" said carrie, the, to her, new attitude forcing itself distinctly upon her for the first time. "no," he said. "what good would it do? a man doesn't need this sort of thing to be happy." carrie thought of this doubtfully; but, coming from him, it had weight with her. "he probably could be happy," she thought to herself, "all alone. he's so strong." mr. and mrs. vance kept up a running fire of interruptions, and these impressive things by ames came at odd moments. they were sufficient, however, for the atmosphere that went with this youth impressed itself upon carrie without words. there was something in him, or the world he moved in, which appealed to her. he reminded her of scenes she had seen on the stage--the sorrows and sacrifices that always went with she knew not what. he had taken away some of the bitterness of the contrast between this life and her life, and all by a certain calm indifference which concerned only him. as they went out, he took her arm and helped her into the coach, and then they were off again, and so to the show. during the acts carrie found herself listening to him very attentively. he mentioned things in the play which she most approved of--things which swayed her deeply. "don't you think it rather fine to be an actor?" she asked once. "yes, i do," he said, "to be a good one. i think the theatre a great thing." just this little approval set carrie's heart bounding. ah, if she could only be an actress--a good one! this man was wise--he knew--and he approved of it. if she were a fine actress, such men as he would approve of her. she felt that he was good to speak as he had, although it did not concern her at all. she did not know why she felt this way. at the close of the show it suddenly developed that he was not going back with them. "oh, aren't you?" said carrie, with an unwarrantable feeling. "oh, no," he said; "i'm stopping right around here in thirty-third street." carrie could not say anything else, but somehow this development shocked her. she had been regretting the wane of a pleasant evening, but she had thought there was a half-hour more. oh, the half-hours, the minutes of the world; what miseries and griefs are crowded into them! she said good-bye with feigned indifference. what matter could it make? still, the coach seemed lorn. when she went into her own flat she had this to think about. she did not know whether she would ever see this man any more. what difference could it make--what difference could it make? hurstwood had returned, and was already in bed. his clothes were scattered loosely about. carrie came to the door and saw him, then retreated. she did not want to go in yet a while. she wanted to think. it was disagreeable to her. back in the dining-room she sat in her chair and rocked. her little hands were folded tightly as she thought. through a fog of longing and conflicting desires she was beginning to see. oh, ye legions of hope and pity--of sorrow and pain! she was rocking, and beginning to see. chapter xxxiii without the walled city: the slope of the years the immediate result of this was nothing. results from such things are usually long in growing. morning brings a change of feeling. the existent condition invariably pleads for itself. it is only at odd moments that we get glimpses of the misery of things. the heart understands when it is confronted with contrasts. take them away and the ache subsides. carrie went on, leading much this same life for six months thereafter or more. she did not see ames any more. he called once upon the vances, but she only heard about it through the young wife. then he went west, and there was a gradual subsidence of whatever personal attraction had existed. the mental effect of the thing had not gone, however, and never would entirely. she had an ideal to contrast men by--particularly men close to her. during all this time--a period rapidly approaching three years--hurstwood had been moving along in an even path. there was no apparent slope downward, and distinctly none upward, so far as the casual observer might have seen. but psychologically there was a change, which was marked enough to suggest the future very distinctly indeed. this was in the mere matter of the halt his career had received when he departed from chicago. a man's fortune or material progress is very much the same as his bodily growth. either he is growing stronger, healthier, wiser, as the youth approaching manhood, or he is growing weaker, older, less incisive mentally, as the man approaching old age. there are no other states. frequently there is a period between the cessation of youthful accretion and the setting in, in the case of the middle-aged man, of the tendency toward decay when the two processes are almost perfectly balanced and there is little doing in either direction. given time enough, however, the balance becomes a sagging to the grave side. slowly at first, then with a modest momentum, and at last the graveward process is in the full swing. so it is frequently with man's fortune. if its process of accretion is never halted, if the balancing stage is never reached, there will be no toppling. rich men are, frequently, in these days, saved from this dissolution of their fortune by their ability to hire younger brains. these younger brains look upon the interests of the fortune as their own, and so steady and direct its progress. if each individual were left absolutely to the care of his own interests, and were given time enough in which to grow exceedingly old, his fortune would pass as his strength and will. he and his would be utterly dissolved and scattered unto the four winds of the heavens. but now see wherein the parallel changes. a fortune, like a man, is an organism which draws to itself other minds and other strength than that inherent in the founder. beside the young minds drawn to it by salaries, it becomes allied with young forces, which make for its existence even when the strength and wisdom of the founder are fading. it may be conserved by the growth of a community or of a state. it may be involved in providing something for which there is a growing demand. this removes it at once beyond the special care of the founder. it needs not so much foresight now as direction. the man wanes, the need continues or grows, and the fortune, fallen into whose hands it may, continues. hence, some men never recognise the turning in the tide of their abilities. it is only in chance cases, where a fortune or a state of success is wrested from them, that the lack of ability to do as they did formerly becomes apparent. hurstwood, set down under new conditions, was in a position to see that he was no longer young. if he did not, it was due wholly to the fact that his state was so well balanced that an absolute change for the worse did not show. not trained to reason or introspect himself, he could not analyse the change that was taking place in his mind, and hence his body, but he felt the depression of it. constant comparison between his old state and his new showed a balance for the worse, which produced a constant state of gloom or, at least, depression. now, it has been shown experimentally that a constantly subdued frame of mind produces certain poisons in the blood, called katastates, just as virtuous feelings of pleasure and delight produce helpful chemicals called anastates. the poisons generated by remorse inveigh against the system, and eventually produce marked physical deterioration. to these hurstwood was subject. in the course of time it told upon his temper. his eye no longer possessed that buoyant, searching shrewdness which had characterised it in adams street. his step was not as sharp and firm. he was given to thinking, thinking, thinking. the new friends he made were not celebrities. they were of a cheaper, a slightly more sensual and cruder, grade. he could not possibly take the pleasure in this company that he had in that of those fine frequenters of the chicago resort. he was left to brood. slowly, exceedingly slowly, his desire to greet, conciliate, and make at home these people who visited the warren street place passed from him. more and more slowly the significance of the realm he had left began to be clear. it did not seem so wonderful to be in it when he was in it. it had seemed very easy for any one to get up there and have ample raiment and money to spend, but now that he was out of it, how far off it became. he began to see as one sees a city with a wall about it. men were posted at the gates. you could not get in. those inside did not care to come out to see who you were. they were so merry inside there that all those outside were forgotten, and he was on the outside. each day he could read in the evening papers of the doings within this walled city. in the notices of passengers for europe he read the names of eminent frequenters of his old resort. in the theatrical column appeared, from time to time, announcements of the latest successes of men he had known. he knew that they were at their old gayeties. pullmans were hauling them to and fro about the land, papers were greeting them with interesting mentions, the elegant lobbies of hotels and the glow of polished dining-rooms were keeping them close within the walled city. men whom he had known, men whom he had tipped glasses with--rich men, and he was forgotten! who was mr. wheeler? what was the warren street resort? bah! if one thinks that such thoughts do not come to so common a type of mind--that such feelings require a higher mental development--i would urge for their consideration the fact that it is the higher mental development that does away with such thoughts. it is the higher mental development which induces philosophy and that fortitude which refuses to dwell upon such things--refuses to be made to suffer by their consideration. the common type of mind is exceedingly keen on all matters which relate to its physical welfare--exceedingly keen. it is the unintellectual miser who sweats blood at the loss of a hundred dollars. it is the epictetus who smiles when the last vestige of physical welfare is removed. the time came, in the third year, when this thinking began to produce results in the warren street place. the tide of patronage dropped a little below what it had been at its best since he had been there. this irritated and worried him. there came a night when he confessed to carrie that the business was not doing as well this month as it had the month before. this was in lieu of certain suggestions she had made concerning little things she wanted to buy. she had not failed to notice that he did not seem to consult her about buying clothes for himself. for the first time, it struck her as a ruse, or that he said it so that she would not think of asking for things. her reply was mild enough, but her thoughts were rebellious. he was not looking after her at all. she was depending for her enjoyment upon the vances. and now the latter announced that they were going away. it was approaching spring, and they were going north. "oh, yes," said mrs. vance to carrie, "we think we might as well give up the flat and store our things. we'll be gone for the summer, and it would be a useless expense. i think we'll settle a little farther down town when we come back." carrie heard this with genuine sorrow. she had enjoyed mrs. vance's companionship so much. there was no one else in the house whom she knew. again she would be all alone. hurstwood's gloom over the slight decrease in profits and the departure of the vances came together. so carrie had loneliness and this mood of her husband to enjoy at the same time. it was a grievous thing. she became restless and dissatisfied, not exactly, as she thought, with hurstwood, but with life. what was it? a very dull round indeed. what did she have? nothing but this narrow, little flat. the vances could travel, they could do the things worth doing, and here she was. for what was she made, anyhow? more thought followed, and then tears--tears seemed justified, and the only relief in the world. for another period this state continued, the twain leading a rather monotonous life, and then there was a slight change for the worse. one evening, hurstwood, after thinking about a way to modify carrie's desire for clothes and the general strain upon his ability to provide, said: "i don't think i'll ever be able to do much with shaughnessy." "what's the matter?" said carrie. "oh, he's a slow, greedy 'mick'! he won't agree to anything to improve the place, and it won't ever pay without it." "can't you make him?" said carrie. "no; i've tried. the only thing i can see, if i want to improve, is to get hold of a place of my own." "why don't you?" said carrie. "well, all i have is tied up in there just now. if i had a chance to save a while i think i could open a place that would give us plenty of money." "can't we save?" said carrie. "we might try it," he suggested. "i've been thinking that if we'd take a smaller flat down town and live economically for a year, i would have enough, with what i have invested, to open a good place. then we could arrange to live as you want to." "it would suit me all right," said carrie, who, nevertheless, felt badly to think it had come to this. talk of a smaller flat sounded like poverty. "there are lots of nice little flats down around sixth avenue, below fourteenth street. we might get one down there." "i'll look at them if you say so," said carrie. "i think i could break away from this fellow inside of a year," said hurstwood. "nothing will ever come of this arrangement as it's going on now." "i'll look around," said carrie, observing that the proposed change seemed to be a serious thing with him. the upshot of this was that the change was eventually effected; not without great gloom on the part of carrie. it really affected her more seriously than anything that had yet happened. she began to look upon hurstwood wholly as a man, and not as a lover or husband. she felt thoroughly bound to him as a wife, and that her lot was cast with his, whatever it might be; but she began to see that he was gloomy and taciturn, not a young, strong, and buoyant man. he looked a little bit old to her about the eyes and mouth now, and there were other things which placed him in his true rank, so far as her estimation was concerned. she began to feel that she had made a mistake. incidentally, she also began to recall the fact that he had practically forced her to flee with him. the new flat was located in thirteenth street, a half block west of sixth avenue, and contained only four rooms. the new neighbourhood did not appeal to carrie as much. there were no trees here, no west view of the river. the street was solidly built up. there were twelve families here, respectable enough, but nothing like the vances. richer people required more space. being left alone in this little place, carrie did without a girl. she made it charming enough, but could not make it delight her. hurstwood was not inwardly pleased to think that they should have to modify their state, but he argued that he could do nothing. he must put the best face on it, and let it go at that. he tried to show carrie that there was no cause for financial alarm, but only congratulation over the chance he would have at the end of the year by taking her rather more frequently to the theatre and by providing a liberal table. this was for the time only. he was getting in the frame of mind where he wanted principally to be alone and to be allowed to think. the disease of brooding was beginning to claim him as a victim. only the newspapers and his own thoughts were worth while. the delight of love had again slipped away. it was a case of live, now, making the best you can out of a very commonplace station in life. the road downward has but few landings and level places. the very state of his mind, superinduced by his condition, caused the breach to widen between him and his partner. at last that individual began to wish that hurstwood was out of it. it so happened, however, that a real estate deal on the part of the owner of the land arranged things even more effectually than ill-will could have schemed. "did you see that?" said shaughnessy one morning to hurstwood, pointing to the real estate column in a copy of the "herald," which he held. "no, what is it?" said hurstwood, looking down the items of news. "the man who owns this ground has sold it." "you don't say so?" said hurstwood. he looked, and there was the notice. mr. august viele had yesterday registered the transfer of the lot, � feet, at the corner of warren and hudson streets, to j. f. slawson for the sum of $ , . "our lease expires when?" asked hurstwood, thinking. "next february, isn't it?" "that's right," said shaughnessy. "it doesn't say what the new man's going to do with it," remarked hurstwood, looking back to the paper. "we'll hear, i guess, soon enough," said shaughnessy. sure enough, it did develop. mr. slawson owned the property adjoining, and was going to put up a modern office building. the present one was to be torn down. it would take probably a year and a half to complete the other one. all these things developed by degrees, and hurstwood began to ponder over what would become of the saloon. one day he spoke about it to his partner. "do you think it would be worth while to open up somewhere else in the neighbourhood?" "what would be the use?" said shaughnessy. "we couldn't get another corner around here." "it wouldn't pay anywhere else, do you think?" "i wouldn't try it," said the other. the approaching change now took on a most serious aspect to hurstwood. dissolution meant the loss of his thousand dollars, and he could not save another thousand in the time. he understood that shaughnessy was merely tired of the arrangement, and would probably lease the new corner, when completed, alone. he began to worry about the necessity of a new connection and to see impending serious financial straits unless something turned up. this left him in no mood to enjoy his flat or carrie, and consequently the depression invaded that quarter. meanwhile, he took such time as he could to look about, but opportunities were not numerous. more, he had not the same impressive personality which he had when he first came to new york. bad thoughts had put a shade into his eyes which did not impress others favourably. neither had he thirteen hundred dollars in hand to talk with. about a month later, finding that he had not made any progress, shaughnessy reported definitely that slawson would not extend the lease. "i guess this thing's got to come to an end," he said, affecting an air of concern. "well, if it has, it has," answered hurstwood, grimly. he would not give the other a key to his opinions, whatever they were. he should not have the satisfaction. a day or two later he saw that he must say something to carrie. "you know," he said, "i think i'm going to get the worst of my deal down there." "how is that?" asked carrie in astonishment. "well, the man who owns the ground has sold it, and the new owner won't re-lease it to us. the business may come to an end." "can't you start somewhere else?" "there doesn't seem to be any place. shaughnessy doesn't want to." "do you lose what you put in?" "yes," said hurstwood, whose face was a study. "oh, isn't that too bad?" said carrie. "it's a trick," said hurstwood. "that's all. they'll start another place there all right." carrie looked at him, and gathered from his whole demeanour what it meant. it was serious, very serious. "do you think you can get something else?" she ventured, timidly. hurstwood thought a while. it was all up with the bluff about money and investment. she could see now that he was "broke." "i don't know," he said solemnly; "i can try." chapter xxxiv the grind of the millstones: a sample of chaff carrie pondered over this situation as consistently as hurstwood, once she got the facts adjusted in her mind. it took several days for her to fully realise that the approach of the dissolution of her husband's business meant commonplace struggle and privation. her mind went back to her early venture in chicago, the hansons and their flat, and her heart revolted. that was terrible! everything about poverty was terrible. she wished she knew a way out. her recent experiences with the vances had wholly unfitted her to view her own state with complacence. the glamour of the high life of the city had, in the few experiences afforded her by the former, seized her completely. she had been taught how to dress and where to go without having ample means to do either. now, these things--ever-present realities as they were--filled her eyes and mind. the more circumscribed became her state, the more entrancing seemed this other. and now poverty threatened to seize her entirely and to remove this other world far upward like a heaven to which any lazarus might extend, appealingly, his hands. so, too, the ideal brought into her life by ames remained. he had gone, but here was his word that riches were not everything; that there was a great deal more in the world than she knew; that the stage was good, and the literature she read poor. he was a strong man and clean--how much stronger and better than hurstwood and drouet she only half formulated to herself, but the difference was painful. it was something to which she voluntarily closed her eyes. during the last three months of the warren street connection, hurstwood took parts of days off and hunted, tracking the business advertisements. it was a more or less depressing business, wholly because of the thought that he must soon get something or he would begin to live on the few hundred dollars he was saving, and then he would have nothing to invest--he would have to hire out as a clerk. everything he discovered in his line advertised as an opportunity, was either too expensive or too wretched for him. besides, winter was coming, the papers were announcing hardships, and there was a general feeling of hard times in the air, or, at least, he thought so. in his worry, other people's worries became apparent. no item about a firm failing, a family starving, or a man dying upon the streets, supposedly of starvation, but arrested his eye as he scanned the morning papers. once the "world" came out with a flaring announcement about " , people out of employment in new york this winter," which struck as a knife at his heart. "eighty thousand!" he thought. "what an awful thing that is." this was new reasoning for hurstwood. in the old days the world had seemed to be getting along well enough. he had been wont to see similar things in the "daily news," in chicago, but they did not hold his attention. now, these things were like grey clouds hovering along the horizon of a clear day. they threatened to cover and obscure his life with chilly greyness. he tried to shake them off, to forget and brace up. sometimes he said to himself, mentally: "what's the use worrying? i'm not out yet. i've got six weeks more. even if worst comes to worst, i've got enough to live on for six months." curiously, as he troubled over his future, his thoughts occasionally reverted to his wife and family. he had avoided such thoughts for the first three years as much as possible. he hated her, and he could get along without her. let her go. he would do well enough. now, however, when he was not doing well enough, he began to wonder what she was doing, how his children were getting along. he could see them living as nicely as ever, occupying the comfortable house and using his property. "by george! it's a shame they should have it all," he vaguely thought to himself on several occasions. "i didn't do anything." as he looked back now and analysed the situation which led up to his taking the money, he began mildly to justify himself. what had he done--what in the world--that should bar him out this way and heap such difficulties upon him? it seemed only yesterday to him since he was comfortable and well-to-do. but now it was all wrested from him. "she didn't deserve what she got out of me, that is sure. i didn't do so much, if everybody could just know." there was no thought that the facts ought to be advertised. it was only a mental justification he was seeking from himself--something that would enable him to bear his state as a righteous man. one afternoon, five weeks before the warren street place closed up, he left the saloon to visit three or four places he saw advertised in the "herald." one was down in gold street, and he visited that, but did not enter. it was such a cheap looking place he felt that he could not abide it. another was on the bowery, which he knew contained many showy resorts. it was near grand street, and turned out to be very handsomely fitted up. he talked around about investments for fully three-quarters of an hour with the proprietor, who maintained that his health was poor, and that was the reason he wished a partner. "well, now, just how much money would it take to buy a half interest here?" said hurstwood, who saw seven hundred dollars as his limit. "three thousand," said the man. hurstwood's jaw fell. "cash?" he said. "cash." he tried to put on an air of deliberation, as one who might really buy; but his eyes showed gloom. he wound up by saying he would think it over, and came away. the man he had been talking to sensed his condition in a vague way. "i don't think he wants to buy," he said to himself. "he doesn't talk right." the afternoon was as grey as lead and cold. it was blowing up a disagreeable winter wind. he visited a place far up on the east side, near sixty-ninth street, and it was five o'clock, and growing dim, when he reached there. a portly german kept this place. "how about this ad. of yours?" asked hurstwood, who rather objected to the looks of the place. "oh, dat iss all over," said the german. "i vill not sell now." "oh, is that so?" "yes; dere is nothing to dat. it iss all over." "very well," said hurstwood, turning around. the german paid no more attention to him, and it made him angry. "the crazy ass!" he said to himself. "what does he want to advertise for?" wholly depressed, he started for thirteenth street. the flat had only a light in the kitchen, where carrie was working. he struck a match and, lighting the gas, sat down in the dining-room without even greeting her. she came to the door and looked in. "it's you, is it?" she said, and went back. "yes," he said, without even looking up from the evening paper he had bought. carrie saw things were wrong with him. he was not so handsome when gloomy. the lines at the sides of the eyes were deepened. naturally dark of skin, gloom made him look slightly sinister. he was quite a disagreeable figure. carrie set the table and brought in the meal. "dinner's ready," she said, passing him for something. he did not answer, reading on. she came in and sat down at her place, feeling exceedingly wretched. "won't you eat now?" she asked. he folded his paper and drew near, silence holding for a time, except for the "pass me's." "it's been gloomy to-day, hasn't it?" ventured carrie, after a time. "yes," he said. he only picked at his food. "are you still sure to close up?" said carrie, venturing to take up the subject which they had discussed often enough. "of course we are," he said, with the slightest modification of sharpness. this retort angered carrie. she had had a dreary day of it herself. "you needn't talk like that," she said. "oh!" he exclaimed, pushing back from the table, as if to say more, but letting it go at that. then he picked up his paper. carrie left her seat, containing herself with difficulty. he saw she was hurt. "don't go 'way," he said, as she started back into the kitchen. "eat your dinner." she passed, not answering. he looked at the paper a few moments, and then rose up and put on his coat. "i'm going down town, carrie," he said, coming out. "i'm out of sorts to-night." she did not answer. "don't be angry," he said. "it will be all right to-morrow." he looked at her, but she paid no attention to him, working at her dishes. "good-bye!" he said finally, and went out. this was the first strong result of the situation between them, but with the nearing of the last day of the business the gloom became almost a permanent thing. hurstwood could not conceal his feelings about the matter. carrie could not help wondering where she was drifting. it got so that they talked even less than usual, and yet it was not hurstwood who felt any objection to carrie. it was carrie who shied away from him. this he noticed. it aroused an objection to her becoming indifferent to him. he made the possibility of friendly intercourse almost a giant task, and then noticed with discontent that carrie added to it by her manner and made it more impossible. at last the final day came. when it actually arrived, hurstwood, who had got his mind into such a state where a thunder-clap and raging storm would have seemed highly appropriate, was rather relieved to find that it was a plain, ordinary day. the sun shone, the temperature was pleasant. he felt, as he came to the breakfast table, that it wasn't so terrible, after all. "well," he said to carrie, "to-day's my last day on earth." carrie smiled in answer to his humour. hurstwood glanced over his paper rather gayly. he seemed to have lost a load. "i'll go down for a little while," he said after breakfast, "and then i'll look around. to-morrow i'll spend the whole day looking about. i think i can get something, now this thing's off my hands." he went out smiling and visited the place. shaughnessy was there. they had made all arrangements to share according to their interests. when, however, he had been there several hours, gone out three more, and returned, his elation had departed. as much as he had objected to the place, now that it was no longer to exist, he felt sorry. he wished that things were different. shaughnessy was coolly business-like. "well," he said at five o'clock, "we might as well count the change and divide." they did so. the fixtures had already been sold and the sum divided. "good-night," said hurstwood at the final moment, in a last effort to be genial. "so long," said shaughnessy, scarcely deigning a notice. thus the warren street arrangement was permanently concluded. carrie had prepared a good dinner at the flat, but after his ride up, hurstwood was in a solemn and reflective mood. "well?" said carrie, inquisitively. "i'm out of that," he answered, taking off his coat. as she looked at him, she wondered what his financial state was now. they ate and talked a little. "will you have enough to buy in anywhere else?" asked carrie. "no," he said. "i'll have to get something else and save up." "it would be nice if you could get some place," said carrie, prompted by anxiety and hope. "i guess i will," he said reflectively. for some days thereafter he put on his overcoat regularly in the morning and sallied forth. on these ventures he first consoled himself with the thought that with the seven hundred dollars he had he could still make some advantageous arrangement. he thought about going to some brewery, which, as he knew, frequently controlled saloons which they leased, and get them to help him. then he remembered that he would have to pay out several hundred any way for fixtures and that he would have nothing left for his monthly expenses. it was costing him nearly eighty dollars a month to live. "no," he said, in his sanest moments, "i can't do it. i'll get something else and save up." this getting-something proposition complicated itself the moment he began to think of what it was he wanted to do. manage a place? where should he get such a position? the papers contained no requests for managers. such positions, he knew well enough, were either secured by long years of service or were bought with a half or third interest. into a place important enough to need such a manager he had not money enough to buy. nevertheless, he started out. his clothes were very good and his appearance still excellent, but it involved the trouble of deluding. people, looking at him, imagined instantly that a man of his age, stout and well dressed, must be well off. he appeared a comfortable owner of something, a man from whom the common run of mortals could well expect gratuities. being now forty-three years of age, and comfortably built, walking was not easy. he had not been used to exercise for many years. his legs tired, his shoulders ached, and his feet pained him at the close of the day, even when he took street cars in almost every direction. the mere getting up and down, if long continued, produced this result. the fact that people took him to be better off than he was, he well understood. it was so painfully clear to him that it retarded his search. not that he wished to be less well-appearing, but that he was ashamed to belie his appearance by incongruous appeals. so he hesitated, wondering what to do. he thought of the hotels, but instantly he remembered that he had had no experience as a clerk, and, what was more important, no acquaintances or friends in that line to whom he could go. he did know some hotel owners in several cities, including new york, but they knew of his dealings with fitzgerald and moy. he could not apply to them. he thought of other lines suggested by large buildings or businesses which he knew of--wholesale groceries, hardware, insurance concerns, and the like--but he had had no experience. how to go about getting anything was a bitter thought. would he have to go personally and ask; wait outside an office door, and, then, distinguished and affluent looking, announce that he was looking for something to do? he strained painfully at the thought. no, he could not do that. he really strolled about, thinking, and then, the weather being cold, stepped into a hotel. he knew hotels well enough to know that any decent looking individual was welcome to a chair in the lobby. this was in the broadway central, which was then one of the most important hotels in the city. taking a chair here was a painful thing to him. to think he should come to this! he had heard loungers about hotels called chair-warmers. he had called them that himself in his day. but here he was, despite the possibility of meeting some one who knew him, shielding himself from cold and the weariness of the streets in a hotel lobby. "i can't do this way," he said to himself. "there's no use of my starting out mornings without first thinking up some place to go. i'll think of some places and then look them up." it occurred to him that the positions of bartenders were sometimes open, but he put this out of his mind. bartender--he, the ex-manager! it grew awfully dull sitting in the hotel lobby, and so at four he went home. he tried to put on a business air as he went in, but it was a feeble imitation. the rocking-chair in the dining-room was comfortable. he sank into it gladly, with several papers he had bought, and began to read. as she was going through the room to begin preparing dinner, carrie said: "the man was here for the rent to-day." "oh, was he?" said hurstwood. the least wrinkle crept into his brow as he remembered that this was february d, the time the man always called. he fished down in his pocket for his purse, getting the first taste of paying out when nothing is coming in. he looked at the fat, green roll as a sick man looks at the one possible saving cure. then he counted off twenty-eight dollars. "here you are," he said to carrie, when she came through again. he buried himself in his papers and read. oh, the rest of it--the relief from walking and thinking! what lethean waters were these floods of telegraphed intelligence! he forgot his troubles, in part. here was a young, handsome woman, if you might believe the newspaper drawing, suing a rich, fat, candy-making husband in brooklyn for divorce. here was another item detailing the wrecking of a vessel in ice and snow off prince's bay on staten island. a long, bright column told of the doings in the theatrical world--the plays produced, the actors appearing, the managers making announcements. fannie davenport was just opening at the fifth avenue. daly was producing "king lear." he read of the early departure for the season of a party composed of the vanderbilts and their friends for florida. an interesting shooting affray was on in the mountains of kentucky. so he read, read, read, rocking in the warm room near the radiator and waiting for dinner to be served. chapter xxxv the passing of effort: the visage of care the next morning he looked over the papers and waded through a long list of advertisements, making a few notes. then he turned to the male-help-wanted column, but with disagreeable feelings. the day was before him--a long day in which to discover something--and this was how he must begin to discover. he scanned the long column, which mostly concerned bakers, bushelmen, cooks, compositors, drivers, and the like, finding two things only which arrested his eye. one was a cashier wanted in a wholesale furniture house, and the other a salesman for a whiskey house. he had never thought of the latter. at once he decided to look that up. the firm in question was alsbery & co., whiskey brokers. he was admitted almost at once to the manager on his appearance. "good-morning, sir," said the latter, thinking at first that he was encountering one of his out-of-town customers. "good-morning," said hurstwood. "you advertised, i believe, for a salesman?" "oh," said the man, showing plainly the enlightenment which had come to him. "yes. yes, i did." "i thought i'd drop in," said hurstwood, with dignity. "i've had some experience in that line myself." "oh, have you?" said the man. "what experience have you had?" "well, i've managed several liquor houses in my time. recently i owned a third-interest in a saloon at warren and hudson streets." "i see," said the man. hurstwood ceased, waiting for some suggestion. "we did want a salesman," said the man. "i don't know as it's anything you'd care to take hold of, though." "i see," said hurstwood. "well, i'm in no position to choose, just at present. if it were open, i should be glad to get it." the man did not take kindly at all to his "no position to choose." he wanted some one who wasn't thinking of a choice or something better. especially not an old man. he wanted some one young, active, and glad to work actively for a moderate sum. hurstwood did not please him at all. he had more of an air than his employers. "well," he said in answer, "we'd be glad to consider your application. we shan't decide for a few days yet. suppose you send us your references." "i will," said hurstwood. he nodded good-morning and came away. at the corner he looked at the furniture company's address, and saw that it was in west twenty-third street. accordingly, he went up there. the place was not large enough, however. it looked moderate, the men in it idle and small salaried. he walked by, glancing in, and then decided not to go in there. "they want a girl, probably, at ten a week," he said. at one o'clock he thought of eating, and went to a restaurant in madison square. there he pondered over places which he might look up. he was tired. it was blowing up grey again. across the way, through madison square park, stood the great hotels, looking down upon a busy scene. he decided to go over to the lobby of one and sit a while. it was warm in there and bright. he had seen no one he knew at the broadway central. in all likelihood he would encounter no one here. finding a seat on one of the red plush divans close to the great windows which look out on broadway's busy rout, he sat musing. his state did not seem so bad in here. sitting still and looking out, he could take some slight consolation in the few hundred dollars he had in his purse. he could forget, in a measure, the weariness of the street and his tiresome searches. still, it was only escape from a severe to a less severe state. he was still gloomy and disheartened. there, minutes seemed to go very slowly. an hour was a long, long time in passing. it was filled for him with observations and mental comments concerning the actual guests of the hotel, who passed in and out, and those more prosperous pedestrians whose good fortune showed in their clothes and spirits as they passed along broadway, outside. it was nearly the first time since he had arrived in the city that his leisure afforded him ample opportunity to contemplate this spectacle. now, being, perforce, idle himself, he wondered at the activity of others. how gay were the youths he saw, how pretty the women. such fine clothes they all wore. they were so intent upon getting somewhere. he saw coquettish glances cast by magnificent girls. ah, the money it required to train with such--how well he knew! how long it had been since he had had the opportunity to do so! the clock outside registered four. it was a little early, but he thought he would go back to the flat. this going back to the flat was coupled with the thought that carrie would think he was sitting around too much if he came home early. he hoped he wouldn't have to, but the day hung heavily on his hands. over there he was on his own ground. he could sit in his rocking-chair and read. this busy, distracting, suggestive scene was shut out. he could read his papers. accordingly, he went home. carrie was reading, quite alone. it was rather dark in the flat, shut in as it was. "you'll hurt your eyes," he said when he saw her. after taking off his coat, he felt it incumbent upon him to make some little report of his day. "i've been talking with a wholesale liquor company," he said. "i may go out on the road." "wouldn't that be nice!" said carrie. "it wouldn't be such a bad thing," he answered. always from the man at the corner now he bought two papers--the "evening world" and "evening sun." so now he merely picked his papers up, as he came by, without stopping. he drew up his chair near the radiator and lighted the gas. then it was as the evening before. his difficulties vanished in the items he so well loved to read. the next day was even worse than the one before, because now he could not think of where to go. nothing he saw in the papers he studied--till ten o'clock--appealed to him. he felt that he ought to go out, and yet he sickened at the thought. where to, where to? "you mustn't forget to leave me my money for this week," said carrie, quietly. they had an arrangement by which he placed twelve dollars a week in her hands, out of which to pay current expenses. he heaved a little sigh as she said this, and drew out his purse. again he felt the dread of the thing. here he was taking off, taking off, and nothing coming in. "lord!" he said, in his own thoughts, "this can't go on." to carrie he said nothing whatsoever. she could feel that her request disturbed him. to pay her would soon become a distressing thing. "yet, what have i got to do with it?" she thought. "oh, why should i be made to worry?" hurstwood went out and made for broadway. he wanted to think up some place. before long, though, he reached the grand hotel at thirty-first street. he knew of its comfortable lobby. he was cold after his twenty blocks' walk. "i'll go in their barber shop and get a shave," he thought. thus he justified himself in sitting down in here after his tonsorial treatment. again, time hanging heavily on his hands, he went home early, and this continued for several days, each day the need to hunt paining him, and each day disgust, depression, shamefacedness driving him into lobby idleness. at last three days came in which a storm prevailed, and he did not go out at all. the snow began to fall late one afternoon. it was a regular flurry of large, soft, white flakes. in the morning it was still coming down with a high wind, and the papers announced a blizzard. from out the front windows one could see a deep, soft bedding. "i guess i'll not try to go out to-day," he said to carrie at breakfast. "it's going to be awful bad, so the papers say." "the man hasn't brought my coal, either," said carrie, who ordered by the bushel. "i'll go over and see about it," said hurstwood. this was the first time he had ever suggested doing an errand, but, somehow, the wish to sit about the house prompted it as a sort of compensation for the privilege. all day and all night it snowed, and the city began to suffer from a general blockade of traffic. great attention was given to the details of the storm by the newspapers, which played up the distress of the poor in large type. hurstwood sat and read by his radiator in the corner. he did not try to think about his need of work. this storm being so terrific, and tying up all things, robbed him of the need. he made himself wholly comfortable and toasted his feet. carrie observed his ease with some misgiving. for all the fury of the storm she doubted his comfort. he took his situation too philosophically. hurstwood, however, read on and on. he did not pay much attention to carrie. she fulfilled her household duties and said little to disturb him. the next day it was still snowing, and the next, bitter cold. hurstwood took the alarm of the paper and sat still. now he volunteered to do a few other little things. one was to go to the butcher, another to the grocery. he really thought nothing of these little services in connection with their true significance. he felt as if he were not wholly useless--indeed, in such a stress of weather, quite worth while about the house. on the fourth day, however, it cleared, and he read that the storm was over. now, however, he idled, thinking how sloppy the streets would be. it was noon before he finally abandoned his papers and got under way. owing to the slightly warmer temperature the streets were bad. he went across fourteenth street on the car and got a transfer south on broadway. one little advertisement he had, relating to a saloon down in pearl street. when he reached the broadway central, however, he changed his mind. "what's the use?" he thought, looking out upon the slop and snow. "i couldn't buy into it. it's a thousand to one nothing comes of it. i guess i'll get off," and off he got. in the lobby he took a seat and waited again, wondering what he could do. while he was idly pondering, satisfied to be inside, a well-dressed man passed up the lobby, stopped, looked sharply, as if not sure of his memory, and then approached. hurstwood recognised cargill, the owner of the large stables in chicago of the same name, whom he had last seen at avery hall, the night carrie appeared there. the remembrance of how this individual brought up his wife to shake hands on that occasion was also on the instant clear. hurstwood was greatly abashed. his eyes expressed the difficulty he felt. "why, it's hurstwood!" said cargill, remembering now, and sorry that he had not recognised him quickly enough in the beginning to have avoided this meeting. "yes," said hurstwood. "how are you?" "very well," said cargill, troubled for something to talk about. "stopping here?" "no," said hurstwood, "just keeping an appointment." "i knew you had left chicago. i was wondering what had become of you." "oh, i'm here now," answered hurstwood, anxious to get away. "doing well, i suppose?" "excellent." "glad to hear it." they looked at one another, rather embarrassed. "well, i have an engagement with a friend upstairs. i'll leave you. so long." hurstwood nodded his head. "damn it all," he murmured, turning toward the door. "i knew that would happen." he walked several blocks up the street. his watch only registered . . he tried to think of some place to go or something to do. the day was so bad he wanted only to be inside. finally his feet began to feel wet and cold, and he boarded a car. this took him to fifty-ninth street, which was as good as anywhere else. landed here, he turned to walk back along seventh avenue, but the slush was too much. the misery of lounging about with nowhere to go became intolerable. he felt as if he were catching cold. stopping at a corner, he waited for a car south bound. this was no day to be out; he would go home. carrie was surprised to see him at a quarter of three. "it's a miserable day out," was all he said. then he took off his coat and changed his shoes. that night he felt a cold coming on and took quinine. he was feverish until morning, and sat about the next day while carrie waited on him. he was a helpless creature in sickness, not very handsome in a dull-coloured bath gown and his hair uncombed. he looked haggard about the eyes and quite old. carrie noticed this, and it did not appeal to her. she wanted to be good-natured and sympathetic, but something about the man held her aloof. toward evening he looked so badly in the weak light that she suggested he go to bed. "you'd better sleep alone," she said, "you'll feel better. i'll open your bed for you now." "all right," he said. as she did all these things, she was in a most despondent state. "what a life! what a life!" was her one thought. once during the day, when he sat near the radiator, hunched up and reading, she passed through, and seeing him, wrinkled her brows. in the front room, where it was not so warm, she sat by the window and cried. this was the life cut out for her, was it? to live cooped up in a small flat with some one who was out of work, idle, and indifferent to her. she was merely a servant to him now, nothing more. this crying made her eyes red, and when, in preparing his bed, she lighted the gas, and, having prepared it, called him in, he noticed the fact. "what's the matter with you?" he asked, looking into her face. his voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome quality. "nothing," said carrie, weakly. "you've been crying," he said. "i haven't, either," she answered. it was not for love of him, that he knew. "you needn't cry," he said, getting into bed. "things will come out all right." in a day or two he was up again, but rough weather holding, he stayed in. the italian newsdealer now delivered the morning papers, and these he read assiduously. a few times after that he ventured out, but meeting another of his old-time friends, he began to feel uneasy sitting about hotel corridors. every day he came home early, and at last made no pretence of going anywhere. winter was no time to look for anything. naturally, being about the house, he noticed the way carrie did things. she was far from perfect in household methods and economy, and her little deviations on this score first caught his eye. not, however, before her regular demand for her allowance became a grievous thing. sitting around as he did, the weeks seemed to pass very quickly. every tuesday carrie asked for her money. "do you think we live as cheaply as we might?" he asked one tuesday morning. "i do the best i can," said carrie. nothing was added to this at the moment, but the next day he said: "do you ever go to the gansevoort market over here?" "i didn't know there was such a market," said carrie. "they say you can get things lots cheaper there." carrie was very indifferent to the suggestion. these were things which she did not like at all. "how much do you pay for a pound of meat?" he asked one day. "oh, there are different prices," said carrie. "sirloin steak is twenty-two cents." "that's steep, isn't it?" he answered. so he asked about other things, until finally, with the passing days, it seemed to become a mania with him. he learned the prices and remembered them. his errand-running capacity also improved. it began in a small way, of course. carrie, going to get her hat one morning, was stopped by him. "where are you going, carrie?" he asked. "over to the baker's," she answered. "i'd just as leave go for you," he said. she acquiesced, and he went. each afternoon he would go to the corner for the papers. "is there anything you want?" he would say. by degrees she began to use him. doing this, however, she lost the weekly payment of twelve dollars. "you want to pay me to-day," she said one tuesday, about this time. "how much?" he asked. she understood well enough what it meant. "well, about five dollars," she answered. "i owe the coal man." the same day he said: "i think this italian up here on the corner sells coal at twenty-five cents a bushel. i'll trade with him." carrie heard this with indifference. "all right," she said. then it came to be: "george, i must have some coal to-day," or, "you must get some meat of some kind for dinner." he would find out what she needed and order. accompanying this plan came skimpiness. "i only got a half-pound of steak," he said, coming in one afternoon with his papers. "we never seem to eat very much." these miserable details ate the heart out of carrie. they blackened her days and grieved her soul. oh, how this man had changed! all day and all day, here he sat, reading his papers. the world seemed to have no attraction. once in a while he would go out, in fine weather, it might be four or five hours, between eleven and four. she could do nothing but view him with gnawing contempt. it was apathy with hurstwood, resulting from his inability to see his way out. each month drew from his small store. now, he had only five hundred dollars left, and this he hugged, half feeling as if he could stave off absolute necessity for an indefinite period. sitting around the house, he decided to wear some old clothes he had. this came first with the bad days. only once he apologised in the very beginning: "it's so bad to-day, i'll just wear these around." eventually these became the permanent thing. also, he had been wont to pay fifteen cents for a shave, and a tip of ten cents. in his first distress, he cut down the tip to five, then to nothing. later, he tried a ten-cent barber shop, and, finding that the shave was satisfactory, patronised regularly. later still, he put off shaving to every other day, then to every third, and so on, until once a week became the rule. on saturday he was a sight to see. of course, as his own self-respect vanished, it perished for him in carrie. she could not understand what had gotten into the man. he had some money, he had a decent suit remaining, he was not bad looking when dressed up. she did not forget her own difficult struggle in chicago, but she did not forget either that she had never ceased trying. he never tried. he did not even consult the ads. in the papers any more. finally, a distinct impression escaped from her. "what makes you put so much butter on the steak?" he asked her one evening, standing around in the kitchen. "to make it good, of course," she answered. "butter is awful dear these days," he suggested. "you wouldn't mind it if you were working," she answered. he shut up after this, and went in to his paper, but the retort rankled in his mind. it was the first cutting remark that had come from her. that same evening, carrie, after reading, went off to the front room to bed. this was unusual. when hurstwood decided to go, he retired, as usual, without a light. it was then that he discovered carrie's absence. "that's funny," he said; "maybe she's sitting up." he gave the matter no more thought, but slept. in the morning she was not beside him. strange to say, this passed without comment. night approaching, and a slightly more conversational feeling prevailing, carrie said: "i think i'll sleep alone to-night. i have a headache." "all right," said hurstwood. the third night she went to her front bed without apologies. this was a grim blow to hurstwood, but he never mentioned it. "all right," he said to himself, with an irrepressible frown, "let her sleep alone." chapter xxxvi a grim retrogression: the phantom of chance the vances, who had been back in the city ever since christmas, had not forgotten carrie; but they, or rather mrs. vance, had never called on her, for the very simple reason that carrie had never sent her address. true to her nature, she corresponded with mrs. vance as long as she still lived in seventy-eighth street, but when she was compelled to move into thirteenth, her fear that the latter would take it as an indication of reduced circumstances caused her to study some way of avoiding the necessity of giving her address. not finding any convenient method, she sorrowfully resigned the privilege of writing to her friend entirely. the latter wondered at this strange silence, thought carrie must have left the city, and in the end gave her up as lost. so she was thoroughly surprised to encounter her in fourteenth street, where she had gone shopping. carrie was there for the same purpose. "why, mrs. wheeler," said mrs. vance, looking carrie over in a glance, "where have you been? why haven't you been to see me? i've been wondering all this time what had become of you. really, i----" "i'm so glad to see you," said carrie, pleased and yet nonplussed. of all times, this was the worst to encounter mrs. vance. "why, i'm living down town here. i've been intending to come and see you. where are you living now?" "in fifty-eighth street," said mrs. vance, "just off seventh avenue-- . why don't you come and see me?" "i will," said carrie. "really, i've been wanting to come. i know i ought to. it's a shame. but you know----" "what's your number?" said mrs. vance. "thirteenth street," said carrie, reluctantly. " west." "oh," said mrs. vance, "that's right near here, isn't it?" "yes," said carrie. "you must come down and see me some time." "well, you're a fine one," said mrs. vance, laughing, the while noting that carrie's appearance had modified somewhat. "the address, too," she added to herself. "they must be hard up." still she liked carrie well enough to take her in tow. "come with me in here a minute," she exclaimed, turning into a store. when carrie returned home, there was hurstwood, reading as usual. he seemed to take his condition with the utmost nonchalance. his beard was at least four days old. "oh," thought carrie, "if she were to come here and see him?" she shook her head in absolute misery. it looked as if her situation was becoming unbearable. driven to desperation, she asked at dinner: "did you ever hear any more from that wholesale house?" "no," he said. "they don't want an inexperienced man." carrie dropped the subject, feeling unable to say more. "i met mrs. vance this afternoon," she said, after a time. "did, eh?" he answered. "they're back in new york now," carrie went on. "she did look so nice." "well, she can afford it as long as he puts up for it," returned hurstwood. "he's got a soft job." hurstwood was looking into the paper. he could not see the look of infinite weariness and discontent carrie gave him. "she said she thought she'd call here some day." "she's been long getting round to it, hasn't she?" said hurstwood, with a kind of sarcasm. the woman didn't appeal to him from her spending side. "oh, i don't know," said carrie, angered by the man's attitude. "perhaps i didn't want her to come." "she's too gay," said hurstwood, significantly. "no one can keep up with her pace unless they've got a lot of money." "mr. vance doesn't seem to find it very hard." "he may not now," answered hurstwood, doggedly, well understanding the inference; "but his life isn't done yet. you can't tell what'll happen. he may get down like anybody else." there was something quite knavish in the man's attitude. his eye seemed to be cocked with a twinkle upon the fortunate, expecting their defeat. his own state seemed a thing apart--not considered. this thing was the remains of his old-time cocksureness and independence. sitting in his flat, and reading of the doings of other people, sometimes this independent, undefeated mood came upon him. forgetting the weariness of the streets and the degradation of search, he would sometimes prick up his ears. it was as if he said: "i can do something. i'm not down yet. there's a lot of things coming to me if i want to go after them." it was in this mood that he would occasionally dress up, go for a shave, and, putting on his gloves, sally forth quite actively. not with any definite aim. it was more a barometric condition. he felt just right for being outside and doing something. on such occasions, his money went also. he knew of several poker rooms down town. a few acquaintances he had in down-town resorts and about the city hall. it was a change to see them and exchange a few friendly commonplaces. he had once been accustomed to hold a pretty fair hand at poker. many a friendly game had netted him a hundred dollars or more at the time when that sum was merely sauce to the dish of the game--not the all in all. now, he thought of playing. "i might win a couple of hundred. i'm not out of practice." it is but fair to say that this thought had occurred to him several times before he acted upon it. the poker room which he first invaded was over a saloon in west street, near one of the ferries. he had been there before. several games were going. these he watched for a time and noticed that the pots were quite large for the ante involved. "deal me a hand," he said at the beginning of a new shuffle. he pulled up a chair and studied his cards. those playing made that quiet study of him which is so unapparent, and yet invariably so searching. poor fortune was with him at first. he received a mixed collection without progression or pairs. the pot was opened. "i pass," he said. on the strength of this, he was content to lose his ante. the deals did fairly by him in the long run, causing him to come away with a few dollars to the good. the next afternoon he was back again, seeking amusement and profit. this time he followed up three of a kind to his doom. there was a better hand across the table, held by a pugnacious irish youth, who was a political hanger-on of the tammany district in which they were located. hurstwood was surprised at the persistence of this individual, whose bets came with a _sang-froid_ which, if a bluff, was excellent art. hurstwood began to doubt, but kept, or thought to keep, at least, the cool demeanour with which, in olden times, he deceived those psychic students of the gaming table, who seem to read thoughts and moods, rather than exterior evidences, however subtle. he could not down the cowardly thought that this man had something better and would stay to the end, drawing his last dollar into the pot, should he choose to go so far. still, he hoped to win much--his hand was excellent. why not raise it five more? "i raise you three," said the youth. "make it five," said hurstwood, pushing out his chips. "come again," said the youth, pushing out a small pile of reds. "let me have some more chips," said hurstwood to the keeper in charge, taking out a bill. a cynical grin lit up the face of his youthful opponent. when the chips were laid out, hurstwood met the raise. "five again," said the youth. hurstwood's brow was wet. he was deep in now--very deep for him. sixty dollars of his good money was up. he was ordinarily no coward, but the thought of losing so much weakened him. finally he gave way. he would not trust to this fine hand any longer. "i call," he said. "a full house!" said the youth, spreading out his cards. hurstwood's hand dropped. "i thought i had you," he said, weakly. the youth raked in his chips, and hurstwood came away, not without first stopping to count his remaining cash on the stair. "three hundred and forty dollars," he said. with this loss and ordinary expenses, so much had already gone. back in the flat, he decided he would play no more. remembering mrs. vance's promise to call, carrie made one other mild protest. it was concerning hurstwood's appearance. this very day, coming home, he changed his clothes to the old togs he sat around in. "what makes you always put on those old clothes?" asked carrie. "what's the use wearing my good ones around here?" he asked. "well, i should think you'd feel better." then she added: "some one might call." "who?" he said. "well, mrs. vance," said carrie. "she needn't see me," he answered, sullenly. this lack of pride and interest made carrie almost hate him. "oh," she thought, "there he sits. 'she needn't see me.' i should think he would be ashamed of himself." the real bitterness of this thing was added when mrs. vance did call. it was on one of her shopping rounds. making her way up the commonplace hall, she knocked at carrie's door. to her subsequent and agonising distress, carrie was out. hurstwood opened the door, half-thinking that the knock was carrie's. for once, he was taken honestly aback. the lost voice of youth and pride spoke in him. "why," he said, actually stammering, "how do you do?" "how do you do?" said mrs. vance, who could scarcely believe her eyes. his great confusion she instantly perceived. he did not know whether to invite her in or not. "is your wife at home?" she inquired. "no," he said, "carrie's out; but won't you step in? she'll be back shortly." "no-o," said mrs. vance, realising the change of it all. "i'm really very much in a hurry. i thought i'd just run up and look in, but i couldn't stay. just tell your wife she must come and see me." "i will," said hurstwood, standing back, and feeling intense relief at her going. he was so ashamed that he folded his hands weakly, as he sat in the chair afterwards, and thought. carrie, coming in from another direction, thought she saw mrs. vance going away. she strained her eyes, but could not make sure. "was anybody here just now?" she asked of hurstwood. "yes," he said guiltily; "mrs. vance." "did she see you?" she asked, expressing her full despair. this cut hurstwood like a whip, and made him sullen. "if she had eyes, she did. i opened the door." "oh," said carrie, closing one hand tightly out of sheer nervousness. "what did she have to say?" "nothing," he answered. "she couldn't stay." "and you looking like that!" said carrie, throwing aside a long reserve. "what of it?" he said, angering. "i didn't know she was coming, did i?" "you knew she might," said carrie. "i told you she said she was coming. i've asked you a dozen times to wear your other clothes. oh, i think this is just terrible." "oh, let up," he answered. "what difference does it make? you couldn't associate with her, anyway. they've got too much money." "who said i wanted to?" said carrie, fiercely. "well, you act like it, rowing around over my looks. you'd think i'd committed----" carrie interrupted: "it's true," she said. "i couldn't if i wanted to, but whose fault is it? you're very free to sit and talk about who i could associate with. why don't you get out and look for work?" this was a thunderbolt in camp. "what's it to you?" he said, rising, almost fiercely. "i pay the rent, don't i? i furnish the----" "yes, you pay the rent," said carrie. "you talk as if there was nothing else in the world but a flat to sit around in. you haven't done a thing for three months except sit around and interfere here. i'd like to know what you married me for?" "i didn't marry you," he said, in a snarling tone. "i'd like to know what you did, then, in montreal?" she answered. "well, i didn't marry you," he answered. "you can get that out of your head. you talk as though you didn't know." carrie looked at him a moment, her eyes distending. she had believed it was all legal and binding enough. "what did you lie to me for, then?" she asked, fiercely. "what did you force me to run away with you for?" her voice became almost a sob. "force!" he said, with curled lip. "a lot of forcing i did." "oh!" said carrie, breaking under the strain, and turning. "oh, oh!" and she hurried into the front room. hurstwood was now hot and waked up. it was a great shaking up for him, both mental and moral. he wiped his brow as he looked around, and then went for his clothes and dressed. not a sound came from carrie; she ceased sobbing when she heard him dressing. she thought, at first, with the faintest alarm, of being left without money--not of losing him, though he might be going away permanently. she heard him open the top of the wardrobe and take out his hat. then the dining-room door closed, and she knew he had gone. after a few moments of silence, she stood up, dry-eyed, and looked out the window. hurstwood was just strolling up the street, from the flat, toward sixth avenue. the latter made progress along thirteenth and across fourteenth street to union square. "look for work!" he said to himself. "look for work! she tells me to get out and look for work." he tried to shield himself from his own mental accusation, which told him that she was right. "what a cursed thing that mrs. vance's call was, anyhow," he thought. "stood right there, and looked me over. i know what she was thinking." he remembered the few times he had seen her in seventy-eighth street. she was always a swell-looker; and he had tried to put on the air of being worthy of such as she, in front of her. now, to think she had caught him looking this way. he wrinkled his forehead in his distress. "the devil!" he said a dozen times in an hour. it was a quarter after four when he left the house. carrie was in tears. there would be no dinner that night. "what the deuce," he said, swaggering mentally to hide his own shame from himself. "i'm not so bad. i'm not down yet." he looked around the square, and seeing the several large hotels, decided to go to one for dinner. he would get his papers and make himself comfortable there. he ascended into the fine parlour of the morton house, then one of the best new york hotels, and, finding a cushioned seat, read. it did not trouble him much that his decreasing sum of money did not allow of such extravagance. like the morphine fiend, he was becoming addicted to his ease. anything to relieve his mental distress, to satisfy his craving for comfort. he must do it. no thoughts for the morrow--he could not stand to think of it any more than he could of any other calamity. like the certainty of death, he tried to shut the certainty of soon being without a dollar completely out of his mind, and he came very near doing it. well-dressed guests moving to and fro over the thick carpets carried him back to the old days. a young lady, a guest of the house, playing a piano in an alcove pleased him. he sat there reading. his dinner cost him $ . . by eight o'clock he was through, and then, seeing guests leaving and the crowd of pleasure-seekers thickening outside, wondered where he should go. not home. carrie would be up. no, he would not go back there this evening. he would stay out and knock around as a man who was independent--not broke--well might. he bought a cigar, and went outside on the corner where other individuals were lounging--brokers, racing people, thespians--his own flesh and blood. as he stood there, he thought of the old evenings in chicago, and how he used to dispose of them. many's the game he had had. this took him to poker. "i didn't do that thing right the other day," he thought, referring to his loss of sixty dollars. "i shouldn't have weakened. i could have bluffed that fellow down. i wasn't in form, that's what ailed me." then he studied the possibilities of the game as it had been played, and began to figure how he might have won, in several instances, by bluffing a little harder. "i'm old enough to play poker and do something with it. i'll try my hand to-night." visions of a big stake floated before him. supposing he did win a couple of hundred, wouldn't he be in it? lots of sports he knew made their living at this game, and a good living, too. "they always had as much as i had," he thought. so off he went to a poker room in the neighbourhood, feeling much as he had in the old days. in this period of self-forgetfulness, aroused first by the shock of argument and perfected by a dinner in the hotel, with cocktails and cigars, he was as nearly like the old hurstwood as he would ever be again. it was not the old hurstwood--only a man arguing with a divided conscience and lured by a phantom. this poker room was much like the other one, only it was a back room in a better drinking resort. hurstwood watched a while, and then, seeing an interesting game, joined in. as before, it went easy for a while, he winning a few times and cheering up, losing a few pots and growing more interested and determined on that account. at last the fascinating game took a strong hold on him. he enjoyed its risks and ventured, on a trifling hand, to bluff the company and secure a fair stake. to his self-satisfaction intense and strong, he did it. in the height of this feeling he began to think his luck was with him. no one else had done so well. now came another moderate hand, and again he tried to open the jack-pot on it. there were others there who were almost reading his heart, so close was their observation. "i have three of a kind," said one of the players to himself. "i'll just stay with that fellow to the finish." the result was that bidding began. "i raise you ten." "good." "ten more." "good." "ten again." "right you are." it got to where hurstwood had seventy-five dollars up. the other man really became serious. perhaps this individual (hurstwood) really did have a stiff hand. "i call," he said. hurstwood showed his hand. he was done. the bitter fact that he had lost seventy-five dollars made him desperate. "let's have another pot," he said, grimly. "all right," said the man. some of the other players quit, but observant loungers took their places. time passed, and it came to twelve o'clock. hurstwood held on, neither winning nor losing much. then he grew weary, and on a last hand lost twenty more. he was sick at heart. at a quarter after one in the morning he came out of the place. the chill, bare streets seemed a mockery of his state. he walked slowly west, little thinking of his row with carrie. he ascended the stairs and went into his room as if there had been no trouble. it was his loss that occupied his mind. sitting down on the bedside he counted his money. there was now but a hundred and ninety dollars and some change. he put it up and began to undress. "i wonder what's getting into me, anyhow?" he said. in the morning carrie scarcely spoke, and he felt as if he must go out again. he had treated her badly, but he could not afford to make up. now desperation seized him, and for a day or two, going out thus, he lived like a gentleman--or what he conceived to be a gentleman--which took money. for his escapades he was soon poorer in mind and body, to say nothing of his purse, which had lost thirty by the process. then he came down to cold, bitter sense again. "the rent man comes to-day," said carrie, greeting him thus indifferently three mornings later. "he does?" "yes; this is the second," answered carrie. hurstwood frowned. then in despair he got out his purse. "it seems an awful lot to pay for rent," he said. he was nearing his last hundred dollars. chapter xxxvii the spirit awakens: new search for the gate it would be useless to explain how in due time the last fifty dollars was in sight. the seven hundred, by his process of handling, had only carried them into june. before the final hundred mark was reached he began to indicate that a calamity was approaching. "i don't know," he said one day, taking a trivial expenditure for meat as a text, "it seems to take an awful lot for us to live." "it doesn't seem to me," said carrie, "that we spend very much." "my money is nearly gone," he said, "and i hardly know where it's gone to." "all that seven hundred dollars?" asked carrie. "all but a hundred." he looked so disconsolate that it scared her. she began to see that she herself had been drifting. she had felt it all the time. "well, george," she exclaimed, "why don't you get out and look for something? you could find something." "i have looked," he said. "you can't make people give you a place." she gazed weakly at him and said: "well, what do you think you will do? a hundred dollars won't last long." "i don't know," he said. "i can't do any more than look." carrie became frightened over this announcement. she thought desperately upon the subject. frequently she had considered the stage as a door through which she might enter that gilded state which she had so much craved. now, as in chicago, it came as a last resource in distress. something must be done if he did not get work soon. perhaps she would have to go out and battle again alone. she began to wonder how one would go about getting a place. her experience in chicago proved that she had not tried the right way. there must be people who would listen to and try you--men who would give you an opportunity. they were talking at the breakfast table, a morning or two later, when she brought up the dramatic subject by saying that she saw that sarah bernhardt was coming to this country. hurstwood had seen it, too. "how do people get on the stage, george?" she finally asked, innocently. "i don't know," he said. "there must be dramatic agents." carrie was sipping coffee, and did not look up. "regular people who get you a place?" "yes, i think so," he answered. suddenly the air with which she asked attracted his attention. "you're not still thinking about being an actress, are you?" he asked. "no," she answered, "i was just wondering." without being clear, there was something in the thought which he objected to. he did not believe any more, after three years of observation, that carrie would ever do anything great in that line. she seemed too simple, too yielding. his idea of the art was that it involved something more pompous. if she tried to get on the stage she would fall into the hands of some cheap manager and become like the rest of them. he had a good idea of what he meant by _them_. carrie was pretty. she would get along all right, but where would he be? "i'd get that idea out of my head, if i were you. it's a lot more difficult than you think." carrie felt this to contain, in some way, an aspersion upon her ability. "you said i did real well in chicago," she rejoined. "you did," he answered, seeing that he was arousing opposition, "but chicago isn't new york, by a big jump." carrie did not answer this at all. it hurt her. "the stage," he went on, "is all right if you can be one of the big guns, but there's nothing to the rest of it. it takes a long while to get up." "oh, i don't know," said carrie, slightly aroused. in a flash, he thought he foresaw the result of this thing. now, when the worst of his situation was approaching, she would get on the stage in some cheap way and forsake him. strangely, he had not conceived well of her mental ability. that was because he did not understand the nature of emotional greatness. he had never learned that a person might be emotionally--instead of intellectually--great. avery hall was too far away for him to look back and sharply remember. he had lived with this woman too long. "well, i do," he answered. "if i were you i wouldn't think of it. it's not much of a profession for a woman." "it's better than going hungry," said carrie. "if you don't want me to do that, why don't you get work yourself?" there was no answer ready for this. he had got used to the suggestion. "oh, let up," he answered. the result of this was that she secretly resolved to try. it didn't matter about him. she was not going to be dragged into poverty and something worse to suit him. she could act. she could get something and then work up. what would he say then? she pictured herself already appearing in some fine performance on broadway; of going every evening to her dressing-room and making up. then she would come out at eleven o'clock and see the carriages ranged about, waiting for the people. it did not matter whether she was the star or not. if she were only once in, getting a decent salary, wearing the kind of clothes she liked, having the money to do with, going here and there as she pleased, how delightful it would all be. her mind ran over this picture all the day long. hurstwood's dreary state made its beauty become more and more vivid. curiously this idea soon took hold of hurstwood. his vanishing sum suggested that he would need sustenance. why could not carrie assist him a little until he could get something? he came in one day with something of this idea in his mind. "i met john b. drake to-day," he said. "he's going to open a hotel here in the fall. he says that he can make a place for me then." "who is he?" asked carrie. "he's the man that runs the grand pacific in chicago." "oh," said carrie. "i'd get about fourteen hundred a year out of that." "that would be good, wouldn't it?" she said, sympathetically. "if i can only get over this summer," he added, "i think i'll be all right. i'm hearing from some of my friends again." carrie swallowed this story in all its pristine beauty. she sincerely wished he could get through the summer. he looked so hopeless. "how much money have you left?" "only fifty dollars." "oh, mercy," she exclaimed, "what will we do? it's only twenty days until the rent will be due again." hurstwood rested his head on his hands and looked blankly at the floor. "maybe you could get something in the stage line?" he blandly suggested. "maybe i could," said carrie, glad that some one approved of the idea. "i'll lay my hand to whatever i can get," he said, now that he saw her brighten up. "i can get something." she cleaned up the things one morning after he had gone, dressed as neatly as her wardrobe permitted, and set out for broadway. she did not know that thoroughfare very well. to her it was a wonderful conglomeration of everything great and mighty. the theatres were there--these agencies must be somewhere about. she decided to stop in at the madison square theatre and ask how to find the theatrical agents. this seemed the sensible way. accordingly, when she reached that theatre she applied to the clerk at the box office. "eh?" he said, looking out. "dramatic agents? i don't know. you'll find them in the 'clipper,' though. they all advertise in that." "is that a paper?" said carrie. "yes," said the clerk, marvelling at such ignorance of a common fact. "you can get it at the news-stands," he added politely, seeing how pretty the inquirer was. carrie proceeded to get the "clipper," and tried to find the agents by looking over it as she stood beside the stand. this could not be done so easily. thirteenth street was a number of blocks off, but she went back, carrying the precious paper and regretting the waste of time. hurstwood was already there, sitting in his place. "where were you?" he asked. "i've been trying to find some dramatic agents." he felt a little diffident about asking concerning her success. the paper she began to scan attracted his attention. "what have you got there?" he asked. "the 'clipper.' the man said i'd find their addresses in here." "have you been all the way over to broadway to find that out? i could have told you." "why didn't you?" she asked, without looking up. "you never asked me," he returned. she went hunting aimlessly through the crowded columns. her mind was distracted by this man's indifference. the difficulty of the situation she was facing was only added to by all he did. self-commiseration brewed in her heart. tears trembled along her eyelids but did not fall. hurstwood noticed something. "let me look." to recover herself she went into the front room while he searched. presently she returned. he had a pencil, and was writing upon an envelope. "here 're three," he said. carrie took it and found that one was mrs. bermudez, another marcus jenks, a third percy weil. she paused only a moment, and then moved toward the door. "i might as well go right away," she said, without looking back. hurstwood saw her depart with some faint stirrings of shame, which were the expression of a manhood rapidly becoming stultified. he sat a while, and then it became too much. he got up and put on his hat. "i guess i'll go out," he said to himself, and went, strolling nowhere in particular, but feeling somehow that he must go. carrie's first call was upon mrs. bermudez, whose address was quite the nearest. it was an old-fashioned residence turned into offices. mrs. bermudez's offices consisted of what formerly had been a back chamber and a hall bedroom, marked "private." as carrie entered she noticed several persons lounging about--men, who said nothing and did nothing. while she was waiting to be noticed, the door of the hall bedroom opened and from it issued two very mannish-looking women, very tightly dressed, and wearing white collars and cuffs. after them came a portly lady of about forty-five, light-haired, sharp-eyed, and evidently good-natured. at least she was smiling. "now, don't forget about that," said one of the mannish women. "i won't," said the portly woman. "let's see," she added, "where are you the first week in february?" "pittsburg," said the woman. "i'll write you there." "all right," said the other, and the two passed out. instantly the portly lady's face became exceedingly sober and shrewd. she turned about and fixed on carrie a very searching eye. "well," she said, "young woman, what can i do for you?" "are you mrs. bermudez?" "yes." "well," said carrie, hesitating how to begin, "do you get places for persons upon the stage?" "yes." "could you get me one?" "have you ever had any experience?" "a very little," said carrie. "whom did you play with?" "oh, with no one," said carrie. "it was just a show gotten----" "oh, i see," said the woman, interrupting her. "no, i don't know of anything now." carrie's countenance fell. "you want to get some new york experience," concluded the affable mrs. bermudez. "we'll take your name, though." carrie stood looking while the lady retired to her office. "what is your address?" inquired a young lady behind the counter, taking up the curtailed conversation. "mrs. george wheeler," said carrie, moving over to where she was writing. the woman wrote her address in full and then allowed her to depart at her leisure. she encountered a very similar experience in the office of mr. jenks, only he varied it by saying at the close: "if you could play at some local house, or had a programme with your name on it, i might do something." in the third place the individual asked: "what sort of work do you want to do?" "what do you mean?" said carrie. "well, do you want to get in a comedy or on the vaudeville stage or in the chorus?" "oh, i'd like to get a part in a play," said carrie. "well," said the man, "it'll cost you something to do that." "how much?" said carrie, who, ridiculous as it may seem, had not thought of this before. "well, that's for you to say," he answered shrewdly. carrie looked at him curiously. she hardly knew how to continue the inquiry. "could you get me a part if i paid?" "if we didn't you'd get your money back." "oh," she said. the agent saw he was dealing with an inexperienced soul, and continued accordingly. "you'd want to deposit fifty dollars, any way. no agent would trouble about you for less than that." carrie saw a light. "thank you," she said. "i'll think about it." she started to go, and then bethought herself. "how soon would i get a place?" she asked. "well, that's hard to say," said the man. "you might get one in a week, or it might be a month. you'd get the first thing that we thought you could do." "i see," said carrie, and then, half-smiling to be agreeable, she walked out. the agent studied a moment, and then said to himself: "it's funny how anxious these women are to get on the stage." carrie found ample food for reflection in the fifty-dollar proposition. "maybe they'd take my money and not give me anything," she thought. she had some jewelry--a diamond ring and pin and several other pieces. she could get fifty dollars for those if she went to a pawnbroker. hurstwood was home before her. he had not thought she would be so long seeking. "well?" he said, not venturing to ask what news. "i didn't find out anything to-day," said carrie, taking off her gloves. "they all want money to get you a place." "how much?" asked hurstwood. "fifty dollars." "they don't want anything, do they?" "oh, they're like everybody else. you can't tell whether they'd ever get you anything after you did pay them." "well, i wouldn't put up fifty on that basis," said hurstwood, as if he were deciding, money in hand. "i don't know," said carrie. "i think i'll try some of the managers." hurstwood heard this, dead to the horror of it. he rocked a little to and fro, and chewed at his finger. it seemed all very natural in such extreme states. he would do better later on. chapter xxxviii in elf land disporting: the grim world without when carrie renewed her search, as she did the next day, going to the casino, she found that in the opera chorus, as in other fields, employment is difficult to secure. girls who can stand in a line and look pretty are as numerous as labourers who can swing a pick. she found there was no discrimination between one and the other of applicants, save as regards a conventional standard of prettiness and form. their own opinion or knowledge of their ability went for nothing. "where shall i find mr. gray?" she asked of a sulky doorman at the stage entrance of the casino. "you can't see him now; he's busy." "do you know when i can see him?" "got an appointment with him?" "no." "well, you'll have to call at his office." "oh, dear!" exclaimed carrie. "where is his office?" he gave her the number. she knew there was no need of calling there now. he would not be in. nothing remained but to employ the intermediate hours in search. the dismal story of ventures in other places is quickly told. mr. daly saw no one save by appointment. carrie waited an hour in a dingy office, quite in spite of obstacles, to learn this fact of the placid, indifferent mr. dorney. "you will have to write and ask him to see you." so she went away. at the empire theatre she found a hive of peculiarly listless and indifferent individuals. everything ornately upholstered, everything carefully finished, everything remarkably reserved. at the lyceum she entered one of those secluded, under-stairway closets, berugged and bepanneled, which causes one to feel the greatness of all positions of authority. here was reserve itself done into a box-office clerk, a doorman, and an assistant, glorying in their fine positions. "ah, be very humble now--very humble indeed. tell us what it is you require. tell it quickly, nervously, and without a vestige of self-respect. if no trouble to us in any way, we may see what we can do." this was the atmosphere of the lyceum--the attitude, for that matter, of every managerial office in the city. these little proprietors of businesses are lords indeed on their own ground. carrie came away wearily, somewhat more abashed for her pains. hurstwood heard the details of the weary and unavailing search that evening. "i didn't get to see any one," said carrie. "i just walked, and walked, and waited around." hurstwood only looked at her. "i suppose you have to have some friends before you can get in," she added, disconsolately. hurstwood saw the difficulty of this thing, and yet it did not seem so terrible. carrie was tired and dispirited, but now she could rest. viewing the world from his rocking-chair, its bitterness did not seem to approach so rapidly. to-morrow was another day. to-morrow came, and the next, and the next. carrie saw the manager at the casino once. "come around," he said, "the first of next week. i may make some changes then." he was a large and corpulent individual, surfeited with good clothes and good eating, who judged women as another would horseflesh. carrie was pretty and graceful. she might be put in even if she did not have any experience. one of the proprietors had suggested that the chorus was a little weak on looks. the first of next week was some days off yet. the first of the month was drawing near. carrie began to worry as she had never worried before. "do you really look for anything when you go out?" she asked hurstwood one morning as a climax to some painful thoughts of her own. "of course i do," he said pettishly, troubling only a little over the disgrace of the insinuation. "i'd take anything," she said, "for the present. it will soon be the first of the month again." she looked the picture of despair. hurstwood quit reading his paper and changed his clothes. "he would look for something," he thought. "he would go and see if some brewery couldn't get him in somewhere. yes, he would take a position as bartender, if he could get it." it was the same sort of pilgrimage he had made before. one or two slight rebuffs, and the bravado disappeared. "no use," he thought. "i might as well go on back home." now that his money was so low, he began to observe his clothes and feel that even his best ones were beginning to look commonplace. this was a bitter thought. carrie came in after he did. "i went to see some of the variety managers," she said, aimlessly. "you have to have an act. they don't want anybody that hasn't." "i saw some of the brewery people to-day," said hurstwood. "one man told me he'd try to make a place for me in two or three weeks." in the face of so much distress on carrie's part, he had to make some showing, and it was thus he did so. it was lassitude's apology to energy. monday carrie went again to the casino. "did i tell you to come around to-day?" said the manager, looking her over as she stood before him. "you said the first of the week," said carrie, greatly abashed. "ever had any experience?" he asked again, almost severely. carrie owned to ignorance. he looked her over again as he stirred among some papers. he was secretly pleased with this pretty, disturbed-looking young woman. "come around to the theatre to-morrow morning." carrie's heart bounded to her throat. "i will," she said with difficulty. she could see he wanted her, and turned to go. "would he really put her to work? oh, blessed fortune, could it be?" already the hard rumble of the city through the open windows became pleasant. a sharp voice answered her mental interrogation, driving away all immediate fears on that score. "be sure you're there promptly," the manager said roughly. "you'll be dropped if you're not." carrie hastened away. she did not quarrel now with hurstwood's idleness. she had a place--she had a place! this sang in her ears. in her delight she was almost anxious to tell hurstwood. but, as she walked homeward, and her survey of the facts of the case became larger, she began to think of the anomaly of her finding work in several weeks and his lounging in idleness for a number of months. "why don't he get something?" she openly said to herself. "if i can he surely ought to. it wasn't very hard for me." she forgot her youth and her beauty. the handicap of age she did not, in her enthusiasm, perceive. thus, ever, the voice of success. still, she could not keep her secret. she tried to be calm and indifferent, but it was a palpable sham. "well?" he said, seeing her relieved face. "i have a place." "you have?" he said, breathing a better breath. "yes." "what sort of a place is it?" he asked, feeling in his veins as if now he might get something good also. "in the chorus," she answered. "is it the casino show you told me about?" "yes," she answered. "i begin rehearsing to-morrow." there was more explanation volunteered by carrie, because she was happy. at last hurstwood said: "do you know how much you'll get?" "no, i didn't want to ask," said carrie. "i guess they pay twelve or fourteen dollars a week." "about that, i guess," said hurstwood. there was a good dinner in the flat that evening, owing to the mere lifting of the terrible strain. hurstwood went out for a shave, and returned with a fair-sized sirloin steak. "now, to-morrow," he thought, "i'll look around myself," and with renewed hope he lifted his eyes from the ground. on the morrow carrie reported promptly and was given a place in the line. she saw a large, empty, shadowy play-house, still redolent of the perfumes and blazonry of the night, and notable for its rich, oriental appearance. the wonder of it awed and delighted her. blessed be its wondrous reality. how hard she would try to be worthy of it. it was above the common mass, above idleness, above want, above insignificance. people came to it in finery and carriages to see. it was ever a centre of light and mirth. and here she was of it. oh, if she could only remain, how happy would be her days! "what is your name?" said the manager, who was conducting the drill. "madenda," she replied, instantly mindful of the name drouet had selected in chicago. "carrie madenda." "well, now, miss madenda," he said, very affably, as carrie thought, "you go over there." then he called to a young woman who was already of the company: "miss clark, you pair with miss madenda." this young lady stepped forward, so that carrie saw where to go, and the rehearsal began. carrie soon found that while this drilling had some slight resemblance to the rehearsals as conducted at avery hall, the attitude of the manager was much more pronounced. she had marvelled at the insistence and superior airs of mr. millice, but the individual conducting here had the same insistence, coupled with almost brutal roughness. as the drilling proceeded, he seemed to wax exceedingly wroth over trifles, and to increase his lung power in proportion. it was very evident that he had a great contempt for any assumption of dignity or innocence on the part of these young women. "clark," he would call--meaning, of course, miss clark--"why don't you catch step there?" "by fours, right! right, i said, right! for heaven's sake, get on to yourself! right!" and in saying this he would lift the last sounds into a vehement roar. "maitland! maitland!" he called once. a nervous, comely-dressed little girl stepped out. carrie trembled for her out of the fulness of her own sympathies and fear. "yes, sir," said miss maitland. "is there anything the matter with your ears?" "no, sir." "do you know what 'column left' means?" "yes, sir." "well, what are you stumbling around the right for? want to break up the line?" "i was just----" "never mind what you were just. keep your ears open." carrie pitied, and trembled for her turn. yet another suffered the pain of personal rebuke. "hold on a minute," cried the manager, throwing up his hands, as if in despair. his demeanour was fierce. "elvers," he shouted, "what have you got in your mouth?" "nothing," said miss elvers, while some smiled and stood nervously by. "well, are you talking?" "no, sir." "well, keep your mouth still then. now, all together again." at last carrie's turn came. it was because of her extreme anxiety to do all that was required that brought on the trouble. she heard some one called. "mason," said the voice. "miss mason." she looked around to see who it could be. a girl behind shoved her a little, but she did not understand. "you, you!" said the manager. "can't you hear?" "oh," said carrie, collapsing, and blushing fiercely. "isn't your name mason?" asked the manager. "no, sir," said carrie, "it's madenda." "well, what's the matter with your feet? can't you dance?" "yes, sir," said carrie, who had long since learned this art. "why don't you do it then? don't go shuffling along as if you were dead. i've got to have people with life in them." carrie's cheek burned with a crimson heat. her lips trembled a little. "yes, sir," she said. it was this constant urging, coupled with irascibility and energy, for three long hours. carrie came away worn enough in body, but too excited in mind to notice it. she meant to go home and practise her evolutions as prescribed. she would not err in any way, if she could help it. when she reached the flat hurstwood was not there. for a wonder he was out looking for work, as she supposed. she took only a mouthful to eat and then practised on, sustained by visions of freedom from financial distress--"the sound of glory ringing in her ears." when hurstwood returned he was not so elated as when he went away, and now she was obliged to drop practice and get dinner. here was an early irritation. she would have her work and this. was she going to act and keep house? "i'll not do it," she said, "after i get started. he can take his meals out." each day thereafter brought its cares. she found it was not such a wonderful thing to be in the chorus, and she also learned that her salary would be twelve dollars a week. after a few days she had her first sight of those high and mighties--the leading ladies and gentlemen. she saw that they were privileged and deferred to. she was nothing--absolutely nothing at all. at home was hurstwood, daily giving her cause for thought. he seemed to get nothing to do, and yet he made bold to inquire how she was getting along. the regularity with which he did this smacked of some one who was waiting to live upon her labour. now that she had a visible means of support, this irritated her. he seemed to be depending upon her little twelve dollars. "how are you getting along?" he would blandly inquire. "oh, all right," she would reply. "find it easy?" "it will be all right when i get used to it." his paper would then engross his thoughts. "i got some lard," he would add, as an afterthought. "i thought maybe you might want to make some biscuit." the calm suggestion of the man astonished her a little, especially in the light of recent developments. her dawning independence gave her more courage to observe, and she felt as if she wanted to say things. still she could not talk to him as she had to drouet. there was something in the man's manner of which she had always stood in awe. he seemed to have some invisible strength in reserve. one day, after her first week's rehearsal, what she expected came openly to the surface. "we'll have to be rather saving," he said, laying down some meat he had purchased. "you won't get any money for a week or so yet." "no," said carrie, who was stirring a pan at the stove. "i've only got the rent and thirteen dollars more," he added. "that's it," she said to herself. "i'm to use my money now." instantly she remembered that she had hoped to buy a few things for herself. she needed clothes. her hat was not nice. "what will twelve dollars do towards keeping up this flat?" she thought. "i can't do it. why doesn't he get something to do?" the important night of the first real performance came. she did not suggest to hurstwood that he come and see. he did not think of going. it would only be money wasted. she had such a small part. the advertisements were already in the papers; the posters upon the bill-boards. the leading lady and many members were cited. carrie was nothing. as in chicago, she was seized with stage fright as the very first entrance of the ballet approached, but later she recovered. the apparent and painful insignificance of the part took fear away from her. she felt that she was so obscure it did not matter. fortunately, she did not have to wear tights. a group of twelve were assigned pretty golden-hued skirts which came only to a line about an inch above the knee. carrie happened to be one of the twelve. in standing about the stage, marching, and occasionally lifting up her voice in the general chorus, she had a chance to observe the audience and to see the inauguration of a great hit. there was plenty of applause, but she could not help noting how poorly some of the women of alleged ability did. "i could do better than that," carrie ventured to herself, in several instances. to do her justice, she was right. after it was over she dressed quickly, and as the manager had scolded some others and passed her, she imagined she must have proved satisfactory. she wanted to get out quickly, because she knew but few, and the stars were gossiping. outside were carriages and some correct youths in attractive clothing, waiting. carrie saw that she was scanned closely. the flutter of an eyelash would have brought her a companion. that she did not give. one experienced youth volunteered, anyhow. "not going home alone, are you?" he said. carrie merely hastened her steps and took the sixth avenue car. her head was so full of the wonder of it that she had time for nothing else. "did you hear any more from the brewery?" she asked at the end of the week, hoping by the question to stir him on to action. "no," he answered, "they're not quite ready yet. i think something will come of that, though." she said nothing more then, objecting to giving up her own money, and yet feeling that such would have to be the case. hurstwood felt the crisis, and artfully decided to appeal to carrie. he had long since realised how good-natured she was, how much she would stand. there was some little shame in him at the thought of doing so, but he justified himself with the thought that he really would get something. rent day gave him his opportunity. "well," he said, as he counted it out, "that's about the last of my money. i'll have to get something pretty soon." carrie looked at him askance, half-suspicious of an appeal. "if i could only hold out a little longer i think i could get something. drake is sure to open a hotel here in september." "is he?" said carrie, thinking of the short month that still remained until that time. "would you mind helping me out until then?" he said appealingly. "i think i'll be all right after that time." "no," said carrie, feeling sadly handicapped by fate. "we can get along if we economise. i'll pay you back all right." "oh, i'll help you," said carrie, feeling quite hard-hearted at thus forcing him to humbly appeal, and yet her desire for the benefit of her earnings wrung a faint protest from her. "why don't you take anything, george, temporarily?" she said. "what difference does it make? maybe, after a while, you'll get something better." "i will take anything," he said, relieved, and wincing under reproof. "i'd just as leave dig on the streets. nobody knows me here." "oh, you needn't do that," said carrie, hurt by the pity of it. "but there must be other things." "i'll get something!" he said, assuming determination. then he went back to his paper. chapter xxxix of lights and of shadows: the parting of worlds what hurstwood got as the result of this determination was more self-assurance that each particular day was not the day. at the same time, carrie passed through thirty days of mental distress. her need of clothes--to say nothing of her desire for ornaments--grew rapidly as the fact developed that for all her work she was not to have them. the sympathy she felt for hurstwood, at the time he asked her to tide him over, vanished with these newer urgings of decency. he was not always renewing his request, but this love of good appearance was. it insisted, and carrie wished to satisfy it, wished more and more that hurstwood was not in the way. hurstwood reasoned, when he neared the last ten dollars, that he had better keep a little pocket change and not become wholly dependent for car-fare, shaves, and the like; so when this sum was still in his hand he announced himself as penniless. "i'm clear out," he said to carrie one afternoon. "i paid for some coal this morning, and that took all but ten or fifteen cents." "i've got some money there in my purse." hurstwood went to get it, starting for a can of tomatoes. carrie scarcely noticed that this was the beginning of the new order. he took out fifteen cents and bought the can with it. thereafter it was dribs and drabs of this sort, until one morning carrie suddenly remembered that she would not be back until close to dinner time. "we're all out of flour," she said; "you'd better get some this afternoon. we haven't any meat, either. how would it do if we had liver and bacon?" "suits me," said hurstwood. "better get a half or three-quarters of a pound of that." "half'll be enough," volunteered hurstwood. she opened her purse and laid down a half dollar. he pretended not to notice it. hurstwood bought the flour--which all grocers sold in - / -pound packages--for thirteen cents and paid fifteen cents for a half-pound of liver and bacon. he left the packages, together with the balance of thirty-two cents, upon the kitchen table, where carrie found it. it did not escape her that the change was accurate. there was something sad in realising that, after all, all that he wanted of her was something to eat. she felt as if hard thoughts were unjust. maybe he would get something yet. he had no vices. that very evening, however, on going into the theatre, one of the chorus girls passed her all newly arrayed in a pretty mottled tweed suit, which took carrie's eye. the young woman wore a fine bunch of violets and seemed in high spirits. she smiled at carrie good-naturedly as she passed, showing pretty, even teeth, and carrie smiled back. "she can afford to dress well," thought carrie, "and so could i, if i could only keep my money. i haven't a decent tie of any kind to wear." she put out her foot and looked at her shoe reflectively. "i'll get a pair of shoes saturday, anyhow; i don't care what happens." one of the sweetest and most sympathetic little chorus girls in the company made friends with her because in carrie she found nothing to frighten her away. she was a gay little manon, unwitting of society's fierce conception of morality, but, nevertheless, good to her neighbour and charitable. little license was allowed the chorus in the matter of conversation, but, nevertheless, some was indulged in. "it's warm to-night, isn't it?" said this girl, arrayed in pink fleshings and an imitation golden helmet. she also carried a shining shield. "yes; it is," said carrie, pleased that some one should talk to her. "i'm almost roasting," said the girl. carrie looked into her pretty face, with its large blue eyes, and saw little beads of moisture. "there's more marching in this opera than ever i did before," added the girl. "have you been in others?" asked carrie, surprised at her experience. "lots of them," said the girl; "haven't you?" "this is my first experience." "oh, is it? i thought i saw you the time they ran 'the queen's mate' here." "no," said carrie, shaking her head; "not me." this conversation was interrupted by the blare of the orchestra and the sputtering of the calcium lights in the wings as the line was called to form for a new entrance. no further opportunity for conversation occurred, but the next evening, when they were getting ready for the stage, this girl appeared anew at her side. "they say this show is going on the road next month." "is it?" said carrie. "yes; do you think you'll go?" "i don't know; i guess so, if they'll take me." "oh, they'll take you. i wouldn't go. they won't give you any more, and it will cost you everything you make to live. i never leave new york. there are too many shows going on here." "can you always get in another show?" "i always have. there's one going on up at the broadway this month. i'm going to try and get in that if this one really goes." carrie heard this with aroused intelligence. evidently it wasn't so very difficult to get on. maybe she also could get a place if this show went away. "do they all pay about the same?" she asked. "yes. sometimes you get a little more. this show doesn't pay very much." "i get twelve," said carrie. "do you?" said the girl. "they pay me fifteen, and you do more work than i do. i wouldn't stand it if i were you. they're just giving you less because they think you don't know. you ought to be making fifteen." "well, i'm not," said carrie. "well, you'll get more at the next place if you want it," went on the girl, who admired carrie very much. "you do fine, and the manager knows it." to say the truth, carrie did unconsciously move about with an air pleasing and somewhat distinctive. it was due wholly to her natural manner and total lack of self-consciousness. "do you suppose i could get more up at the broadway?" "of course you can," answered the girl. "you come with me when i go. i'll do the talking." carrie heard this, flushing with thankfulness. she liked this little gaslight soldier. she seemed so experienced and self-reliant in her tinsel helmet and military accoutrements. "my future must be assured if i can always get work this way," thought carrie. still, in the morning, when her household duties would infringe upon her and hurstwood sat there, a perfect load to contemplate, her fate seemed dismal and unrelieved. it did not take so very much to feed them under hurstwood's close-measured buying, and there would possibly be enough for rent, but it left nothing else. carrie bought the shoes and some other things, which complicated the rent problem very seriously. suddenly, a week from the fatal day, carrie realised that they were going to run short. "i don't believe," she exclaimed, looking into her purse at breakfast, "that i'll have enough to pay the rent." "how much have you?" inquired hurstwood. "well, i've got twenty-two dollars, but there's everything to be paid for this week yet, and if i use all i get saturday to pay this, there won't be any left for next week. do you think your hotel man will open his hotel this month?" "i think so," returned hurstwood. "he said he would." after a while, hurstwood said: "don't worry about it. maybe the grocer will wait. he can do that. we've traded there long enough to make him trust us for a week or two." "do you think he will?" she asked. "i think so." on this account, hurstwood, this very day, looked grocer oeslogge clearly in the eye as he ordered a pound of coffee, and said: "do you mind carrying my account until the end of every week?" "no, no, mr. wheeler," said mr. oeslogge. "dat iss all right." hurstwood, still tactful in distress, added nothing to this. it seemed an easy thing. he looked out of the door, and then gathered up his coffee when ready and came away. the game of a desperate man had begun. rent was paid, and now came the grocer. hurstwood managed by paying out of his own ten and collecting from carrie at the end of the week. then he delayed a day next time settling with the grocer, and so soon had his ten back, with oeslogge getting his pay on this thursday or friday for last saturday's bill. this entanglement made carrie anxious for a change of some sort. hurstwood did not seem to realise that she had a right to anything. he schemed to make what she earned cover all expenses, but seemed not to trouble over adding anything himself. "he talks about worrying," thought carrie. "if he worried enough he couldn't sit there and wait for me. he'd get something to do. no man could go seven months without finding something if he tried." the sight of him always around in his untidy clothes and gloomy appearance drove carrie to seek relief in other places. twice a week there were matinées, and then hurstwood ate a cold snack, which he prepared himself. two other days there were rehearsals beginning at ten in the morning and lasting usually until one. now, to this carrie added a few visits to one or two chorus girls, including the blue-eyed soldier of the golden helmet. she did it because it was pleasant and a relief from dulness of the home over which her husband brooded. the blue-eyed soldier's name was osborne--lola osborne. her room was in nineteenth street near fourth avenue, a block now given up wholly to office buildings. here she had a comfortable back room, looking over a collection of back yards in which grew a number of shade trees pleasant to see. "isn't your home in new york?" she asked of lola one day. "yes; but i can't get along with my people. they always want me to do what they want. do you live here?" "yes," said carrie. "with your family?" carrie was ashamed to say that she was married. she had talked so much about getting more salary and confessed to so much anxiety about her future, that now, when the direct question of fact was waiting, she could not tell this girl. "with some relatives," she answered. miss osborne took it for granted that, like herself, carrie's time was her own. she invariably asked her to stay, proposing little outings and other things of that sort until carrie began neglecting her dinner hours. hurstwood noticed it, but felt in no position to quarrel with her. several times she came so late as scarcely to have an hour in which to patch up a meal and start for the theatre. "do you rehearse in the afternoons?" hurstwood once asked, concealing almost completely the cynical protest and regret which prompted it. "no; i was looking around for another place," said carrie. as a matter of fact she was, but only in such a way as furnished the least straw of an excuse. miss osborne and she had gone to the office of the manager who was to produce the new opera at the broadway and returned straight to the former's room, where they had been since three o'clock. carrie felt this question to be an infringement on her liberty. she did not take into account how much liberty she was securing. only the latest step, the newest freedom, must not be questioned. hurstwood saw it all clearly enough. he was shrewd after his kind, and yet there was enough decency in the man to stop him from making any effectual protest. in his almost inexplicable apathy he was content to droop supinely while carrie drifted out of his life, just as he was willing supinely to see opportunity pass beyond his control. he could not help clinging and protesting in a mild, irritating, and ineffectual way, however--a way that simply widened the breach by slow degrees. a further enlargement of this chasm between them came when the manager, looking between the wings upon the brightly lighted stage where the chorus was going through some of its glittering evolutions, said to the master of the ballet: "who is that fourth girl there on the right--the one coming round at the end now?" "oh," said the ballet-master, "that's miss madenda." "she's good looking. why don't you let her head that line?" "i will," said the man. "just do that. she'll look better there than the woman you've got." "all right. i will do that," said the master. the next evening carrie was called out, much as if for an error. "you lead your company to-night," said the master. "yes, sir," said carrie. "put snap into it," he added. "we must have snap." "yes, sir," replied carrie. astonished at this change, she thought that the heretofore leader must be ill; but when she saw her in the line, with a distinct expression of something unfavourable in her eye, she began to think that perhaps it was merit. she had a chic way of tossing her head to one side, and holding her arms as if for action--not listlessly. in front of the line this showed up even more effectually. "that girl knows how to carry herself," said the manager, another evening. he began to think that he should like to talk with her. if he hadn't made it a rule to have nothing to do with the members of the chorus, he would have approached her most unbendingly. "put that girl at the head of the white column," he suggested to the man in charge of the ballet. this white column consisted of some twenty girls, all in snow-white flannel trimmed with silver and blue. its leader was most stunningly arrayed in the same colours, elaborated, however, with epaulets and a belt of silver, with a short sword dangling at one side. carrie was fitted for this costume, and a few days later appeared, proud of her new laurels. she was especially gratified to find that her salary was now eighteen instead of twelve. hurstwood heard nothing about this. "i'll not give him the rest of my money," said carrie. "i do enough. i am going to get me something to wear." as a matter of fact, during this second month she had been buying for herself as recklessly as she dared, regardless of the consequences. there were impending more complications rent day, and more extension of the credit system in the neighbourhood. now, however, she proposed to do better by herself. her first move was to buy a shirt waist, and in studying these she found how little her money would buy--how much, if she could only use all. she forgot that if she were alone she would have to pay for a room and board, and imagined that every cent of her eighteen could be spent for clothes and things that she liked. at last she picked upon something, which not only used up all her surplus above twelve, but invaded that sum. she knew she was going too far, but her feminine love of finery prevailed. the next day hurstwood said: "we owe the grocer five dollars and forty cents this week." "do we?" said carrie, frowning a little. she looked in her purse to leave it. "i've only got eight dollars and twenty cents altogether." "we owe the milkman sixty cents," added hurstwood. "yes, and there's the coal man," said carrie. hurstwood said nothing. he had seen the new things she was buying; the way she was neglecting household duties; the readiness with which she was slipping out afternoons and staying. he felt that something was going to happen. all at once she spoke: "i don't know," she said; "i can't do it all. i don't earn enough." this was a direct challenge. hurstwood had to take it up. he tried to be calm. "i don't want you to do it all," he said. "i only want a little help until i can get something to do." "oh, yes," answered carrie. "that's always the way. it takes more than i can earn to pay for things. i don't see what i'm going to do." "well, i've tried to get something," he exclaimed. "what do you want me to do?" "you couldn't have tried so very hard," said carrie. "i got something." "well, i did," he said, angered almost to harsh words. "you needn't throw up your success to me. all i asked was a little help until i could get something. i'm not down yet. i'll come up all right." he tried to speak steadily, but his voice trembled a little. carrie's anger melted on the instant. she felt ashamed. "well," she said, "here's the money," and emptied it out on the table. "i haven't got quite enough to pay it all. if they can wait until saturday, though, i'll have some more." "you keep it," said hurstwood, sadly. "i only want enough to pay the grocer." she put it back, and proceeded to get dinner early and in good time. her little bravado made her feel as if she ought to make amends. in a little while their old thoughts returned to both. "she's making more than she says," thought hurstwood. "she says she's making twelve, but that wouldn't buy all those things. i don't care. let her keep her money. i'll get something again one of these days. then she can go to the deuce." he only said this in his anger, but it prefigured a possible course of action and attitude well enough. "i don't care," thought carrie. "he ought to be told to get out and do something. it isn't right that i should support him." in these days carrie was introduced to several youths, friends of miss osborne, who were of the kind most aptly described as gay and festive. they called once to get miss osborne for an afternoon drive. carrie was with her at the time. "come and go along," said lola. "no, i can't," said carrie. "oh, yes, come and go. what have you got to do?" "i have to be home by five," said carrie. "what for?" "oh, dinner." "they'll take us to dinner," said lola. "oh, no," said carrie. "i won't go. i can't." "oh, do come. they're awful nice boys. we'll get you back in time. we're only going for a drive in central park." carrie thought a while, and at last yielded. "now, i must be back by half-past four," she said. the information went in one ear of lola and out the other. after drouet and hurstwood, there was the least touch of cynicism in her attitude toward young men--especially of the gay and frivolous sort. she felt a little older than they. some of their pretty compliments seemed silly. still, she was young in heart and body and youth appealed to her. "oh, we'll be right back, miss madenda," said one of the chaps, bowing. "you wouldn't think we'd keep you over time, now, would you?" "well, i don't know," said carrie, smiling. they were off for a drive--she, looking about and noticing fine clothing, the young men voicing those silly pleasantries and weak quips which pass for humour in coy circles. carrie saw the great park parade of carriages, beginning at the fifty-ninth street entrance and winding past the museum of art to the exit at one hundred and tenth street and seventh avenue. her eye was once more taken by the show of wealth--the elaborate costumes, elegant harnesses, spirited horses, and, above all, the beauty. once more the plague of poverty galled her, but now she forgot in a measure her own troubles so far as to forget hurstwood. he waited until four, five, and even six. it was getting dark when he got up out of his chair. "i guess she isn't coming home," he said, grimly. "that's the way," he thought. "she's getting a start now. i'm out of it." carrie had really discovered her neglect, but only at a quarter after five, and the open carriage was now far up seventh avenue, near the harlem river. "what time is it?" she inquired. "i must be getting back." "a quarter after five," said her companion, consulting an elegant, open-faced watch. "oh, dear me!" exclaimed carrie. then she settled back with a sigh. "there's no use crying over spilt milk," she said. "it's too late." "of course it is," said the youth, who saw visions of a fine dinner now, and such invigorating talk as would result in a reunion after the show. he was greatly taken with carrie. "we'll drive down to delmonico's now and have something there, won't we, orrin?" "to be sure," replied orrin, gaily. carrie thought of hurstwood. never before had she neglected dinner without an excuse. they drove back, and at . sat down to dine. it was the sherry incident over again, the remembrance of which came painfully back to carrie. she remembered mrs. vance, who had never called again after hurstwood's reception, and ames. at this figure her mind halted. it was a strong, clean vision. he liked better books than she read, better people than she associated with. his ideals burned in her heart. "it's fine to be a good actress," came distinctly back. what sort of an actress was she? "what are you thinking about, miss madenda?" inquired her merry companion. "come, now, let's see if i can guess." "oh, no," said carrie. "don't try." she shook it off and ate. she forgot, in part, and was merry. when it came to the after-theatre proposition, however, she shook her head. "no," she said, "i can't. i have a previous engagement." "oh, now, miss madenda," pleaded the youth. "no," said carrie, "i can't. you've been so kind, but you'll have to excuse me." the youth looked exceedingly crestfallen. "cheer up, old man," whispered his companion. "we'll go around, anyhow. she may change her mind." chapter xl a public dissension: a final appeal there was no after-theatre lark, however, so far as carrie was concerned. she made her way homeward, thinking about her absence. hurstwood was asleep, but roused up to look as she passed through to her own bed. "is that you?" he said. "yes," she answered. the next morning at breakfast she felt like apologising. "i couldn't get home last evening," she said. "ah, carrie," he answered, "what's the use saying that? i don't care. you needn't tell me that, though." "i couldn't," said carrie, her colour rising. then, seeing that he looked as if he said "i know," she exclaimed: "oh, all right. i don't care." from now on, her indifference to the flat was even greater. there seemed no common ground on which they could talk to one another. she let herself be asked for expenses. it became so with him that he hated to do it. he preferred standing off the butcher and baker. he ran up a grocery bill of sixteen dollars with oeslogge, laying in a supply of staple articles, so that they would not have to buy any of those things for some time to come. then he changed his grocery. it was the same with the butcher and several others. carrie never heard anything of this directly from him. he asked for such as he could expect, drifting farther and farther into a situation which could have but one ending. in this fashion, september went by. "isn't mr. drake going to open his hotel?" carrie asked several times. "yes. he won't do it before october, though, now." carrie became disgusted. "such a man," she said to herself frequently. more and more she visited. she put most of her spare money in clothes, which, after all, was not an astonishing amount. at last the opera she was with announced its departure within four weeks. "last two weeks of the great comic opera success--the ----," etc., was upon all bill-boards and in the newspapers, before she acted. "i'm not going out on the road," said miss osborne. carrie went with her to apply to another manager. "ever had any experience?" was one of his questions. "i'm with the company at the casino now." "oh, you are?" he said. the end of this was another engagement at twenty per week. carrie was delighted. she began to feel that she had a place in the world. people recognised ability. so changed was her state that the home atmosphere became intolerable. it was all poverty and trouble there, or seemed to be, because it was a load to bear. it became a place to keep away from. still she slept there, and did a fair amount of work, keeping it in order. it was a sitting place for hurstwood. he sat and rocked, rocked and read, enveloped in the gloom of his own fate. october went by, and november. it was the dead of winter almost before he knew it, and there he sat. carrie was doing better, that he knew. her clothes were improved now, even fine. he saw her coming and going, sometimes picturing to himself her rise. little eating had thinned him somewhat. he had no appetite. his clothes, too, were a poor man's clothes. talk about getting something had become even too threadbare and ridiculous for him. so he folded his hands and waited--for what, he could not anticipate. at last, however, troubles became too thick. the hounding of creditors, the indifference of carrie, the silence of the flat, and presence of winter, all joined to produce a climax. it was effected by the arrival of oeslogge, personally, when carrie was there. "i call about my bill," said mr. oeslogge. carrie was only faintly surprised. "how much is it?" she asked. "sixteen dollars," he replied. "oh, that much?" said carrie. "is this right?" she asked, turning to hurstwood. "yes," he said. "well, i never heard anything about it." she looked as if she thought he had been contracting some needless expense. "well, we had it all right," he answered. then he went to the door. "i can't pay you anything on that to-day," he said, mildly. "well, when can you?" said the grocer. "not before saturday, anyhow," said hurstwood. "huh!" returned the grocer. "this is fine. i must have that. i need the money." carrie was standing farther back in the room, hearing it all. she was greatly distressed. it was so bad and commonplace. hurstwood was annoyed also. "well," he said, "there's no use talking about it now. if you'll come in saturday, i'll pay you something on it." the grocery man went away. "how are we going to pay it?" asked carrie, astonished by the bill. "i can't do it." "well, you don't have to," he said. "he can't get what he can't get. he'll have to wait." "i don't see how we ran up such a bill as that," said carrie. "well, we ate it," said hurstwood. "it's funny," she replied, still doubting. "what's the use of your standing there and talking like that, now?" he asked. "do you think i've had it alone? you talk as if i'd taken something." "well, it's too much, anyhow," said carrie. "i oughtn't to be made to pay for it. i've got more than i can pay for now." "all right," replied hurstwood, sitting down in silence. he was sick of the grind of this thing. carrie went out, and there he sat, determining to do something. there had been appearing in the papers about this time rumours and notices of an approaching strike on the trolley lines in brooklyn. there was general dissatisfaction as to the hours of labour required and the wages paid. as usual--and for some inexplicable reason--the men chose the winter for the forcing of the hand of their employers and the settlement of their difficulties. hurstwood had been reading of this thing, and wondering concerning the huge tie-up which would follow. a day or two before this trouble with carrie, it came. on a cold afternoon, when everything was grey and it threatened to snow, the papers announced that the men had been called out on all the lines. being so utterly idle, and his mind filled with the numerous predictions which had been made concerning the scarcity of labour this winter and the panicky state of the financial market, hurstwood read this with interest. he noted the claims of the striking motormen and conductors, who said that they had been wont to receive two dollars a day in times past, but that for a year or more "trippers" had been introduced, which cut down their chance of livelihood one-half, and increased their hours of servitude from ten to twelve, and even fourteen. these "trippers" were men put on during the busy and _rush_ hours, to take a car out for one trip. the compensation paid for such a trip was only twenty-five cents. when the rush or busy hours were over, they were laid off. worst of all, no man might know when he was going to get a car. he must come to the barns in the morning and wait around in fair and foul weather until such time as he was needed. two trips were an average reward for so much waiting--a little over three hours' work for fifty cents. the work of waiting was not counted. the men complained that this system was extending, and that the time was not far off when but a few out of , employees would have regular two-dollar-a-day work at all. they demanded that the system be abolished, and that ten hours be considered a day's work, barring unavoidable delays, with $ . pay. they demanded immediate acceptance of these terms, which the various trolley companies refused. hurstwood at first sympathised with the demands of these men--indeed, it is a question whether he did not always sympathise with them to the end, belie him as his actions might. reading nearly all the news, he was attracted first by the scare-heads with which the trouble was noted in the "world." he read it fully--the names of the seven companies involved, the number of men. "they're foolish to strike in this sort of weather," he thought to himself. "let 'em win if they can, though." the next day there was even a larger notice of it. "brooklynites walk," said the "world." "knights of labour tie up the trolley lines across the bridge." "about seven thousand men out." hurstwood read this, formulating to himself his own idea of what would be the outcome. he was a great believer in the strength of corporations. "they can't win," he said, concerning the men. "they haven't any money. the police will protect the companies. they've got to. the public has to have its cars." he didn't sympathise with the corporations, but strength was with them. so was property and public utility. "those fellows can't win," he thought. among other things, he noticed a circular issued by one of the companies, which read: "atlantic avenue railroad. "special notice. "the motormen and conductors and other employees of this company having abruptly left its service, an opportunity is now given to all loyal men who have struck against their will to be reinstated, providing they will make their applications by twelve o'clock noon on wednesday, january th. such men will be given employment (with guaranteed protection) in the order in which such applications are received, and runs and positions assigned them accordingly. otherwise, they will be considered discharged, and every vacancy will be filled by a new man as soon as his services can be secured. "(signed) "benjamin norton, "_president_." he also noted among the want ads. one which read: "wanted.-- skilled motormen, accustomed to westinghouse system, to run u. s. mail cars only, in the city of brooklyn; protection guaranteed." he noted particularly in each the "protection guaranteed." it signified to him the unassailable power of the companies. "they've got the militia on their side," he thought. "there isn't anything those men can do." while this was still in his mind, the incident with oeslogge and carrie occurred. there had been a good deal to irritate him, but this seemed much the worst. never before had she accused him of stealing--or very near that. she doubted the naturalness of so large a bill. and he had worked so hard to make expenses seem light. he had been "doing" butcher and baker in order not to call on her. he had eaten very little--almost nothing. "damn it all!" he said. "i can get something. i'm not down yet." he thought that he really must do something now. it was too cheap to sit around after such an insinuation as this. why, after a little, he would be standing anything. he got up and looked out the window into the chilly street. it came gradually into his mind, as he stood there, to go to brooklyn. "why not?" his mind said. "any one can get work over there. you'll get two a day." "how about accidents?" said a voice. "you might get hurt." "oh, there won't be much of that," he answered. "they've called out the police. any one who wants to run a car will be protected all right." "you don't know how to run a car," rejoined the voice. "i won't apply as a motorman," he answered. "i can ring up fares all right." "they'll want motormen mostly." "they'll take anybody; that i know." for several hours he argued pro and con with this mental counsellor, feeling no need to act at once in a matter so sure of profit. in the morning he put on his best clothes, which were poor enough, and began stirring about, putting some bread and meat into a page of a newspaper. carrie watched him, interested in this new move. "where are you going?" she asked. "over to brooklyn," he answered. then, seeing her still inquisitive, he added: "i think i can get on over there." "on the trolley lines?" said carrie, astonished. "yes," he rejoined. "aren't you afraid?" she asked. "what of?" he answered. "the police are protecting them." "the paper said four men were hurt yesterday." "yes," he returned; "but you can't go by what the papers say. they'll run the cars all right." he looked rather determined now, in a desolate sort of way, and carrie felt very sorry. something of the old hurstwood was here--the least shadow of what was once shrewd and pleasant strength. outside, it was cloudy and blowing a few flakes of snow. "what a day to go over there," thought carrie. now he left before she did, which was a remarkable thing, and tramped eastward to fourteenth street and sixth avenue, where he took the car. he had read that scores of applicants were applying at the office of the brooklyn city railroad building and were being received. he made his way there by horse-car and ferry--a dark, silent man--to the offices in question. it was a long way, for no cars were running, and the day was cold; but he trudged along grimly. once in brooklyn, he could clearly see and feel that a strike was on. people showed it in their manner. along the routes of certain tracks not a car was running. about certain corners and near-by saloons small groups of men were lounging. several spring wagons passed him, equipped with plain wooden chairs, and labelled "flatbush" or "prospect park. fare, ten cents." he noticed cold and even gloomy faces. labour was having its little war. when he came near the office in question, he saw a few men standing about, and some policemen. on the far corners were other men--whom he took to be strikers--watching. all the houses were small and wooden, the streets poorly paved. after new york, brooklyn looked actually poor and hard-up. he made his way into the heart of the small group, eyed by policemen and the men already there. one of the officers addressed him. "what are you looking for?" "i want to see if i can get a place." "the offices are up those steps," said the bluecoat. his face was a very neutral thing to contemplate. in his heart of hearts, he sympathised with the strikers and hated this "scab." in his heart of hearts, also, he felt the dignity and use of the police force, which commanded order. of its true social significance, he never once dreamed. his was not the mind for that. the two feelings blended in him--neutralised one another and him. he would have fought for this man as determinedly as for himself, and yet only so far as commanded. strip him of his uniform, and he would have soon picked his side. hurstwood ascended a dusty flight of steps and entered a small, dust-coloured office, in which were a railing, a long desk, and several clerks. "well, sir?" said a middle-aged man, looking up at him from the long desk. "do you want to hire any men?" inquired hurstwood. "what are you--a motorman?" "no; i'm not anything," said hurstwood. he was not at all abashed by his position. he knew these people needed men. if one didn't take him, another would. this man could take him or leave him, just as he chose. "well, we prefer experienced men, of course," said the man. he paused, while hurstwood smiled indifferently. then he added: "still, i guess you can learn. what is your name?" "wheeler," said hurstwood. the man wrote an order on a small card. "take that to our barns," he said, "and give it to the foreman. he'll show you what to do." hurstwood went down and out. he walked straight away in the direction indicated, while the policemen looked after. "there's another wants to try it," said officer kiely to officer macey. "i have my mind he'll get his fill," returned the latter, quietly. they had been in strikes before. chapter xli the strike the barn at which hurstwood applied was exceedingly short-handed, and was being operated practically by three men as directors. there were a lot of green hands around--queer, hungry-looking men, who looked as if want had driven them to desperate means. they tried to be lively and willing, but there was an air of hang-dog diffidence about the place. hurstwood went back through the barns and out into a large, enclosed lot, where were a series of tracks and loops. a half-dozen cars were there, manned by instructors, each with a pupil at the lever. more pupils were waiting at one of the rear doors of the barn. in silence hurstwood viewed this scene, and waited. his companions took his eye for a while, though they did not interest him much more than the cars. they were an uncomfortable-looking gang, however. one or two were very thin and lean. several were quite stout. several others were rawboned and sallow, as if they had been beaten upon by all sorts of rough weather. "did you see by the paper they are going to call out the militia?" hurstwood heard one of them remark. "oh, they'll do that," returned the other. "they always do." "think we're liable to have much trouble?" said another, whom hurstwood did not see. "not very." "that scotchman that went out on the last car," put in a voice, "told me that they hit him in the ear with a cinder." a small, nervous laugh accompanied this. "one of those fellows on the fifth avenue line must have had a hell of a time, according to the papers," drawled another. "they broke his car windows and pulled him off into the street 'fore the police could stop 'em." "yes; but there are more police around to-day," was added by another. hurstwood hearkened without much mental comment. these talkers seemed scared to him. their gabbling was feverish--things said to quiet their own minds. he looked out into the yard and waited. two of the men got around quite near him, but behind his back. they were rather social, and he listened to what they said. "are you a railroad man?" said one. "me? no. i've always worked in a paper factory." "i had a job in newark until last october," returned the other, with reciprocal feeling. there were some words which passed too low to hear. then the conversation became strong again. "i don't blame these fellers for striking," said one. "they've got the right of it, all right, but i had to get something to do." "same here," said the other. "if i had any job in newark i wouldn't be over here takin' chances like these." "it's hell these days, ain't it?" said the man. "a poor man ain't nowhere. you could starve, by god, right in the streets, and there ain't most no one would help you." "right you are," said the other. "the job i had i lost 'cause they shut down. they run all summer and lay up a big stock, and then shut down." hurstwood paid some little attention to this. somehow, he felt a little superior to these two--a little better off. to him these were ignorant and commonplace, poor sheep in a driver's hand. "poor devils," he thought, speaking out of the thoughts and feelings of a bygone period of success. "next," said one of the instructors. "you're next," said a neighbour, touching him. he went out and climbed on the platform. the instructor took it for granted that no preliminaries were needed. "you see this handle," he said, reaching up to an electric cut-off, which was fastened to the roof. "this throws the current off or on. if you want to reverse the car you turn it over here. if you want to send it forward, you put it over here. if you want to cut off the power, you keep it in the middle." hurstwood smiled at the simple information. "now, this handle here regulates your speed. to here," he said, pointing with his finger, "gives you about four miles an hour. this is eight. when it's full on, you make about fourteen miles an hour." hurstwood watched him calmly. he had seen motormen work before. he knew just about how they did it, and was sure he could do as well, with a very little practice. the instructor explained a few more details, and then said: "now, we'll back her up." hurstwood stood placidly by, while the car rolled back into the yard. "one thing you want to be careful about, and that is to start easy. give one degree time to act before you start another. the one fault of most men is that they always want to throw her wide open. that's bad. it's dangerous, too. wears out the motor. you don't want to do that." "i see," said hurstwood. he waited and waited, while the man talked on. "now you take it," he said, finally. the ex-manager laid hand to the lever and pushed it gently, as he thought. it worked much easier than he imagined, however, with the result that the car jerked quickly forward, throwing him back against the door. he straightened up sheepishly, while the instructor stopped the car with the brake. "you want to be careful about that," was all he said. hurstwood found, however, that handling a brake and regulating speed were not so instantly mastered as he had imagined. once or twice he would have ploughed through the rear fence if it had not been for the hand and word of his companion. the latter was rather patient with him, but he never smiled. "you've got to get the knack of working both arms at once," he said. "it takes a little practice." one o'clock came while he was still on the car practising, and he began to feel hungry. the day set in snowing, and he was cold. he grew weary of running to and fro on the short track. they ran the car to the end and both got off. hurstwood went into the barn and sought a car step, pulling out his paper-wrapped lunch from his pocket. there was no water and the bread was dry, but he enjoyed it. there was no ceremony about dining. he swallowed and looked about, contemplating the dull, homely labour of the thing. it was disagreeable--miserably disagreeable--in all its phases. not because it was bitter, but because it was hard. it would be hard to any one, he thought. after eating, he stood about as before, waiting until his turn came. the intention was to give him an afternoon of practice, but the greater part of the time was spent in waiting about. at last evening came, and with it hunger and a debate with himself as to how he should spend the night. it was half-past five. he must soon eat. if he tried to go home, it would take him two hours and a half of cold walking and riding. besides, he had orders to report at seven the next morning, and going home would necessitate his rising at an unholy and disagreeable hour. he had only something like a dollar and fifteen cents of carrie's money, with which he had intended to pay the two weeks' coal bill before the present idea struck him. "they must have some place around here," he thought. "where does that fellow from newark stay?" finally he decided to ask. there was a young fellow standing near one of the doors in the cold, waiting a last turn. he was a mere boy in years--twenty-one about--but with a body lank and long, because of privation. a little good living would have made this youth plump and swaggering. "how do they arrange this, if a man hasn't any money?" inquired hurstwood, discreetly. the fellow turned a keen, watchful face on the inquirer. "you mean eat?" he replied. "yes, and sleep. i can't go back to new york to-night." "the foreman 'll fix that if you ask him, i guess. he did me." "that so?" "yes. i just told him i didn't have anything. gee, i couldn't go home. i live way over in hoboken." hurstwood only cleared his throat by way of acknowledgment. "they've got a place upstairs here, i understand. i don't know what sort of a thing it is. purty tough, i guess. he gave me a meal ticket this noon. i know that wasn't much." hurstwood smiled grimly, and the boy laughed. "it ain't no fun, is it?" he inquired, wishing vainly for a cheery reply. "not much," answered hurstwood. "i'd tackle him now," volunteered the youth. "he may go 'way." hurstwood did so. "isn't there some place i can stay around here to-night?" he inquired. "if i have to go back to new york, i'm afraid i won't----" "there're some cots upstairs," interrupted the man, "if you want one of them." "that'll do," he assented. he meant to ask for a meal ticket, but the seemingly proper moment never came, and he decided to pay himself that night. "i'll ask him in the morning." he ate in a cheap restaurant in the vicinity, and, being cold and lonely, went straight off to seek the loft in question. the company was not attempting to run cars after nightfall. it was so advised by the police. the room seemed to have been a lounging place for night workers. there were some nine cots in the place, two or three wooden chairs, a soap box, and a small, round-bellied stove, in which a fire was blazing. early as he was, another man was there before him. the latter was sitting beside the stove warming his hands. hurstwood approached and held out his own toward the fire. he was sick of the bareness and privation of all things connected with his venture, but was steeling himself to hold out. he fancied he could for a while. "cold, isn't it?" said the early guest. "rather." a long silence. "not much of a place to sleep in, is it?" said the man. "better than nothing," replied hurstwood. another silence. "i believe i'll turn in," said the man. rising, he went to one of the cots and stretched himself, removing only his shoes, and pulling the one blanket and dirty old comforter over him in a sort of bundle. the sight disgusted hurstwood, but he did not dwell on it, choosing to gaze into the stove and think of something else. presently he decided to retire, and picked a cot, also removing his shoes. while he was doing so, the youth who had advised him to come here entered, and, seeing hurstwood, tried to be genial. "better'n nothin'," he observed, looking around. hurstwood did not take this to himself. he thought it to be an expression of individual satisfaction, and so did not answer. the youth imagined he was out of sorts, and set to whistling softly. seeing another man asleep, he quit that and lapsed into silence. hurstwood made the best of a bad lot by keeping on his clothes and pushing away the dirty covering from his head, but at last he dozed in sheer weariness. the covering became more and more comfortable, its character was forgotten, and he pulled it about his neck and slept. in the morning he was aroused out of a pleasant dream by several men stirring about in the cold, cheerless room. he had been back in chicago in fancy, in his own comfortable home. jessica had been arranging to go somewhere, and he had been talking with her about it. this was so clear in his mind, that he was startled now by the contrast of this room. he raised his head, and the cold, bitter reality jarred him into wakefulness. "guess i'd better get up," he said. there was no water on this floor. he put on his shoes in the cold and stood up, shaking himself in his stiffness. his clothes felt disagreeable, his hair bad. "hell!" he muttered, as he put on his hat. downstairs things were stirring again. he found a hydrant, with a trough which had once been used for horses, but there was no towel here, and his handkerchief was soiled from yesterday. he contented himself with wetting his eyes with the ice-cold water. then he sought the foreman, who was already on the ground. "had your breakfast yet?" inquired that worthy. "no," said hurstwood. "better get it, then; your car won't be ready for a little while." hurstwood hesitated. "could you let me have a meal ticket?" he asked, with an effort. "here you are," said the man, handing him one. he breakfasted as poorly as the night before on some fried steak and bad coffee. then he went back. "here," said the foreman, motioning him, when he came in. "you take this car out in a few minutes." hurstwood climbed up on the platform in the gloomy barn and waited for a signal. he was nervous, and yet the thing was a relief. anything was better than the barn. on this the fourth day of the strike, the situation had taken a turn for the worse. the strikers, following the counsel of their leaders and the newspapers, had struggled peaceably enough. there had been no great violence done. cars had been stopped, it is true, and the men argued with. some crews had been won over and led away, some windows broken, some jeering and yelling done; but in no more than five or six instances had men been seriously injured. these by crowds whose acts the leaders disclaimed. idleness, however, and the sight of the company, backed by the police, triumphing, angered the men. they saw that each day more cars were going on, each day more declarations were being made by the company officials that the effective opposition of the strikers was broken. this put desperate thoughts in the minds of the men. peaceful methods meant, they saw, that the companies would soon run all their cars and those who had complained would be forgotten. there was nothing so helpful to the companies as peaceful methods. all at once they blazed forth, and for a week there was storm and stress. cars were assailed, men attacked, policemen struggled with, tracks torn up, and shots fired, until at last street fights and mob movements became frequent, and the city was invested with militia. hurstwood knew nothing of the change of temper. "run your car out," called the foreman, waving a vigorous hand at him. a green conductor jumped up behind and rang the bell twice as a signal to start. hurstwood turned the lever and ran the car out through the door into the street in front of the barn. here two brawny policemen got up beside him on the platform--one on either hand. at the sound of a gong near the barn door, two bells were given by the conductor and hurstwood opened his lever. the two policemen looked about them calmly. "'tis cold, all right, this morning," said the one on the left, who possessed a rich brogue. "i had enough of it yesterday," said the other. "i wouldn't want a steady job of this." "nor i." neither paid the slightest attention to hurstwood, who stood facing the cold wind, which was chilling him completely, and thinking of his orders. "keep a steady gait," the foreman had said. "don't stop for any one who doesn't look like a real passenger. whatever you do, don't stop for a crowd." the two officers kept silent for a few moments. "the last man must have gone through all right," said the officer on the left. "i don't see his car anywhere." "who's on there?" asked the second officer, referring, of course, to its complement of policemen. "schaeffer and ryan." there was another silence, in which the car ran smoothly along. there were not so many houses along this part of the way. hurstwood did not see many people either. the situation was not wholly disagreeable to him. if he were not so cold, he thought he would do well enough. he was brought out of this feeling by the sudden appearance of a curve ahead, which he had not expected. he shut off the current and did an energetic turn at the brake, but not in time to avoid an unnaturally quick turn. it shook him up and made him feel like making some apologetic remarks, but he refrained. "you want to look out for them things," said the officer on the left, condescendingly. "that's right," agreed hurstwood, shamefacedly. "there's lots of them on this line," said the officer on the right. around the corner a more populated way appeared. one or two pedestrians were in view ahead. a boy coming out of a gate with a tin milk bucket gave hurstwood his first objectionable greeting. "scab!" he yelled. "scab!" hurstwood heard it, but tried to make no comment, even to himself. he knew he would get that, and much more of the same sort, probably. at a corner farther up a man stood by the track and signalled the car to stop. "never mind him," said one of the officers. "he's up to some game." hurstwood obeyed. at the corner he saw the wisdom of it. no sooner did the man perceive the intention to ignore him, than he shook his fist. "ah, you bloody coward!" he yelled. some half dozen men, standing on the corner, flung taunts and jeers after the speeding car. hurstwood winced the least bit. the real thing was slightly worse than the thoughts of it had been. now came in sight, three or four blocks farther on, a heap of something on the track. "they've been at work, here, all right," said one of the policemen. "we'll have an argument, maybe," said the other. hurstwood ran the car close and stopped. he had not done so wholly, however, before a crowd gathered about. it was composed of ex-motormen and conductors in part, with a sprinkling of friends and sympathisers. "come off the car, pardner," said one of the men in a voice meant to be conciliatory. "you don't want to take the bread out of another man's mouth, do you?" hurstwood held to his brake and lever, pale and very uncertain what to do. "stand back," yelled one of the officers, leaning over the platform railing. "clear out of this, now. give the man a chance to do his work." "listen, pardner," said the leader, ignoring the policeman and addressing hurstwood. "we're all working men, like yourself. if you were a regular motorman, and had been treated as we've been, you wouldn't want any one to come in and take your place, would you? you wouldn't want any one to do you out of your chance to get your rights, would you?" "shut her off! shut her off!" urged the other of the policemen, roughly. "get out of this, now," and he jumped the railing and landed before the crowd and began shoving. instantly the other officer was down beside him. "stand back, now," they yelled. "get out of this. what the hell do you mean? out, now." it was like a small swarm of bees. "don't shove me," said one of the strikers, determinedly. "i'm not doing anything." "get out of this!" cried the officer, swinging his club. "i'll give ye a bat on the sconce. back, now." "what the hell!" cried another of the strikers, pushing the other way, adding at the same time some lusty oaths. crack came an officer's club on his forehead. he blinked his eyes blindly a few times, wabbled on his legs, threw up his hands, and staggered back. in return, a swift fist landed on the officer's neck. infuriated by this, the latter plunged left and right, laying about madly with his club. he was ably assisted by his brother of the blue, who poured ponderous oaths upon the troubled waters. no severe damage was done, owing to the agility of the strikers in keeping out of reach. they stood about the sidewalk now and jeered. "where is the conductor?" yelled one of the officers, getting his eye on that individual, who had come nervously forward to stand by hurstwood. the latter had stood gazing upon the scene with more astonishment than fear. "why don't you come down here and get these stones off the track?" inquired the officer. "what you standing there for? do you want to stay here all day? get down." hurstwood breathed heavily in excitement and jumped down with the nervous conductor as if he had been called. "hurry up, now," said the other policeman. cold as it was, these officers were hot and mad. hurstwood worked with the conductor, lifting stone after stone and warming himself by the work. "ah, you scab, you!" yelled the crowd. "you coward! steal a man's job, will you? rob the poor, will you, you thief? we'll get you yet, now. wait." not all of this was delivered by one man. it came from here and there, incorporated with much more of the same sort and curses. "work, you blackguards," yelled a voice. "do the dirty work. you're the suckers that keep the poor people down!" "may god starve ye yet," yelled an old irish woman, who now threw open a nearby window and stuck out her head. "yes, and you," she added, catching the eye of one of the policemen. "you bloody, murtherin' thafe! crack my son over the head, will you, you hard-hearted, murtherin' divil? ah, ye----" but the officer turned a deaf ear. "go to the devil, you old hag," he half muttered as he stared round upon the scattered company. now the stones were off, and hurstwood took his place again amid a continued chorus of epithets. both officers got up beside him and the conductor rang the bell, when, bang! bang! through window and door came rocks and stones. one narrowly grazed hurstwood's head. another shattered the window behind. "throw open your lever," yelled one of the officers, grabbing at the handle himself. hurstwood complied and the car shot away, followed by a rattle of stones and a rain of curses. "that-- -- -- ---- hit me in the neck," said one of the officers. "i gave him a good crack for it, though." "i think i must have left spots on some of them," said the other. "i know that big guy that called us a-- -- -- ----," said the first. "i'll get him yet for that." "i thought we were in for it sure, once there," said the second. hurstwood, warmed and excited, gazed steadily ahead. it was an astonishing experience for him. he had read of these things, but the reality seemed something altogether new. he was no coward in spirit. the fact that he had suffered this much now rather operated to arouse a stolid determination to stick it out. he did not recur in thought to new york or the flat. this one trip seemed a consuming thing. they now ran into the business heart of brooklyn uninterrupted. people gazed at the broken windows of the car and at hurstwood in his plain clothes. voices called "scab" now and then, as well as other epithets, but no crowd attacked the car. at the down-town end of the line, one of the officers went to call up his station and report the trouble. "there's a gang out there," he said, "laying for us yet. better send some one over there and clean them out." the car ran back more quietly--hooted, watched, flung at, but not attacked. hurstwood breathed freely when he saw the barns. "well," he observed to himself, "i came out of that all right." the car was turned in and he was allowed to loaf a while, but later he was again called. this time a new team of officers was aboard. slightly more confident, he sped the car along the commonplace streets and felt somewhat less fearful. on one side, however, he suffered intensely. the day was raw, with a sprinkling of snow and a gusty wind, made all the more intolerable by the speed of the car. his clothing was not intended for this sort of work. he shivered, stamped his feet, and beat his arms as he had seen other motormen do in the past, but said nothing. the novelty and danger of the situation modified in a way his disgust and distress at being compelled to be here, but not enough to prevent him from feeling grim and sour. this was a dog's life, he thought. it was a tough thing to have to come to. the one thought that strengthened him was the insult offered by carrie. he was not down so low as to take all that, he thought. he could do something--this, even--for a while. it would get better. he would save a little. a boy threw a clod of mud while he was thus reflecting and hit him upon the arm. it hurt sharply and angered him more than he had been any time since morning. "the little cur!" he muttered. "hurt you?" asked one of the policemen. "no," he answered. at one of the corners, where the car slowed up because of a turn, an ex-motorman, standing on the sidewalk, called to him: "won't you come out, pardner, and be a man? remember we're fighting for decent day's wages, that's all. we've got families to support." the man seemed most peaceably inclined. hurstwood pretended not to see him. he kept his eyes straight on before and opened the lever wide. the voice had something appealing in it. all morning this went on and long into the afternoon. he made three such trips. the dinner he had was no stay for such work and the cold was telling on him. at each end of the line he stopped to thaw out, but he could have groaned at the anguish of it. one of the barnmen, out of pity, loaned him a heavy cap and a pair of sheepskin gloves, and for once he was extremely thankful. on the second trip of the afternoon he ran into a crowd about half way along the line, that had blocked the car's progress with an old telegraph pole. "get that thing off the track," shouted the two policemen. "yah, yah, yah!" yelled the crowd. "get it off yourself." the two policemen got down and hurstwood started to follow. "you stay there," one called. "some one will run away with your car." amid the babel of voices, hurstwood heard one close beside him. "come down, pardner, and be a man. don't fight the poor. leave that to the corporations." he saw the same fellow who had called to him from the corner. now, as before, he pretended not to hear him. "come down," the man repeated gently. "you don't want to fight poor men. don't fight at all." it was a most philosophic and jesuitical motorman. a third policeman joined the other two from somewhere and some one ran to telephone for more officers. hurstwood gazed about, determined but fearful. a man grabbed him by the coat. "come off of that," he exclaimed, jerking at him and trying to pull him over the railing. "let go," said hurstwood, savagely. "i'll show you--you scab!" cried a young irishman, jumping up on the car and aiming a blow at hurstwood. the latter ducked and caught it on the shoulder instead of the jaw. "away from here," shouted an officer, hastening to the rescue, and adding, of course, the usual oaths. hurstwood recovered himself, pale and trembling. it was becoming serious with him now. people were looking up and jeering at him. one girl was making faces. he began to waver in his resolution, when a patrol wagon rolled up and more officers dismounted. now the track was quickly cleared and the release effected. "let her go now, quick," said the officer, and again he was off. the end came with a real mob, which met the car on its return trip a mile or two from the barns. it was an exceedingly poor-looking neighbourhood. he wanted to run fast through it, but again the track was blocked. he saw men carrying something out to it when he was yet a half-dozen blocks away. "there they are again!" exclaimed one policeman. "i'll give them something this time," said the second officer, whose patience was becoming worn. hurstwood suffered a qualm of body as the car rolled up. as before, the crowd began hooting, but now, rather than come near, they threw things. one or two windows were smashed and hurstwood dodged a stone. both policemen ran out toward the crowd, but the latter replied by running toward the car. a woman--a mere girl in appearance--was among these, bearing a rough stick. she was exceedingly wrathful and struck at hurstwood, who dodged. thereupon, her companions, duly encouraged, jumped on the car and pulled hurstwood over. he had hardly time to speak or shout before he fell. "let go of me," he said, falling on his side. "ah, you sucker," he heard some one say. kicks and blows rained on him. he seemed to be suffocating. then two men seemed to be dragging him off and he wrestled for freedom. "let up," said a voice, "you're all right. stand up." he was let loose and recovered himself. now he recognised two officers. he felt as if he would faint from exhaustion. something was wet on his chin. he put up his hand and felt, then looked. it was red. "they cut me," he said, foolishly, fishing for his handkerchief. "now, now," said one of the officers. "it's only a scratch." his senses became cleared now and he looked around. he was standing in a little store, where they left him for the moment. outside, he could see, as he stood wiping his chin, the car and the excited crowd. a patrol wagon was there, and another. he walked over and looked out. it was an ambulance, backing in. he saw some energetic charging by the police and arrests being made. "come on, now, if you want to take your car," said an officer, opening the door and looking in. he walked out, feeling rather uncertain of himself. he was very cold and frightened. "where's the conductor?" he asked. "oh, he's not here now," said the policeman. hurstwood went toward the car and stepped nervously on. as he did so there was a pistol shot. something stung his shoulder. "who fired that?" he heard an officer exclaim. "by god! who did that?" both left him, running toward a certain building. he paused a moment and then got down. "george!" exclaimed hurstwood, weakly, "this is too much for me." he walked nervously to the corner and hurried down a side street. "whew!" he said, drawing in his breath. a half block away, a small girl gazed at him. "you'd better sneak," she called. he walked homeward in a blinding snowstorm, reaching the ferry by dusk. the cabins were filled with comfortable souls, who studied him curiously. his head was still in such a whirl that he felt confused. all the wonder of the twinkling lights of the river in a white storm passed for nothing. he trudged doggedly on until he reached the flat. there he entered and found the room warm. carrie was gone. a couple of evening papers were lying on the table where she left them. he lit the gas and sat down. then he got up and stripped to examine his shoulder. it was a mere scratch. he washed his hands and face, still in a brown study, apparently, and combed his hair. then he looked for something to eat, and finally, his hunger gone, sat down in his comfortable rocking-chair. it was a wonderful relief. he put his hand to his chin, forgetting, for the moment, the papers. "well," he said, after a time, his nature recovering itself, "that's a pretty tough game over there." then he turned and saw the papers. with half a sigh he picked up the "world." "strike spreading in brooklyn," he read. "rioting breaks out in all parts of the city." he adjusted his paper very comfortably and continued. it was the one thing he read with absorbing interest. chapter xlii a touch of spring: the empty shell those who look upon hurstwood's brooklyn venture as an error of judgment will none the less realise the negative influence on him of the fact that he had tried and failed. carrie got a wrong idea of it. he said so little that she imagined he had encountered nothing worse than the ordinary roughness--quitting so soon in the face of this seemed trifling. he did not want to work. she was now one of a group of oriental beauties who, in the second act of the comic opera, were paraded by the vizier before the new potentate as the treasures of his harem. there was no word assigned to any of them, but on the evening when hurstwood was housing himself in the loft of the street-car barn, the leading comedian and star, feeling exceedingly facetious, said in a profound voice, which created a ripple of laughter: "well, who are you?" it merely happened to be carrie who was courtesying before him. it might as well have been any of the others, so far as he was concerned. he expected no answer and a dull one would have been reproved. but carrie, whose experience and belief in herself gave her daring, courtesied sweetly again and answered: "i am yours truly." it was a trivial thing to say, and yet something in the way she did it caught the audience, which laughed heartily at the mock-fierce potentate towering before the young woman. the comedian also liked it, hearing the laughter. "i thought your name was smith," he returned, endeavouring to get the last laugh. carrie almost trembled for her daring after she had said this. all members of the company had been warned that to interpolate lines or "business" meant a fine or worse. she did not know what to think. as she was standing in her proper position in the wings, awaiting another entry, the great comedian made his exit past her and paused in recognition. "you can just leave that in hereafter," he remarked, seeing how intelligent she appeared. "don't add any more, though." "thank you," said carrie, humbly. when he went on she found herself trembling violently. "well, you're in luck," remarked another member of the chorus. "there isn't another one of us has got a line." there was no gainsaying the value of this. everybody in the company realised that she had got a start. carrie hugged herself when next evening the lines got the same applause. she went home rejoicing, knowing that soon something must come of it. it was hurstwood who, by his presence, caused her merry thoughts to flee and replaced them with sharp longings for an end of distress. the next day she asked him about his venture. "they're not trying to run any cars except with police. they don't want anybody just now--not before next week." next week came, but carrie saw no change. hurstwood seemed more apathetic than ever. he saw her off mornings to rehearsals and the like with the utmost calm. he read and read. several times he found himself staring at an item, but thinking of something else. the first of these lapses that he sharply noticed concerned a hilarious party he had once attended at a driving club, of which he had been a member. he sat, gazing downward, and gradually thought he heard the old voices and the clink of glasses. "you're a dandy, hurstwood," his friend walker said. he was standing again well dressed, smiling, good-natured, the recipient of encores for a good story. all at once he looked up. the room was so still it seemed ghostlike. he heard the clock ticking audibly and half suspected that he had been dozing. the paper was so straight in his hands, however, and the items he had been reading so directly before him, that he rid himself of the doze idea. still, it seemed peculiar. when it occurred a second time, however, it did not seem quite so strange. butcher and grocery man, baker and coal man--not the group with whom he was then dealing, but those who had trusted him to the limit--called. he met them all blandly, becoming deft in excuse. at last he became bold, pretended to be out, or waved them off. "they can't get blood out of a turnip," he said. "if i had it i'd pay them." carrie's little soldier friend, miss osborne, seeing her succeeding, had become a sort of satellite. little osborne could never of herself amount to anything. she seemed to realise it in a sort of pussy-like way and instinctively concluded to cling with her soft little claws to carrie. "oh, you'll get up," she kept telling carrie with admiration. "you're so good." timid as carrie was, she was strong in capability. the reliance of others made her feel as if she must, and when she must she dared. experience of the world and of necessity was in her favour. no longer the lightest word of a man made her head dizzy. she had learned that men could change and fail. flattery in its most palpable form had lost its force with her. it required superiority--kindly superiority--to move her--the superiority of a genius like ames. "i don't like the actors in our company," she told lola one day. "they're all so struck on themselves." "don't you think mr. barclay's pretty nice?" inquired lola, who had received a condescending smile or two from that quarter. "oh, he's nice enough," answered carrie; "but he isn't sincere. he assumes such an air." lola felt for her first hold upon carrie in the following manner: "are you paying room-rent where you are?" "certainly," answered carrie. "why?" "i know where i could get the loveliest room and bath, cheap. it's too big for me, but it would be just right for two, and the rent is only six dollars a week for both." "where?" said carrie. "in seventeenth street." "well, i don't know as i'd care to change," said carrie, who was already turning over the three-dollar rate in her mind. she was thinking if she had only herself to support this would leave her seventeen for herself. nothing came of this until after the brooklyn adventure of hurstwood's and her success with the speaking part. then she began to feel as if she must be free. she thought of leaving hurstwood and thus making him act for himself, but he had developed such peculiar traits she feared he might resist any effort to throw him off. he might hunt her out at the show and hound her in that way. she did not wholly believe that he would, but he might. this, she knew, would be an embarrassing thing if he made himself conspicuous in any way. it troubled her greatly. things were precipitated by the offer of a better part. one of the actresses playing the part of a modest sweetheart gave notice of leaving and carrie was selected. "how much are you going to get?" asked miss osborne, on hearing the good news. "i didn't ask him," said carrie. "well, find out. goodness, you'll never get anything if you don't ask. tell them you must have forty dollars, anyhow." "oh, no," said carrie. "certainly!" exclaimed lola. "ask 'em, anyway." carrie succumbed to this prompting, waiting, however, until the manager gave her notice of what clothing she must have to fit the part. "how much do i get?" she inquired. "thirty-five dollars," he replied. carrie was too much astonished and delighted to think of mentioning forty. she was nearly beside herself, and almost hugged lola, who clung to her at the news. "it isn't as much as you ought to get," said the latter, "especially when you've got to buy clothes." carrie remembered this with a start. where to get the money? she had none laid up for such an emergency. rent day was drawing near. "i'll not do it," she said, remembering her necessity. "i don't use the flat. i'm not going to give up my money this time. i'll move." fitting into this came another appeal from miss osborne, more urgent than ever. "come live with me, won't you?" she pleaded. "we can have the loveliest room. it won't cost you hardly anything that way." "i'd like to," said carrie, frankly. "oh, do," said lola. "we'll have such a good time." carrie thought a while. "i believe i will," she said, and then added: "i'll have to see first, though." with the idea thus grounded, rent day approaching, and clothes calling for instant purchase, she soon found excuse in hurstwood's lassitude. he said less and drooped more than ever. as rent day approached, an idea grew in him. it was fostered by the demands of creditors and the impossibility of holding up many more. twenty-eight dollars was too much for rent. "it's hard on her," he thought. "we could get a cheaper place." stirred with this idea, he spoke at the breakfast table. "don't you think we pay too much rent here?" he asked. "indeed i do," said carrie, not catching his drift. "i should think we could get a smaller place," he suggested. "we don't need four rooms." her countenance, had he been scrutinising her, would have exhibited the disturbance she felt at this evidence of his determination to stay by her. he saw nothing remarkable in asking her to come down lower. "oh, i don't know," she answered, growing wary. "there must be places around here where we could get a couple of rooms, which would do just as well." her heart revolted. "never!" she thought. who would furnish the money to move? to think of being in two rooms with him! she resolved to spend her money for clothes quickly, before something terrible happened. that very day she did it. having done so, there was but one other thing to do. "lola," she said, visiting her friend, "i think i'll come." "oh, jolly!" cried the latter. "can we get it right away?" she asked, meaning the room. "certainly," cried lola. they went to look at it. carrie had saved ten dollars from her expenditures--enough for this and her board beside. her enlarged salary would not begin for ten days yet--would not reach her for seventeen. she paid half of the six dollars with her friend. "now, i've just enough to get on to the end of the week," she confided. "oh, i've got some," said lola. "i've got twenty-five dollars, if you need it." "no," said carrie. "i guess i'll get along." they decided to move friday, which was two days away. now that the thing was settled, carrie's heart misgave her. she felt very much like a criminal in the matter. each day looking at hurstwood, she had realised that, along with the disagreeableness of his attitude, there was something pathetic. she looked at him the same evening she had made up her mind to go, and now he seemed not so shiftless and worthless, but run down and beaten upon by chance. his eyes were not keen, his face marked, his hands flabby. she thought his hair had a touch of grey. all unconscious of his doom, he rocked and read his paper, while she glanced at him. knowing that the end was so near, she became rather solicitous. "will you go over and get some canned peaches?" she asked hurstwood, laying down a two-dollar bill. "certainly," he said, looking in wonder at the money. "see if you can get some nice asparagus," she added. "i'll cook it for dinner." hurstwood rose and took the money, slipping on his overcoat and getting his hat. carrie noticed that both of these articles of apparel were old and poor looking in appearance. it was plain enough before, but now it came home with peculiar force. perhaps he couldn't help it, after all. he had done well in chicago. she remembered his fine appearance the days he had met her in the park. then he was so sprightly, so clean. had it been all his fault? he came back and laid the change down with the food. "you'd better keep it," she observed. "we'll need other things." "no," he said, with a sort of pride; "you keep it." "oh, go on and keep it," she replied, rather unnerved. "there'll be other things." he wondered at this, not knowing the pathetic figure he had become in her eyes. she restrained herself with difficulty from showing a quaver in her voice. to say truly, this would have been carrie's attitude in any case. she had looked back at times upon her parting from drouet and had regretted that she had served him so badly. she hoped she would never meet him again, but she was ashamed of her conduct. not that she had any choice in the final separation. she had gone willingly to seek him, with sympathy in her heart, when hurstwood had reported him ill. there was something cruel somewhere, and not being able to track it mentally to its logical lair, she concluded with feeling that he would never understand what hurstwood had done and would see hard-hearted decision in her deed; hence her shame. not that she cared for him. she did not want to make any one who had been good to her feel badly. she did not realise what she was doing by allowing these feelings to possess her. hurstwood, noticing the kindness, conceived better of her. "carrie's good-natured, anyhow," he thought. going to miss osborne's that afternoon, she found that little lady packing and singing. "why don't you come over with me to-day?" she asked. "oh, i can't," said carrie. "i'll be there friday. would you mind lending me the twenty-five dollars you spoke of?" "why, no," said lola, going for her purse. "i want to get some other things," said carrie. "oh, that's all right," answered the little girl, good-naturedly, glad to be of service. it had been days since hurstwood had done more than go to the grocery or to the news-stand. now the weariness of indoors was upon him--had been for two days--but chill, grey weather had held him back. friday broke fair and warm. it was one of those lovely harbingers of spring, given as a sign in dreary winter that earth is not forsaken of warmth and beauty. the blue heaven, holding its one golden orb, poured down a crystal wash of warm light. it was plain, from the voice of the sparrows, that all was halcyon outside. carrie raised the front windows, and felt the south wind blowing. "it's lovely out to-day," she remarked. "is it?" said hurstwood. after breakfast, he immediately got his other clothes. "will you be back for lunch?" asked carrie, nervously. "no," he said. he went out into the streets and tramped north, along seventh avenue, idly fixing upon the harlem river as an objective point. he had seen some ships up there, the time he had called upon the brewers. he wondered how the territory thereabouts was growing. passing fifty-ninth street, he took the west side of central park, which he followed to seventy-eighth street. then he remembered the neighbourhood and turned over to look at the mass of buildings erected. it was very much improved. the great open spaces were filling up. coming back, he kept to the park until th street, and then turned into seventh avenue again, reaching the pretty river by one o'clock. there it ran winding before his gaze, shining brightly in the clear light, between the undulating banks on the right and the tall, tree-covered heights on the left. the spring-like atmosphere woke him to a sense of its loveliness, and for a few moments he stood looking at it, folding his hands behind his back. then he turned and followed it toward the east side, idly seeking the ships he had seen. it was four o'clock before the waning day, with its suggestion of a cooler evening, caused him to return. he was hungry and would enjoy eating in the warm room. when he reached the flat by half-past five, it was still dark. he knew that carrie was not there, not only because there was no light showing through the transom, but because the evening papers were stuck between the outside knob and the door. he opened with his key and went in. everything was still dark. lighting the gas, he sat down, preparing to wait a little while. even if carrie did come now, dinner would be late. he read until six, then got up to fix something for himself. as he did so, he noticed that the room seemed a little queer. what was it? he looked around, as if he missed something, and then saw an envelope near where he had been sitting. it spoke for itself, almost without further action on his part. reaching over, he took it, a sort of chill settling upon him even while he reached. the crackle of the envelope in his hands was loud. green paper money lay soft within the note. "dear george," he read, crunching the money in one hand. "i'm going away. i'm not coming back any more. it's no use trying to keep up the flat; i can't do it. i wouldn't mind helping you, if i could, but i can't support us both, and pay the rent. i need what little i make to pay for my clothes. i'm leaving twenty dollars. it's all i have just now. you can do whatever you like with the furniture. i won't want it.--carrie." he dropped the note and looked quietly round. now he knew what he missed. it was the little ornamental clock, which was hers. it had gone from the mantelpiece. he went into the front room, his bedroom, the parlour, lighting the gas as he went. from the chiffonier had gone the knick-knacks of silver and plate. from the table-top, the lace coverings. he opened the wardrobe--no clothes of hers. he opened the drawers--nothing of hers. her trunk was gone from its accustomed place. back in his own room hung his old clothes, just as he had left them. nothing else was gone. he stepped into the parlour and stood for a few moments looking vacantly at the floor. the silence grew oppressive. the little flat seemed wonderfully deserted. he wholly forgot that he was hungry, that it was only dinner-time. it seemed later in the night. suddenly, he found that the money was still in his hands. there were twenty dollars in all, as she had said. now he walked back, leaving the lights ablaze, and feeling as if the flat were empty. "i'll get out of this," he said to himself. then the sheer loneliness of his situation rushed upon him in full. "left me!" he muttered, and repeated, "left me!" the place that had been so comfortable, where he had spent so many days of warmth, was now a memory. something colder and chillier confronted him. he sank down in his chair, resting his chin in his hand--mere sensation, without thought, holding him. then something like a bereaved affection and self-pity swept over him. "she needn't have gone away," he said. "i'd have got something." he sat a long while without rocking, and added quite clearly, out loud: "i tried, didn't i?" at midnight he was still rocking, staring at the floor. chapter xliii the world turns flatterer: an eye in the dark installed in her comfortable room, carrie wondered how hurstwood had taken her departure. she arranged a few things hastily and then left for the theatre, half expecting to encounter him at the door. not finding him, her dread lifted, and she felt more kindly toward him. she quite forgot him until about to come out, after the show, when the chance of his being there frightened her. as day after day passed and she heard nothing at all, the thought of being bothered by him passed. in a little while she was, except for occasional thoughts, wholly free of the gloom with which her life had been weighed in the flat. it is curious to note how quickly a profession absorbs one. carrie became wise in theatrical lore, hearing the gossip of little lola. she learned what the theatrical papers were, which ones published items about actresses and the like. she began to read the newspaper notices, not only of the opera in which she had so small a part, but of others. gradually the desire for notice took hold of her. she longed to be renowned like others, and read with avidity all the complimentary or critical comments made concerning others high in her profession. the showy world in which her interest lay completely absorbed her. it was about this time that the newspapers and magazines were beginning to pay that illustrative attention to the beauties of the stage which has since become fervid. the newspapers, and particularly the sunday newspapers, indulged in large decorative theatrical pages, in which the faces and forms of well-known theatrical celebrities appeared, enclosed with artistic scrolls. the magazines also--or at least one or two of the newer ones--published occasional portraits of pretty stars, and now and again photos of scenes from various plays. carrie watched these with growing interest. when would a scene from her opera appear? when would some paper think her photo worth while? the sunday before taking her new part she scanned the theatrical pages for some little notice. it would have accorded with her expectations if nothing had been said, but there in the squibs, tailing off several more substantial items, was a wee notice. carrie read it with a tingling body: "the part of katisha, the country maid, in 'the wives of abdul' at the broadway, heretofore played by inez carew, will be hereafter filled by carrie madenda, one of the cleverest members of the chorus." carrie hugged herself with delight. oh, wasn't it just fine! at last! the first, the long-hoped for, the delightful notice! and they called her clever. she could hardly restrain herself from laughing loudly. had lola seen it? "they've got a notice here of the part i'm going to play to-morrow night," said carrie to her friend. "oh, jolly! have they?" cried lola, running to her. "that's all right," she said, looking. "you'll get more now, if you do well. i had my picture in the 'world' once." "did you?" asked carrie. "did i? well, i should say," returned the little girl. "they had a frame around it." carrie laughed. "they've never published my picture." "but they will," said lola. "you'll see. you do better than most that get theirs in now." carrie felt deeply grateful for this. she almost loved lola for the sympathy and praise she extended. it was so helpful to her--so almost necessary. fulfilling her part capably brought another notice in the papers that she was doing her work acceptably. this pleased her immensely. she began to think the world was taking note of her. the first week she got her thirty-five dollars, it seemed an enormous sum. paying only three dollars for room rent seemed ridiculous. after giving lola her twenty-five, she still had seven dollars left. with four left over from previous earnings, she had eleven. five of this went to pay the regular installment on the clothes she had to buy. the next week she was even in greater feather. now, only three dollars need be paid for room rent and five on her clothes. the rest she had for food and her own whims. "you'd better save a little for summer," cautioned lola. "we'll probably close in may." "i intend to," said carrie. the regular entrance of thirty-five dollars a week to one who has endured scant allowances for several years is a demoralising thing. carrie found her purse bursting with good green bills of comfortable denominations. having no one dependent upon her, she began to buy pretty clothes and pleasing trinkets, to eat well, and to ornament her room. friends were not long in gathering about. she met a few young men who belonged to lola's staff. the members of the opera company made her acquaintance without the formality of introduction. one of these discovered a fancy for her. on several occasions he strolled home with her. "let's stop in and have a rarebit," he suggested one midnight. "very well," said carrie. in the rosy restaurant, filled with the merry lovers of late hours, she found herself criticising this man. he was too stilted, too self-opinionated. he did not talk of anything that lifted her above the common run of clothes and material success. when it was all over, he smiled most graciously. "got to go straight home, have you?" he said. "yes," she answered, with an air of quiet understanding. "she's not so inexperienced as she looks," he thought, and thereafter his respect and ardour were increased. she could not help sharing in lola's love for a good time. there were days when they went carriage riding, nights when after the show they dined, afternoons when they strolled along broadway, tastefully dressed. she was getting in the metropolitan whirl of pleasure. at last her picture appeared in one of the weeklies. she had not known of it, and it took her breath. "miss carrie madenda," it was labelled. "one of the favourites of 'the wives of abdul' company." at lola's advice she had had some pictures taken by sarony. they had got one there. she thought of going down and buying a few copies of the paper, but remembered that there was no one she knew well enough to send them to. only lola, apparently, in all the world was interested. the metropolis is a cold place socially, and carrie soon found that a little money brought her nothing. the world of wealth and distinction was quite as far away as ever. she could feel that there was no warm, sympathetic friendship back of the easy merriment with which many approached her. all seemed to be seeking their own amusement, regardless of the possible sad consequence to others. so much for the lessons of hurstwood and drouet. in april she learned that the opera would probably last until the middle or the end of may, according to the size of the audiences. next season it would go on the road. she wondered if she would be with it. as usual, miss osborne, owing to her moderate salary, was for securing a home engagement. "they're putting on a summer play at the casino," she announced, after figuratively putting her ear to the ground. "let's try and get in that." "i'm willing," said carrie. they tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply again. that was may th. meanwhile their own show closed may th. "those that want to go with the show next season," said the manager, "will have to sign this week." "don't you sign," advised lola. "i wouldn't go." "i know," said carrie, "but maybe i can't get anything else." "well, i won't," said the little girl, who had a resource in her admirers. "i went once and i didn't have anything at the end of the season." carrie thought this over. she had never been on the road. "we can get along," added lola. "i always have." carrie did not sign. the manager who was putting on the summer skit at the casino had never heard of carrie, but the several notices she had received, her published picture, and the programme bearing her name had some little weight with him. he gave her a silent part at thirty dollars a week. "didn't i tell you?" said lola. "it doesn't do you any good to go away from new york. they forget all about you if you do." now, because carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance illustrations of shows about to appear for the sunday papers selected carrie's photo along with others to illustrate the announcement. because she was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about it. carrie was delighted. still, the management did not seem to have seen anything of it. at least, no more attention was paid to her than before. at the same time there seemed very little in her part. it consisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little quakeress. the author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to the right actress, but now, since it had been doled out to carrie, he would as leave have had it cut out. "don't kick, old man," remarked the manager. "if it don't go the first week we will cut it out." carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. she practised her part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. at the dress rehearsal she was disconsolate. "that isn't so bad," said the author, the manager noting the curious effect which carrie's blues had upon the part. "tell her to frown a little more when sparks dances." carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly. "frown a little more, miss madenda," said the stage manager. carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke. "no; frown," he said. "frown as you did before." carrie looked at him in astonishment. "i mean it," he said. "frown hard when mr. sparks dances. i want to see how it looks." it was easy enough to do. carrie scowled. the effect was something so quaint and droll it caught even the manager. "that _is_ good," he said. "if she'll do that all through, i think it will take." going over to carrie, he said: "suppose you try frowning all through. do it hard. look mad. it'll make the part really funny." on the opening night it looked to carrie as if there were nothing to her part, after all. the happy, sweltering audience did not seem to see her in the first act. she frowned and frowned, but to no effect. eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars. in the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation, roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. there she was, grey-suited, sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. at first the general idea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine and not fun at all. as she went on frowning, looking now at one principal and now at the other, the audience began to smile. the portly gentlemen in the front rows began to feel that she was a delicious little morsel. it was the kind of frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. all the gentlemen yearned toward her. she was capital. at last, the chief comedian, singing in the centre of the stage, noticed a giggle where it was not expected. then another and another. when the place came for loud applause it was only moderate. what could be the trouble? he realised that something was up. all at once, after an exit, he caught sight of carrie. she was frowning alone on the stage and the audience was giggling and laughing. "by george, i won't stand that!" thought the thespian. "i'm not going to have my work cut up by some one else. either she quits that when i do my turn or i quit." "why, that's all right," said the manager, when the kick came. "that's what she's supposed to do. you needn't pay any attention to that." "but she ruins my work." "no, she don't," returned the former, soothingly. "it's only a little fun on the side." "it is, eh?" exclaimed the big comedian. "she killed my hand all right. i'm not going to stand that." "well, wait until after the show. wait until to-morrow. we'll see what we can do." the next act, however, settled what was to be done. carrie was the chief feature of the play. the audience, the more it studied her, the more it indicated its delight. every other feature paled beside the quaint, teasing, delightful atmosphere which carrie contributed while on the stage. manager and company realised she had made a hit. the critics of the daily papers completed her triumph. there were long notices in praise of the quality of the burlesque, touched with recurrent references to carrie. the contagious mirth of the thing was repeatedly emphasised. "miss madenda presents one of the most delightful bits of character work ever seen on the casino stage," observed the sage critic of the "sun." "it is a bit of quiet, unassuming drollery which warms like good wine. evidently the part was not intended to take precedence, as miss madenda is not often on the stage, but the audience, with the characteristic perversity of such bodies, selected for itself. the little quakeress was marked for a favourite the moment she appeared, and thereafter easily held attention and applause. the vagaries of fortune are indeed curious." the critic of the "evening world," seeking as usual to establish a catch phrase which should "go" with the town, wound up by advising: "if you wish to be merry, see carrie frown." the result was miraculous so far as carrie's fortune was concerned. even during the morning she received a congratulatory message from the manager. "you seem to have taken the town by storm," he wrote. "this is delightful. i am as glad for your sake as for my own." the author also sent word. that evening when she entered the theatre the manager had a most pleasant greeting for her. "mr. stevens," he said, referring to the author, "is preparing a little song, which he would like you to sing next week." "oh, i can't sing," returned carrie. "it isn't anything difficult. 'it's something that is very simple,' he says, 'and would suit you exactly.'" "of course, i wouldn't mind trying," said carrie, archly. "would you mind coming to the box-office a few moments before you dress?" observed the manager, in addition. "there's a little matter i want to speak to you about." "certainly," replied carrie. in that latter place the manager produced a paper. "now, of course," he said, "we want to be fair with you in the matter of salary. your contract here only calls for thirty dollars a week for the next three months. how would it do to make it, say, one hundred and fifty a week and extend it for twelve months?" "oh, very well," said carrie, scarcely believing her ears. "supposing, then, you just sign this." carrie looked and beheld a new contract made out like the other one, with the exception of the new figures of salary and time. with a hand trembling from excitement she affixed her name. "one hundred and fifty a week!" she murmured, when she was again alone. she found, after all--as what millionaire has not?--that there was no realising, in consciousness, the meaning of large sums. it was only a shimmering, glittering phrase in which lay a world of possibilities. down in a third-rate bleecker street hotel, the brooding hurstwood read the dramatic item covering carrie's success, without at first realising who was meant. then suddenly it came to him and he read the whole thing over again. "that's her, all right, i guess," he said. then he looked about upon a dingy, moth-eaten hotel lobby. "i guess she's struck it," he thought, a picture of the old shiny, plush-covered world coming back, with its lights, its ornaments, its carriages, and flowers. ah, she was in the walled city now! its splendid gates had opened, admitting her from a cold, dreary outside. she seemed a creature afar off--like every other celebrity he had known. "well, let her have it," he said. "i won't bother her." it was the grim resolution of a bent, bedraggled, but unbroken pride. chapter xliv and this is not elf land: what gold will not buy when carrie got back on the stage, she found that over night her dressing-room had been changed. "you are to use this room, miss madenda," said one of the stage lackeys. no longer any need of climbing several flights of steps to a small coop shared with another. instead, a comparatively large and commodious chamber with conveniences not enjoyed by the small fry overhead. she breathed deeply and with delight. her sensations were more physical than mental. in fact, she was scarcely thinking at all. heart and body were having their say. gradually the deference and congratulation gave her a mental appreciation of her state. she was no longer ordered, but requested, and that politely. the other members of the cast looked at her enviously as she came out arrayed in her simple habit, which she wore all through the play. all those who had supposedly been her equals and superiors now smiled the smile of sociability, as much as to say: "how friendly we have always been." only the star comedian whose part had been so deeply injured stalked by himself. figuratively, he could not kiss the hand that smote him. doing her simple part, carrie gradually realised the meaning of the applause which was for her, and it was sweet. she felt mildly guilty of something--perhaps unworthiness. when her associates addressed her in the wings she only smiled weakly. the pride and daring of place were not for her. it never once crossed her mind to be reserved or haughty--to be other than she had been. after the performances she rode to her room with lola, in a carriage provided. then came a week in which the first fruits of success were offered to her lips--bowl after bowl. it did not matter that her splendid salary had not begun. the world seemed satisfied with the promise. she began to get letters and cards. a mr. withers--whom she did not know from adam--having learned by some hook or crook where she resided, bowed himself politely in. "you will excuse me for intruding," he said; "but have you been thinking of changing your apartments?" "i hadn't thought of it," returned carrie. "well, i am connected with the wellington--the new hotel on broadway. you have probably seen notices of it in the papers." carrie recognised the name as standing for one of the newest and most imposing hostelries. she had heard it spoken of as having a splendid restaurant. "just so," went on mr. withers, accepting her acknowledgment of familiarity. "we have some very elegant rooms at present which we would like to have you look at, if you have not made up your mind where you intend to reside for the summer. our apartments are perfect in every detail--hot and cold water, private baths, special hall service for every floor, elevators, and all that. you know what our restaurant is." carrie looked at him quietly. she was wondering whether he took her to be a millionaire. "what are your rates?" she inquired. "well, now, that is what i came to talk with you privately about. our regular rates are anywhere from three to fifty dollars a day." "mercy!" interrupted carrie. "i couldn't pay any such rate as that." "i know how you feel about it," exclaimed mr. withers, halting. "but just let me explain. i said those are our regular rates. like every other hotel we make special ones, however. possibly you have not thought about it, but your name is worth something to us." "oh!" ejaculated carrie, seeing at a glance. "of course. every hotel depends upon the repute of its patrons. a well-known actress like yourself," and he bowed politely, while carrie flushed, "draws attention to the hotel, and--although you may not believe it--patrons." "oh, yes," returned carrie, vacantly, trying to arrange this curious proposition in her mind. "now," continued mr. withers, swaying his derby hat softly and beating one of his polished shoes upon the floor, "i want to arrange, if possible, to have you come and stop at the wellington. you need not trouble about terms. in fact, we need hardly discuss them. anything will do for the summer--a mere figure--anything that you think you could afford to pay." carrie was about to interrupt, but he gave her no chance. "you can come to-day or to-morrow--the earlier the better--and we will give you your choice of nice, light, outside rooms--the very best we have." "you're very kind," said carrie, touched by the agent's extreme affability. "i should like to come very much. i would want to pay what is right, however. i shouldn't want to----" "you need not trouble about that at all," interrupted mr. withers. "we can arrange that to your entire satisfaction at any time. if three dollars a day is satisfactory to you, it will be so to us. all you have to do is to pay that sum to the clerk at the end of the week or month, just as you wish, and he will give you a receipt for what the rooms would cost if charged for at our regular rates." the speaker paused. "suppose you come and look at the rooms," he added. "i'd be glad to," said carrie, "but i have a rehearsal this morning." "i did not mean at once," he returned. "any time will do. would this afternoon be inconvenient?" "not at all," said carrie. suddenly she remembered lola, who was out at the time. "i have a room-mate," she added, "who will have to go wherever i do. i forgot about that." "oh, very well," said mr. withers, blandly. "it is for you to say whom you want with you. as i say, all that can be arranged to suit yourself." he bowed and backed toward the door. "at four, then, we may expect you?" "yes," said carrie. "i will be there to show you," and so mr. withers withdrew. after rehearsal carrie informed lola. "did they really?" exclaimed the latter, thinking of the wellington as a group of managers. "isn't that fine? oh, jolly! it's so swell. that's where we dined that night we went with those two cushing boys. don't you know?" "i remember," said carrie. "oh, it's as fine as it can be." "we'd better be going up there," observed carrie, later in the afternoon. the rooms which mr. withers displayed to carrie and lola were three and bath--a suite on the parlour floor. they were done in chocolate and dark red, with rugs and hangings to match. three windows looked down into busy broadway on the east, three into a side street which crossed there. there were two lovely bedrooms, set with brass and white enamel beds, white, ribbon-trimmed chairs and chiffoniers to match. in the third room, or parlour, was a piano, a heavy piano lamp, with a shade of gorgeous pattern, a library table, several huge easy rockers, some dado book shelves, and a gilt curio case, filled with oddities. pictures were upon the walls, soft turkish pillows upon the divan, footstools of brown plush upon the floor. such accommodations would ordinarily cost a hundred dollars a week. "oh, lovely!" exclaimed lola, walking about. "it is comfortable," said carrie, who was lifting a lace curtain and looking down into crowded broadway. the bath was a handsome affair, done in white enamel, with a large, blue-bordered stone tub and nickel trimmings. it was bright and commodious, with a bevelled mirror set in the wall at one end and incandescent lights arranged in three places. "do you find these satisfactory?" observed mr. withers. "oh, very," answered carrie. "well, then, any time you find it convenient to move in, they are ready. the boy will bring you the keys at the door." carrie noted the elegantly carpeted and decorated hall, the marbelled lobby, and showy waiting-room. it was such a place as she had often dreamed of occupying. "i guess we'd better move right away, don't you think so?" she observed to lola, thinking of the commonplace chamber in seventeenth street. "oh, by all means," said the latter. the next day her trunks left for the new abode. dressing, after the matinée on wednesday, a knock came at her dressing-room door. carrie looked at the card handed by the boy and suffered a shock of surprise. "tell her i'll be right out," she said softly. then, looking at the card, added: "mrs. vance." "why, you little sinner," the latter exclaimed, as she saw carrie coming toward her across the now vacant stage. "how in the world did this happen?" carrie laughed merrily. there was no trace of embarrassment in her friend's manner. you would have thought that the long separation had come about accidentally. "i don't know," returned carrie, warming, in spite of her first troubled feelings, toward this handsome, good-natured young matron. "well, you know, i saw your picture in the sunday paper, but your name threw me off. i thought it must be you or somebody that looked just like you, and i said: 'well, now, i will go right down there and see.' i was never more surprised in my life. how are you anyway?" "oh, very well," returned carrie. "how have you been?" "fine. but aren't you a success! dear, oh! all the papers talking about you. i should think you would be just too proud to breathe. i was almost afraid to come back here this afternoon." "oh, nonsense," said carrie, blushing. "you know i'd be glad to see you." "well, anyhow, here you are. can't you come up and take dinner with me now? where are you stopping?" "at the wellington," said carrie, who permitted herself a touch of pride in the acknowledgment. "oh, are you?" exclaimed the other, upon whom the name was not without its proper effect. tactfully, mrs. vance avoided the subject of hurstwood, of whom she could not help thinking. no doubt carrie had left him. that much she surmised. "oh, i don't think i can," said carrie, "to-night. i have so little time. i must be back here by . . won't you come and dine with me?" "i'd be delighted, but i can't to-night," said mrs. vance, studying carrie's fine appearance. the latter's good fortune made her seem more than ever worthy and delightful in the other's eyes. "i promised faithfully to be home at six." glancing at the small gold watch pinned to her bosom, she added: "i must be going, too. tell me when you're coming up, if at all." "why, any time you like," said carrie. "well, to-morrow then. i'm living at the chelsea now." "moved again?" exclaimed carrie, laughing. "yes. you know i can't stay six months in one place. i just have to move. remember now--half-past five." "i won't forget," said carrie, casting a glance at her as she went away. then it came to her that she was as good as this woman now--perhaps better. something in the other's solicitude and interest made her feel as if she were the one to condescend. now, as on each preceding day, letters were handed her by the doorman at the casino. this was a feature which had rapidly developed since monday. what they contained she well knew. _mash notes_ were old affairs in their mildest form. she remembered having received her first one far back in columbia city. since then, as a chorus girl, she had received others--gentlemen who prayed for an engagement. they were common sport between her and lola, who received some also. they both frequently made light of them. now, however, they came thick and fast. gentlemen with fortunes did not hesitate to note, as an addition to their own amiable collection of virtues, that they had their horses and carriages. thus one: "i have a million in my own right. i could give you every luxury. there isn't anything you could ask for that you couldn't have. i say this, not because i want to speak of my money, but because i love you and wish to gratify your every desire. it is love that prompts me to write. will you not give me one half-hour in which to plead my cause?" such of these letters as came while carrie was still in the seventeenth street place were read with more interest--though never delight--than those which arrived after she was installed in her luxurious quarters at the wellington. even there her vanity--or that self-appreciation which, in its more rabid form, is called vanity--was not sufficiently cloyed to make these things wearisome. adulation, being new in any form, pleased her. only she was sufficiently wise to distinguish between her old condition and her new one. she had not had fame or money before. now they had come. she had not had adulation and affectionate propositions before. now they had come. wherefore? she smiled to think that men should suddenly find her so much more attractive. in the least way it incited her to coolness and indifference. "do look here," she remarked to lola. "see what this man says: 'if you will only deign to grant me one half-hour,'" she repeated, with an imitation of languor. "the idea. aren't men silly?" "he must have lots of money, the way he talks," observed lola. "that's what they all say," said carrie, innocently. "why don't you see him," suggested lola, "and hear what he has to say?" "indeed i won't," said carrie. "i know what he'd say. i don't want to meet anybody that way." lola looked at her with big, merry eyes. "he couldn't hurt you," she returned. "you might have some fun with him." carrie shook her head. "you're awfully queer," returned the little, blue-eyed soldier. thus crowded fortune. for this whole week, though her large salary had not yet arrived, it was as if the world understood and trusted her. without money--or the requisite sum, at least--she enjoyed the luxuries which money could buy. for her the doors of fine places seemed to open quite without the asking. these palatial chambers, how marvellously they came to her. the elegant apartments of mrs. vance in the chelsea--these were hers. men sent flowers, love notes, offers of fortune. and still her dreams ran riot. the one hundred and fifty! the one hundred and fifty! what a door to an aladdin's cave it seemed to be. each day, her head almost turned by developments, her fancies of what her fortune must be, with ample money, grew and multiplied. she conceived of delights which were not--saw lights of joy that never were on land or sea. then, at last, after a world of anticipation, came her first installment of one hundred and fifty dollars. it was paid to her in greenbacks--three twenties, six tens, and six fives. thus collected it made a very convenient roll. it was accompanied by a smile and a salutation from the cashier who paid it. "ah, yes," said the latter, when she applied; "miss madenda--one hundred and fifty dollars. quite a success the show seems to have made." "yes, indeed," returned carrie. right after came one of the insignificant members of the company, and she heard the changed tone of address. "how much?" said the same cashier, sharply. one, such as she had only recently been, was waiting for her modest salary. it took her back to the few weeks in which she had collected--or rather had received--almost with the air of a domestic, four-fifty per week from a lordly foreman in a shoe factory--a man who, in distributing the envelopes, had the manner of a prince doling out favours to a servile group of petitioners. she knew that out in chicago this very day the same factory chamber was full of poor homely-clad girls working in long lines at clattering machines; that at noon they would eat a miserable lunch in a half-hour; that saturday they would gather, as they had when she was one of them, and accept the small pay for work a hundred times harder than she was now doing. oh, it was so easy now! the world was so rosy and bright. she felt so thrilled that she must needs walk back to the hotel to think, wondering what she should do. it does not take money long to make plain its impotence, providing the desires are in the realm of affection. with her one hundred and fifty in hand, carrie could think of nothing particularly to do. in itself, as a tangible, apparent thing which she could touch and look upon, it was a diverting thing for a few days, but this soon passed. her hotel bill did not require its use. her clothes had for some time been wholly satisfactory. another day or two and she would receive another hundred and fifty. it began to appear as if this were not so startlingly necessary to maintain her present state. if she wanted to do anything better or move higher she must have more--a great deal more. now a critic called to get up one of those tinsel interviews which shine with clever observations, show up the wit of critics, display the folly of celebrities, and divert the public. he liked carrie, and said so, publicly--adding, however, that she was merely pretty, good-natured, and lucky. this cut like a knife. the "herald," getting up an entertainment for the benefit of its free ice fund, did her the honour to beg her to appear along with celebrities for nothing. she was visited by a young author, who had a play which he thought she could produce. alas, she could not judge. it hurt her to think it. then she found she must put her money in the bank for safety, and so moving, finally reached the place where it struck her that the door to life's perfect enjoyment was not open. gradually she began to think it was because it was summer. nothing was going on much save such entertainments as the one in which she was star. fifth avenue was boarded up where the rich had deserted their mansions. madison avenue was little better. broadway was full of loafing thespians in search of next season engagements. the whole city was quiet and her nights were taken up with her work. hence the feeling that there was little to do. "i don't know," she said to lola one day, sitting at one of the windows which looked down into broadway, "i get lonely; don't you?" "no," said lola, "not very often. you won't go anywhere. that's what's the matter with you." "where can i go?" "why, there're lots of places," returned lola, who was thinking of her own lightsome tourneys with the gay youths. "you won't go with anybody." "i don't want to go with these people who write to me. i know what kind they are." "you oughtn't to be lonely," said lola, thinking of carrie's success. "there're lots would give their ears to be in your shoes." carrie looked out again at the passing crowd. "i don't know," she said. unconsciously her idle hands were beginning to weary. chapter xlv curious shifts of the poor the gloomy hurstwood, sitting in his cheap hotel, where he had taken refuge with seventy dollars--the price of his furniture--between him and nothing, saw a hot summer out and a cool fall in, reading. he was not wholly indifferent to the fact that his money was slipping away. as fifty cents after fifty cents were paid out for a day's lodging he became uneasy, and finally took a cheaper room--thirty-five cents a day--to make his money last longer. frequently he saw notices of carrie. her picture was in the "world" once or twice, and an old "herald" he found in a chair informed him that she had recently appeared with some others at a benefit for something or other. he read these things with mingled feelings. each one seemed to put her farther and farther away into a realm which became more imposing as it receded from him. on the bill-boards, too, he saw a pretty poster, showing her as the quaker maid, demure and dainty. more than once he stopped and looked at these, gazing at the pretty face in a sullen sort of way. his clothes were shabby, and he presented a marked contrast to all that she now seemed to be. somehow, so long as he knew she was at the casino, though he had never any intention of going near her, there was a sub-conscious comfort for him--he was not quite alone. the show seemed such a fixture that, after a month or two, he began to take it for granted that it was still running. in september it went on the road and he did not notice it. when all but twenty dollars of his money was gone, he moved to a fifteen-cent lodging-house in the bowery, where there was a bare lounging-room filled with tables and benches as well as some chairs. here his preference was to close his eyes and dream of other days, a habit which grew upon him. it was not sleep at first, but a mental hearkening back to scenes and incidents in his chicago life. as the present became darker, the past grew brighter, and all that concerned it stood in relief. he was unconscious of just how much this habit had hold of him until one day he found his lips repeating an old answer he had made to one of his friends. they were in fitzgerald and moy's. it was as if he stood in the door of his elegant little office, comfortably dressed, talking to sagar morrison about the value of south chicago real estate in which the latter was about to invest. "how would you like to come in on that with me?" he heard morrison say. "not me," he answered, just as he had years before. "i have my hands full now." the movement of his lips aroused him. he wondered whether he had really spoken. the next time he noticed anything of the sort he really did talk. "why don't you jump, you bloody fool?" he was saying. "jump!" it was a funny english story he was telling to a company of actors. even as his voice recalled him, he was smiling. a crusty old codger, sitting near by, seemed disturbed; at least, he stared in a most pointed way. hurstwood straightened up. the humour of the memory fled in an instant and he felt ashamed. for relief, he left his chair and strolled out into the streets. one day, looking down the ad. columns of the "evening world," he saw where a new play was at the casino. instantly, he came to a mental halt. carrie had gone! he remembered seeing a poster of her only yesterday, but no doubt it was one left uncovered by the new signs. curiously, this fact shook him up. he had almost to admit that somehow he was depending upon her being in the city. now she was gone. he wondered how this important fact had skipped him. goodness knows when she would be back now. impelled by a nervous fear, he rose and went into the dingy hall, where he counted his remaining money, unseen. there were but ten dollars in all. he wondered how all these other lodging-house people around him got along. they didn't seem to do anything. perhaps they begged--unquestionably they did. many was the dime he had given to such as they in his day. he had seen other men asking for money on the streets. maybe he could get some that way. there was horror in this thought. sitting in the lodging-house room, he came to his last fifty cents. he had saved and counted until his health was affected. his stoutness had gone. with it, even the semblance of a fit in his clothes. now he decided he must do something, and, walking about, saw another day go by, bringing him down to his last twenty cents--not enough to eat for the morrow. summoning all his courage, he crossed to broadway and up to the broadway central hotel. within a block he halted, undecided. a big, heavy-faced porter was standing at one of the side entrances, looking out. hurstwood purposed to appeal to him. walking straight up, he was upon him before he could turn away. "my friend," he said, recognising even in his plight the man's inferiority, "is there anything about this hotel that i could get to do?" the porter stared at him the while he continued to talk. "i'm out of work and out of money and i've got to get something--it doesn't matter what. i don't care to talk about what i've been, but if you'd tell me how to get something to do, i'd be much obliged to you. it wouldn't matter if it only lasted a few days just now. i've got to have something." the porter still gazed, trying to look indifferent. then, seeing that hurstwood was about to go on, he said: "i've nothing to do with it. you'll have to ask inside." curiously, this stirred hurstwood to further effort. "i thought you might tell me." the fellow shook his head irritably. inside went the ex-manager and straight to an office off the clerk's desk. one of the managers of the hotel happened to be there. hurstwood looked him straight in the eye. "could you give me something to do for a few days?" he said. "i'm in a position where i have to get something at once." the comfortable manager looked at him, as much as to say: "well, i should judge so." "i came here," explained hurstwood, nervously, "because i've been a manager myself in my day. i've had bad luck in a way, but i'm not here to tell you that. i want something to do, if only for a week." the man imagined he saw a feverish gleam in the applicant's eye. "what hotel did you manage?" he inquired. "it wasn't a hotel," said hurstwood. "i was manager of fitzgerald and moy's place in chicago for fifteen years." "is that so?" said the hotel man. "how did you come to get out of that?" the figure of hurstwood was rather surprising in contrast to the fact. "well, by foolishness of my own. it isn't anything to talk about now. you could find out if you wanted to. i'm 'broke' now and, if you will believe me, i haven't eaten anything to-day." the hotel man was slightly interested in this story. he could hardly tell what to do with such a figure, and yet hurstwood's earnestness made him wish to do something. "call olsen," he said, turning to the clerk. in reply to a bell and a disappearing hall-boy, olsen, the head porter, appeared. "olsen," said the manager, "is there anything downstairs you could find for this man to do? i'd like to give him something." "i don't know, sir," said olsen. "we have about all the help we need. i think i could find something, sir, though, if you like." "do. take him to the kitchen and tell wilson to give him something to eat." "all right, sir," said olsen. hurstwood followed. out of the manager's sight, the head porter's manner changed. "i don't know what the devil there is to do," he observed. hurstwood said nothing. to him the big trunk hustler was a subject for private contempt. "you're to give this man something to eat," he observed to the cook. the latter looked hurstwood over, and seeing something keen and intellectual in his eyes, said: "well, sit down over there." thus was hurstwood installed in the broadway central, but not for long. he was in no shape or mood to do the scrub work that exists about the foundation of every hotel. nothing better offering, he was set to aid the fireman, to work about the basement, to do anything and everything that might offer. porters, cooks, firemen, clerks--all were over him. moreover his appearance did not please these individuals--his temper was too lonely--and they made it disagreeable for him. with the stolidity and indifference of despair, however, he endured it all, sleeping in an attic at the roof of the house, eating what the cook gave him, accepting a few dollars a week, which he tried to save. his constitution was in no shape to endure. one day the following february he was sent on an errand to a large coal company's office. it had been snowing and thawing and the streets were sloppy. he soaked his shoes in his progress and came back feeling dull and weary. all the next day he felt unusually depressed and sat about as much as possible, to the irritation of those who admired energy in others. in the afternoon some boxes were to be moved to make room for new culinary supplies. he was ordered to handle a truck. encountering a big box, he could not lift it. "what's the matter there?" said the head porter. "can't you handle it?" he was straining hard to lift it, but now he quit. "no," he said, weakly. the man looked at him and saw that he was deathly pale. "not sick, are you?" he asked. "i think i am," returned hurstwood. "well, you'd better go sit down, then." this he did, but soon grew rapidly worse. it seemed all he could do to crawl to his room, where he remained for a day. "that man wheeler's sick," reported one of the lackeys to the night clerk. "what's the matter with him?" "i don't know. he's got a high fever." the hotel physician looked at him. "better send him to bellevue," he recommended. "he's got pneumonia." accordingly, he was carted away. in three weeks the worst was over, but it was nearly the first of may before his strength permitted him to be turned out. then he was discharged. no more weakly looking object ever strolled out into the spring sunshine than the once hale, lusty manager. all his corpulency had fled. his face was thin and pale, his hands white, his body flabby. clothes and all, he weighed but one hundred and thirty-five pounds. some old garments had been given him--a cheap brown coat and misfit pair of trousers. also some change and advice. he was told to apply to the charities. again he resorted to the bowery lodging-house, brooding over where to look. from this it was but a step to beggary. "what can a man do?" he said. "i can't starve." his first application was in sunny second avenue. a well-dressed man came leisurely strolling toward him out of stuyvesant park. hurstwood nerved himself and sidled near. "would you mind giving me ten cents?" he said, directly. "i'm in a position where i must ask someone." the man scarcely looked at him, but fished in his vest pocket and took out a dime. "there you are," he said. "much obliged," said hurstwood, softly, but the other paid no more attention to him. satisfied with his success and yet ashamed of his situation, he decided that he would only ask for twenty-five cents more, since that would be sufficient. he strolled about sizing up people, but it was long before just the right face and situation arrived. when he asked, he was refused. shocked by this result, he took an hour to recover and then asked again. this time a nickel was given him. by the most watchful effort he did get twenty cents more, but it was painful. the next day he resorted to the same effort, experiencing a variety of rebuffs and one or two generous receptions. at last it crossed his mind that there was a science of faces, and that a man could pick the liberal countenance if he tried. it was no pleasure to him, however, this stopping of passers-by. he saw one man taken up for it and now troubled lest he should be arrested. nevertheless, he went on, vaguely anticipating that indefinite something which is always better. it was with a sense of satisfaction, then, that he saw announced one morning the return of the casino company, "with miss carrie madenda." he had thought of her often enough in days past. how successful she was--how much money she must have! even now, however, it took a severe run of ill-luck to decide him to appeal to her. he was truly hungry before he said: "i'll ask her. she won't refuse me a few dollars." accordingly, he headed for the casino one afternoon, passing it several times in an effort to locate the stage entrance. then he sat in bryant park, a block away, waiting. "she can't refuse to help me a little," he kept saying to himself. beginning with half-past six, he hovered like a shadow about the thirty-ninth street entrance, pretending always to be a hurrying pedestrian and yet fearful lest he should miss his object. he was slightly nervous, too, now that the eventful hour had arrived; but being weak and hungry, his ability to suffer was modified. at last he saw that the actors were beginning to arrive, and his nervous tension increased, until it seemed as if he could not stand much more. once he thought he saw carrie coming and moved forward, only to see that he was mistaken. "she can't be long, now," he said to himself, half fearing to encounter her and equally depressed at the thought that she might have gone in by another way. his stomach was so empty that it ached. individual after individual passed him, nearly all well dressed, almost all indifferent. he saw coaches rolling by, gentlemen passing with ladies--the evening's merriment was beginning in this region of theatres and hotels. suddenly a coach rolled up and the driver jumped down to open the door. before hurstwood could act, two ladies flounced across the broad walk and disappeared in the stage door. he thought he saw carrie, but it was so unexpected, so elegant and far away, he could hardly tell. he waited a while longer, growing feverish with want, and then seeing that the stage door no longer opened, and that a merry audience was arriving, he concluded it must have been carrie and turned away. "lord," he said, hastening out of the street into which the more fortunate were pouring, "i've got to get something." at that hour, when broadway is wont to assume its most interesting aspect, a peculiar individual invariably took his stand at the corner of twenty-sixth street and broadway--a spot which is also intersected by fifth avenue. this was the hour when the theatres were just beginning to receive their patrons. fire signs announcing the night's amusements blazed on every hand. cabs and carriages, their lamps gleaming like yellow eyes, pattered by. couples and parties of three and four freely mingled in the common crowd, which poured by in a thick stream, laughing and jesting. on fifth avenue were loungers--a few wealthy strollers, a gentleman in evening dress with his lady on his arm, some clubmen passing from one smoking-room to another. across the way the great hotels showed a hundred gleaming windows, their cafés and billiard-rooms filled with a comfortable, well-dressed, and pleasure-loving throng. all about was the night, pulsating with the thoughts of pleasure and exhilaration--the curious enthusiasm of a great city bent upon finding joy in a thousand different ways. this unique individual was no less than an ex-soldier turned religionist, who, having suffered the whips and privations of our peculiar social system, had concluded that his duty to the god which he conceived lay in aiding his fellow-man. the form of aid which he chose to administer was entirely original with himself. it consisted of securing a bed for all such homeless wayfarers as should apply to him at this particular spot, though he had scarcely the wherewithal to provide a comfortable habitation for himself. taking his place amid this lightsome atmosphere, he would stand, his stocky figure cloaked in a great cape overcoat, his head protected by a broad slouch hat, awaiting the applicants who had in various ways learned the nature of his charity. for a while he would stand alone, gazing like any idler upon an ever-fascinating scene. on the evening in question, a policeman passing saluted him as "captain," in a friendly way. an urchin who had frequently seen him before, stopped to gaze. all others took him for nothing out of the ordinary, save in the matter of dress, and conceived of him as a stranger whistling and idling for his own amusement. as the first half-hour waned, certain characters appeared. here and there in the passing crowds one might see, now and then, a loiterer edging interestedly near. a slouchy figure crossed the opposite corner and glanced furtively in his direction. another came down fifth avenue to the corner of twenty-sixth street, took a general survey, and hobbled off again. two or three noticeable bowery types edged along the fifth avenue side of madison square, but did not venture over. the soldier, in his cape overcoat, walked a short line of ten feet at his corner, to and fro, indifferently whistling. as nine o'clock approached, some of the hubbub of the earlier hour passed. the atmosphere of the hotels was not so youthful. the air, too, was colder. on every hand curious figures were moving--watchers and peepers, without an imaginary circle, which they seemed afraid to enter--a dozen in all. presently, with the arrival of a keener sense of cold, one figure came forward. it crossed broadway from out the shadow of twenty-sixth street, and, in a halting, circuitous way, arrived close to the waiting figure. there was something shamefaced or diffident about the movement, as if the intention were to conceal any idea of stopping until the very last moment. then suddenly, close to the soldier, came the halt. the captain looked in recognition, but there was no especial greeting. the newcomer nodded slightly and murmured something like one who waits for gifts. the other simply motioned toward the edge of the walk. "stand over there," he said. by this the spell was broken. even while the soldier resumed his short, solemn walk, other figures shuffled forward. they did not so much as greet the leader, but joined the one, sniffling and hitching and scraping their feet. "cold, ain't it?" "i'm glad winter's over." "looks as though it might rain." the motley company had increased to ten. one or two knew each other and conversed. others stood off a few feet, not wishing to be in the crowd and yet not counted out. they were peevish, crusty, silent, eying nothing in particular and moving their feet. there would have been talking soon, but the soldier gave them no chance. counting sufficient to begin, he came forward. "beds, eh, all of you?" there was a general shuffle and murmur of approval. "well, line up here. i'll see what i can do. i haven't a cent myself." they fell into a sort of broken, ragged line. one might see, now, some of the chief characteristics by contrast. there was a wooden leg in the line. hats were all drooping, a group that would ill become a second-hand hester street basement collection. trousers were all warped and frayed at the bottom and coats worn and faded. in the glare of the store lights, some of the faces looked dry and chalky; others were red with blotches and puffed in the cheeks and under the eyes; one or two were rawboned and reminded one of railroad hands. a few spectators came near, drawn by the seemingly conferring group, then more and more, and quickly there was a pushing, gaping crowd. some one in the line began to talk. "silence!" exclaimed the captain. "now, then, gentlemen, these men are without beds. they have to have some place to sleep to-night. they can't lie out in the streets. i need twelve cents to put one of them to bed. who will give it to me?" no reply. "well, we'll have to wait here, boys, until some one does. twelve cents isn't so very much for one man." "here's fifteen," exclaimed a young man, peering forward with strained eyes. "it's all i can afford." "all right. now i have fifteen. step out of the line," and seizing one by the shoulder, the captain marched him off a little way and stood him up alone. coming back, he resumed his place and began again. "i have three cents left. these men must be put to bed somehow. there are"--counting--"one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve men. nine cents more will put the next man to bed; give him a good, comfortable bed for the night. i go right along and look after that myself. who will give me nine cents?" one of the watchers, this time a middle-aged man, handed him a five-cent piece. "now, i have eight cents. four more will give this man a bed. come, gentlemen. we are going very slow this evening. you all have good beds. how about these?" "here you are," remarked a bystander, putting a coin into his hand. "that," said the captain, looking at the coin, "pays for two beds for two men and gives me five on the next one. who will give me seven cents more?" "i will," said a voice. coming down sixth avenue this evening, hurstwood chanced to cross east through twenty-sixth street toward third avenue. he was wholly disconsolate in spirit, hungry to what he deemed an almost mortal extent, weary, and defeated. how should he get at carrie now? it would be eleven before the show was over. if she came in a coach, she would go away in one. he would need to interrupt under most trying circumstances. worst of all, he was hungry and weary, and at best a whole day must intervene, for he had not heart to try again to-night. he had no food and no bed. when he neared broadway, he noticed the captain's gathering of wanderers, but thinking it to be the result of a street preacher or some patent medicine fakir, was about to pass on. however, in crossing the street toward madison square park, he noticed the line of men whose beds were already secured, stretching out from the main body of the crowd. in the glare of the neighbouring electric light he recognised a type of his own kind--the figures whom he saw about the streets and in the lodging-houses, drifting in mind and body like himself. he wondered what it could be and turned back. there was the captain curtly pleading as before. he heard with astonishment and a sense of relief the oft-repeated words: "these men must have a bed." before him was the line of unfortunates whose beds were yet to be had, and seeing a newcomer quietly edge up and take a position at the end of the line, he decided to do likewise. what use to contend? he was weary to-night. it was a simple way out of one difficulty, at least. to-morrow, maybe, he would do better. back of him, where some of those were whose beds were safe, a relaxed air was apparent. the strain of uncertainty being removed, he heard them talking with moderate freedom and some leaning toward sociability. politics, religion, the state of the government, some newspaper sensations, and the more notorious facts the world over, found mouthpieces and auditors there. cracked and husky voices pronounced forcibly upon odd matters. vague and rambling observations were made in reply. there were squints, and leers, and some dull, ox-like stares from those who were too dull or too weary to converse. standing tells. hurstwood became more weary waiting. he thought he should drop soon and shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. at last his turn came. the man ahead had been paid for and gone to the blessed line of success. he was now first, and already the captain was talking for him. "twelve cents, gentlemen--twelve cents puts this man to bed. he wouldn't stand here in the cold if he had any place to go." hurstwood swallowed something that rose to his throat. hunger and weakness had made a coward of him. "here you are," said a stranger, handing money to the captain. now the latter put a kindly hand on the ex-manager's shoulder. "line up over there," he said. once there, hurstwood breathed easier. he felt as if the world were not quite so bad with such a good man in it. others seemed to feel like himself about this. "captain's a great feller, ain't he?" said the man ahead--a little, woe-begone, helpless-looking sort of individual, who looked as though he had ever been the sport and care of fortune. "yes," said hurstwood, indifferently. "huh! there's a lot back there yet," said a man farther up, leaning out and looking back at the applicants for whom the captain was pleading. "yes. must be over a hundred to-night," said another. "look at the guy in the cab," observed a third. a cab had stopped. some gentleman in evening dress reached out a bill to the captain, who took it with simple thanks and turned away to his line. there was a general craning of necks as the jewel in the white shirt front sparkled and the cab moved off. even the crowd gaped in awe. "that fixes up nine men for the night," said the captain, counting out as many of the line near him. "line up over there. now, then, there are only seven. i need twelve cents." money came slowly. in the course of time the crowd thinned out to a meagre handful. fifth avenue, save for an occasional cab or foot passenger, was bare. broadway was thinly peopled with pedestrians. only now and then a stranger passing noticed the small group, handed out a coin, and went away, unheeding. the captain remained stolid and determined. he talked on, very slowly, uttering the fewest words and with a certain assurance, as though he could not fail. "come; i can't stay out here all night. these men are getting tired and cold. some one give me four cents." there came a time when he said nothing at all. money was handed him, and for each twelve cents he singled out a man and put him in the other line. then he walked up and down as before, looking at the ground. the theatres let out. fire signs disappeared. a clock struck eleven. another half-hour and he was down to the last two men. "come, now," he exclaimed to several curious observers; "eighteen cents will fix us all up for the night. eighteen cents. i have six. somebody give me the money. remember, i have to go over to brooklyn yet to-night. before that i have to take these men down and put them to bed. eighteen cents." no one responded. he walked to and fro, looking down for several minutes, occasionally saying softly: "eighteen cents." it seemed as if this paltry sum would delay the desired culmination longer than all the rest had. hurstwood, buoyed up slightly by the long line of which he was a part, refrained with an effort from groaning, he was so weak. at last a lady in opera cape and rustling skirts came down fifth avenue, accompanied by her escort. hurstwood gazed wearily, reminded by her both of carrie in her new world and of the time when he had escorted his own wife in like manner. while he was gazing, she turned and, looking at the remarkable company, sent her escort over. he came, holding a bill in his fingers, all elegant and graceful. "here you are," he said. "thanks," said the captain, turning to the two remaining applicants. "now we have some for to-morrow night," he added. therewith he lined up the last two and proceeded to the head, counting as he went. "one hundred and thirty-seven," he announced. "now, boys, line up. right dress there. we won't be much longer about this. steady, now." he placed himself at the head and called out "forward." hurstwood moved with the line. across fifth avenue, through madison square by the winding paths, east on twenty-third street, and down third avenue wound the long, serpentine company. midnight pedestrians and loiterers stopped and stared as the company passed. chatting policemen, at various corners, stared indifferently or nodded to the leader, whom they had seen before. on third avenue they marched, a seemingly weary way, to eighth street, where there was a lodging-house, closed, apparently, for the night. they were expected, however. outside in the gloom they stood, while the leader parleyed within. then doors swung open and they were invited in with a "steady, now." some one was at the head showing rooms, so that there was no delay for keys. toiling up the creaky stairs, hurstwood looked back and saw the captain, watching; the last one of the line being included in his broad solicitude. then he gathered his cloak about him and strolled out into the night. "i can't stand much of this," said hurstwood, whose legs ached him painfully, as he sat down upon the miserable bunk in the small, lightless chamber allotted to him. "i've got to eat, or i'll die." chapter xlvi stirring troubled waters playing in new york one evening on this her return, carrie was putting the finishing touches to her toilet before leaving for the night, when a commotion near the stage door caught her ear. it included a familiar voice. "never mind, now. i want to see miss madenda." "you'll have to send in your card." "oh, come off! here." a half-dollar was passed over, and now a knock came at her dressing-room door. carrie opened it. "well, well!" said drouet. "i do swear! why, how are you? i knew that was you the moment i saw you." carrie fell back a pace, expecting a most embarrassing conversation. "aren't you going to shake hands with me? well, you're a dandy! that's all right, shake hands." carrie put out her hand, smiling, if for nothing more than the man's exuberant good-nature. though older, he was but slightly changed. the same fine clothes, the same stocky body, the same rosy countenance. "that fellow at the door there didn't want to let me in, until i paid him. i knew it was you, all right. say, you've got a great show. you do your part fine. i knew you would. i just happened to be passing to-night and thought i'd drop in for a few minutes. i saw your name on the programme, but i didn't remember it until you came on the stage. then it struck me all at once. say, you could have knocked me down with a feather. that's the same name you used out there in chicago, isn't it?" "yes," answered carrie, mildly, overwhelmed by the man's assurance. "i knew it was, the moment i saw you. well, how have you been, anyhow?" "oh, very well," said carrie, lingering in her dressing-room. she was rather dazed by the assault. "how have you been?" "me? oh, fine. i'm here now." "is that so?" said carrie. "yes. i've been here for six months. i've got charge of a branch here." "how nice!" "well, when did you go on the stage, anyhow?" inquired drouet. "about three years ago," said carrie. "you don't say so! well, sir, this is the first i've heard of it. i knew you would, though. i always said you could act--didn't i?" carrie smiled. "yes, you did," she said. "well, you do look great," he said. "i never saw anybody improve so. you're taller, aren't you?" "me? oh, a little, maybe." he gazed at her dress, then at her hair, where a becoming hat was set jauntily, then into her eyes, which she took all occasion to avert. evidently he expected to restore their old friendship at once and without modification. "well," he said, seeing her gather up her purse, handkerchief, and the like, preparatory to departing, "i want you to come out to dinner with me; won't you? i've got a friend out here." "oh, i can't," said carrie. "not to-night. i have an early engagement to-morrow." "aw, let the engagement go. come on. i can get rid of him. i want to have a good talk with you." "no, no," said carrie; "i can't. you mustn't ask me any more. i don't care for a late dinner." "well, come on and have a talk, then, anyhow." "not to-night," she said, shaking her head. "we'll have a talk some other time." as a result of this, she noticed a shade of thought pass over his face, as if he were beginning to realise that things were changed. good-nature dictated something better than this for one who had always liked her. "you come around to the hotel to-morrow," she said, as sort of penance for error. "you can take dinner with me." "all right," said drouet, brightening. "where are you stopping?" "at the waldorf," she answered, mentioning the fashionable hostelry then but newly erected. "what time?" "well, come at three," said carrie, pleasantly. the next day drouet called, but it was with no especial delight that carrie remembered her appointment. however, seeing him, handsome as ever, after his kind, and most genially disposed, her doubts as to whether the dinner would be disagreeable were swept away. he talked as volubly as ever. "they put on a lot of lugs here, don't they?" was his first remark. "yes; they do," said carrie. genial egotist that he was, he went at once into a detailed account of his own career. "i'm going to have a business of my own pretty soon," he observed in one place. "i can get backing for two hundred thousand dollars." carrie listened most good-naturedly. "say," he said, suddenly; "where is hurstwood now?" carrie flushed a little. "he's here in new york, i guess," she said. "i haven't seen him for some time." drouet mused for a moment. he had not been sure until now that the ex-manager was not an influential figure in the background. he imagined not; but this assurance relieved him. it must be that carrie had got rid of him--as well she ought, he thought. "a man always makes a mistake when he does anything like that," he observed. "like what?" said carrie, unwitting of what was coming. "oh, you know," and drouet waved her intelligence, as it were, with his hand. "no, i don't," she answered. "what do you mean?" "why that affair in chicago--the time he left." "i don't know what you are talking about," said carrie. could it be he would refer so rudely to hurstwood's flight with her? "oho!" said drouet, incredulously. "you knew he took ten thousand dollars with him when he left, didn't you?" "what!" said carrie. "you don't mean to say he stole money, do you?" "why," said drouet, puzzled at her tone, "you knew that, didn't you?" "why, no," said carrie. "of course i didn't." "well, that's funny," said drouet. "he did, you know. it was in all the papers." "how much did you say he took?" said carrie. "ten thousand dollars. i heard he sent most of it back afterwards, though." carrie looked vacantly at the richly carpeted floor. a new light was shining upon all the years since her enforced flight. she remembered now a hundred things that indicated as much. she also imagined that he took it on her account. instead of hatred springing up there was a kind of sorrow generated. poor fellow! what a thing to have had hanging over his head all the time. at dinner drouet, warmed up by eating and drinking and softened in mood, fancied he was winning carrie to her old-time good-natured regard for him. he began to imagine it would not be so difficult to enter into her life again, high as she was. ah, what a prize! he thought. how beautiful, how elegant, how famous! in her theatrical and waldorf setting, carrie was to him the all-desirable. "do you remember how nervous you were that night at the avery?" he asked. carrie smiled to think of it. "i never saw anybody do better than you did then, cad," he added ruefully, as he leaned an elbow on the table; "i thought you and i were going to get along fine those days." "you mustn't talk that way," said carrie, bringing in the least touch of coldness. "won't you let me tell you----" "no," she answered, rising. "besides, it's time i was getting ready for the theatre. i'll have to leave you. come, now." "oh, stay a minute," pleaded drouet. "you've got plenty of time." "no," said carrie, gently. reluctantly drouet gave up the bright table and followed. he saw her to the elevator and, standing there, said: "when do i see you again?" "oh, some time, possibly," said carrie. "i'll be here all summer. good-night!" the elevator door was open. "good-night!" said drouet, as she rustled in. then he strolled sadly down the hall, all his old longing revived, because she was now so far off. the merry frou-frou of the place spoke all of her. he thought himself hardly dealt with. carrie, however, had other thoughts. that night it was that she passed hurstwood, waiting at the casino, without observing him. the next night, walking to the theatre, she encountered him face to face. he was waiting, more gaunt than ever, determined to see her, if he had to send in word. at first she did not recognise the shabby, baggy figure. he frightened her, edging so close, a seemingly hungry stranger. "carrie," he half whispered, "can i have a few words with you?" she turned and recognised him on the instant. if there ever had lurked any feeling in her heart against him, it deserted her now. still, she remembered what drouet said about his having stolen the money. "why, george," she said; "what's the matter with you?" "i've been sick," he answered. "i've just got out of the hospital. for god's sake, let me have a little money, will you?" "of course," said carrie, her lip trembling in a strong effort to maintain her composure. "but what's the matter with you, anyhow?" she was opening her purse, and now pulled out all the bills in it--a five and two twos. "i've been sick, i told you," he said, peevishly, almost resenting her excessive pity. it came hard to him to receive it from such a source. "here," she said. "it's all i have with me." "all right," he answered, softly. "i'll give it back to you some day." carrie looked at him, while pedestrians stared at her. she felt the strain of publicity. so did hurstwood. "why don't you tell me what's the matter with you?" she asked, hardly knowing what to do. "where are you living?" "oh, i've got a room down in the bowery," he answered. "there's no use trying to tell you here. i'm all right now." he seemed in a way to resent her kindly inquiries--so much better had fate dealt with her. "better go on in," he said. "i'm much obliged, but i won't bother you any more." she tried to answer, but he turned away and shuffled off toward the east. for days this apparition was a drag on her soul before it began to wear partially away. drouet called again, but now he was not even seen by her. his attentions seemed out of place. "i'm out," was her reply to the boy. so peculiar, indeed, was her lonely, self-withdrawing temper, that she was becoming an interesting figure in the public eye--she was so quiet and reserved. not long after the management decided to transfer the show to london. a second summer season did not seem to promise well here. "how would you like to try subduing london?" asked her manager, one afternoon. "it might be just the other way," said carrie. "i think we'll go in june," he answered. in the hurry of departure, hurstwood was forgotten. both he and drouet were left to discover that she was gone. the latter called once, and exclaimed at the news. then he stood in the lobby, chewing the ends of his moustache. at last he reached a conclusion--the old days had gone for good. "she isn't so much," he said; but in his heart of hearts he did not believe this. hurstwood shifted by curious means through a long summer and fall. a small job as janitor of a dance hall helped him for a month. begging, sometimes going hungry, sometimes sleeping in the park, carried him over more days. resorting to those peculiar charities, several of which, in the press of hungry search, he accidentally stumbled upon, did the rest. toward the dead of winter, carrie came back, appearing on broadway in a new play; but he was not aware of it. for weeks he wandered about the city, begging, while the fire sign, announcing her engagement, blazed nightly upon the crowded street of amusements. drouet saw it, but did not venture in. about this time ames returned to new york. he had made a little success in the west, and now opened a laboratory in wooster street. of course, he encountered carrie through mrs. vance; but there was nothing responsive between them. he thought she was still united to hurstwood, until otherwise informed. not knowing the facts then, he did not profess to understand, and refrained from comment. with mrs. vance, he saw the new play, and expressed himself accordingly. "she ought not to be in comedy," he said. "i think she could do better than that." one afternoon they met at the vances' accidentally, and began a very friendly conversation. she could hardly tell why the one-time keen interest in him was no longer with her. unquestionably, it was because at that time he had represented something which she did not have; but this she did not understand. success had given her the momentary feeling that she was now blessed with much of which he would approve. as a matter of fact, her little newspaper fame was nothing at all to him. he thought she could have done better, by far. "you didn't go into comedy-drama, after all?" he said, remembering her interest in that form of art. "no," she answered; "i haven't, so far." he looked at her in such a peculiar way that she realised she had failed. it moved her to add: "i want to, though." "i should think you would," he said. "you have the sort of disposition that would do well in comedy-drama." it surprised her that he should speak of disposition. was she, then, so clearly in his mind? "why?" she asked. "well," he said, "i should judge you were rather sympathetic in your nature." carrie smiled and coloured slightly. he was so innocently frank with her that she drew nearer in friendship. the old call of the ideal was sounding. "i don't know," she answered, pleased, nevertheless, beyond all concealment. "i saw your play," he remarked. "it's very good." "i'm glad you liked it." "very good, indeed," he said, "for a comedy." this is all that was said at the time, owing to an interruption, but later they met again. he was sitting in a corner after dinner, staring at the floor, when carrie came up with another of the guests. hard work had given his face the look of one who is weary. it was not for carrie to know the thing in it which appealed to her. "all alone?" she said. "i was listening to the music." "i'll be back in a moment," said her companion, who saw nothing in the inventor. now he looked up in her face, for she was standing a moment, while he sat. "isn't that a pathetic strain?" he inquired, listening. "oh, very," she returned, also catching it, now that her attention was called. "sit down," he added, offering her the chair beside him. they listened a few moments in silence, touched by the same feeling, only hers reached her through the heart. music still charmed her as in the old days. "i don't know what it is about music," she started to say, moved by the inexplicable longings which surged within her; "but it always makes me feel as if i wanted something--i----" "yes," he replied; "i know how you feel." suddenly he turned to considering the peculiarity of her disposition, expressing her feelings so frankly. "you ought not to be melancholy," he said. he thought a while, and then went off into a seemingly alien observation which, however, accorded with their feelings. "the world is full of desirable situations, but, unfortunately, we can occupy but one at a time. it doesn't do us any good to wring our hands over the far-off things." the music ceased and he arose, taking a standing position before her, as if to rest himself. "why don't you get into some good, strong comedy-drama?" he said. he was looking directly at her now, studying her face. her large, sympathetic eyes and pain-touched mouth appealed to him as proofs of his judgment. "perhaps i shall," she returned. "that's your field," he added. "do you think so?" "yes," he said; "i do. i don't suppose you're aware of it, but there is something about your eyes and mouth which fits you for that sort of work." carrie thrilled to be taken so seriously. for the moment, loneliness deserted her. here was praise which was keen and analytical. "it's in your eyes and mouth," he went on abstractedly. "i remember thinking, the first time i saw you, that there was something peculiar about your mouth. i thought you were about to cry." "how odd," said carrie, warm with delight. this was what her heart craved. "then i noticed that that was your natural look, and to-night i saw it again. there's a shadow about your eyes, too, which gives your face much this same character. it's in the depth of them, i think." carrie looked straight into his face, wholly aroused. "you probably are not aware of it," he added. she looked away, pleased that he should speak thus, longing to be equal to this feeling written upon her countenance. it unlocked the door to a new desire. she had cause to ponder over this until they met again--several weeks or more. it showed her she was drifting away from the old ideal which had filled her in the dressing-rooms of the avery stage and thereafter, for a long time. why had she lost it? "i know why you should be a success," he said, another time, "if you had a more dramatic part. i've studied it out----" "what is it?" said carrie. "well," he said, as one pleased with a puzzle, "the expression in your face is one that comes out in different things. you get the same thing in a pathetic song, or any picture which moves you deeply. it's a thing the world likes to see, because it's a natural expression of its longing." carrie gazed without exactly getting the import of what he meant. "the world is always struggling to express itself," he went on. "most people are not capable of voicing their feelings. they depend upon others. that is what genius is for. one man expresses their desires for them in music; another one in poetry; another one in a play. sometimes nature does it in a face--it makes the face representative of all desire. that's what has happened in your case." he looked at her with so much of the import of the thing in his eyes that she caught it. at least, she got the idea that her look was something which represented the world's longing. she took it to heart as a creditable thing, until he added: "that puts a burden of duty on you. it so happens that you have this thing. it is no credit to you--that is, i mean, you might not have had it. you paid nothing to get it. but now that you have it, you must do something with it." "what?" asked carrie. "i should say, turn to the dramatic field. you have so much sympathy and such a melodious voice. make them valuable to others. it will make your powers endure." carrie did not understand this last. all the rest showed her that her comedy success was little or nothing. "what do you mean?" she asked. "why, just this. you have this quality in your eyes and mouth and in your nature. you can lose it, you know. if you turn away from it and live to satisfy yourself alone, it will go fast enough. the look will leave your eyes. your mouth will change. your power to act will disappear. you may think they won't, but they will. nature takes care of that." he was so interested in forwarding all good causes that he sometimes became enthusiastic, giving vent to these preachments. something in carrie appealed to him. he wanted to stir her up. "i know," she said, absently, feeling slightly guilty of neglect. "if i were you," he said, "i'd change." the effect of this was like roiling helpless waters. carrie troubled over it in her rocking-chair for days. "i don't believe i'll stay in comedy so very much longer," she eventually remarked to lola. "oh, why not?" said the latter. "i think," she said, "i can do better in a serious play." "what put that idea in your head?" "oh, nothing," she answered; "i've always thought so." still, she did nothing--grieving. it was a long way to this better thing--or seemed so--and comfort was about her; hence the inactivity and longing. chapter xlvii the way of the beaten: a harp in the wind in the city, at that time, there were a number of charities similar in nature to that of the captain's, which hurstwood now patronised in a like unfortunate way. one was a convent mission-house of the sisters of mercy in fifteenth street--a row of red brick family dwellings, before the door of which hung a plain wooden contribution box, on which was painted the statement that every noon a meal was given free to all those who might apply and ask for aid. this simple announcement was modest in the extreme, covering, as it did, a charity so broad. institutions and charities are so large and so numerous in new york that such things as this are not often noticed by the more comfortably situated. but to one whose mind is upon the matter, they grow exceedingly under inspection. unless one were looking up this matter in particular, he could have stood at sixth avenue and fifteenth street for days around the noon hour and never have noticed that out of the vast crowd that surged along that busy thoroughfare there turned out, every few seconds, some weather-beaten, heavy-footed specimen of humanity, gaunt in countenance and dilapidated in the matter of clothes. the fact is none the less true, however, and the colder the day the more apparent it became. space and a lack of culinary room in the mission-house, compelled an arrangement which permitted of only twenty-five or thirty eating at one time, so that a line had to be formed outside and an orderly entrance effected. this caused a daily spectacle which, however, had become so common by repetition during a number of years that now nothing was thought of it. the men waited patiently, like cattle, in the coldest weather--waited for several hours before they could be admitted. no questions were asked and no service rendered. they ate and went away again, some of them returning regularly day after day the winter through. a big, motherly looking woman invariably stood guard at the door during the entire operation and counted the admissible number. the men moved up in solemn order. there was no haste and no eagerness displayed. it was almost a dumb procession. in the bitterest weather this line was to be found here. under an icy wind there was a prodigious slapping of hands and a dancing of feet. fingers and the features of the face looked as if severely nipped by the cold. a study of these men in broad light proved them to be nearly all of a type. they belonged to the class that sit on the park benches during the endurable days and sleep upon them during the summer nights. they frequent the bowery and those down-at-the-heels east side streets where poor clothes and shrunken features are not singled out as curious. they are the men who are in the lodging-house sitting-rooms during bleak and bitter weather and who swarm about the cheaper shelters which only open at six in a number of the lower east side streets. miserable food, ill-timed and greedily eaten, had played havoc with bone and muscle. they were all pale, flabby, sunken-eyed, hollow-chested, with eyes that glinted and shone and lips that were a sickly red by contrast. their hair was but half attended to, their ears anæmic in hue, and their shoes broken in leather and run down at heel and toe. they were of the class which simply floats and drifts, every wave of people washing up one, as breakers do driftwood upon a stormy shore. for nearly a quarter of a century, in another section of the city, fleischmann, the baker, had given a loaf of bread to any one who would come for it to the side door of his restaurant at the corner of broadway and tenth street, at midnight. every night during twenty years about three hundred men had formed in line and at the appointed time marched past the doorway, picked their loaf from a great box placed just outside, and vanished again into the night. from the beginning to the present time there had been little change in the character or number of these men. there were two or three figures that had grown familiar to those who had seen this little procession pass year after year. two of them had missed scarcely a night in fifteen years. there were about forty, more or less, regular callers. the remainder of the line was formed of strangers. in times of panic and unusual hardships there were seldom more than three hundred. in times of prosperity, when little is heard of the unemployed, there were seldom less. the same number, winter and summer, in storm or calm, in good times and bad, held this melancholy midnight rendezvous at fleischmann's bread box. at both of these two charities, during the severe winter which was now on, hurstwood was a frequent visitor. on one occasion it was peculiarly cold, and finding no comfort in begging about the streets, he waited until noon before seeking this free offering to the poor. already, at eleven o'clock of this morning, several such as he had shambled forward out of sixth avenue, their thin clothes flapping and fluttering in the wind. they leaned against the iron railing which protects the walls of the ninth regiment armory, which fronts upon that section of fifteenth street, having come early in order to be first in. having an hour to wait, they at first lingered at a respectful distance; but others coming up, they moved closer in order to protect their right of precedence. to this collection hurstwood came up from the west out of seventh avenue and stopped close to the door, nearer than all the others. those who had been waiting before him, but farther away, now drew near, and by a certain stolidity of demeanour, no words being spoken, indicated that they were first. seeing the opposition to his action, he looked sullenly along the line, then moved out, taking his place at the foot. when order had been restored, the animal feeling of opposition relaxed. "must be pretty near noon," ventured one. "it is," said another. "i've been waiting nearly an hour." "gee, but it's cold!" they peered eagerly at the door, where all must enter. a grocery man drove up and carried in several baskets of eatables. this started some words upon grocery men and the cost of food in general. "i see meat's gone up," said one. "if there wuz war, it would help this country a lot." the line was growing rapidly. already there were fifty or more, and those at the head, by their demeanour, evidently congratulated themselves upon not having so long to wait as those at the foot. there was much jerking of heads, and looking down the line. "it don't matter how near you get to the front, so long as you're in the first twenty-five," commented one of the first twenty-five. "you all go in together." "humph!" ejaculated hurstwood, who had been so sturdily displaced. "this here single tax is the thing," said another. "there ain't going to be no order till it comes." for the most part there was silence; gaunt men shuffling, glancing, and beating their arms. at last the door opened and the motherly-looking sister appeared. she only looked an order. slowly the line moved up and, one by one, passed in, until twenty-five were counted. then she interposed a stout arm, and the line halted, with six men on the steps. of these the ex-manager was one. waiting thus, some talked, some ejaculated concerning the misery of it; some brooded, as did hurstwood. at last he was admitted, and, having eaten, came away, almost angered because of his pains in getting it. at eleven o'clock of another evening, perhaps two weeks later, he was at the midnight offering of a loaf--waiting patiently. it had been an unfortunate day with him, but now he took his fate with a touch of philosophy. if he could secure no supper, or was hungry late in the evening, here was a place he could come. a few minutes before twelve, a great box of bread was pushed out, and exactly on the hour a portly, round-faced german took position by it, calling "ready." the whole line at once moved forward, each taking his loaf in turn and going his separate way. on this occasion, the ex-manager ate his as he went, plodding the dark streets in silence to his bed. by january he had about concluded that the game was up with him. life had always seemed a precious thing, but now constant want and weakened vitality had made the charms of earth rather dull and inconspicuous. several times, when fortune pressed most harshly, he thought he would end his troubles; but with a change of weather, or the arrival of a quarter or a dime, his mood would change, and he would wait. each day he would find some old paper lying about and look into it, to see if there was any trace of carrie, but all summer and fall he had looked in vain. then he noticed that his eyes were beginning to hurt him, and this ailment rapidly increased until, in the dark chambers of the lodgings he frequented, he did not attempt to read. bad and irregular eating was weakening every function of his body. the one recourse left him was to doze when a place offered and he could get the money to occupy it. he was beginning to find, in his wretched clothing and meagre state of body, that people took him for a chronic type of bum and beggar. police hustled him along, restaurant and lodging-house keepers turned him out promptly the moment he had his due; pedestrians waved him off. he found it more and more difficult to get anything from anybody. at last he admitted to himself that the game was up. it was after a long series of appeals to pedestrians, in which he had been refused and refused--every one hastening from contact. "give me a little something, will you, mister?" he said to the last one. "for god's sake, do; i'm starving." "aw, get out," said the man, who happened to be a common type himself. "you're no good. i'll give you nawthin'." hurstwood put his hands, red from cold, down in his pockets. tears came into his eyes. "that's right," he said; "i'm no good now. i was all right. i had money. i'm going to quit this," and, with death in his heart, he started down toward the bowery. people had turned on the gas before and died; why shouldn't he? he remembered a lodging-house where there were little, close rooms, with gas-jets in them, almost pre-arranged, he thought, for what he wanted to do, which rented for fifteen cents. then he remembered that he had no fifteen cents. on the way he met a comfortable-looking gentleman, coming, clean-shaven, out of a fine barber shop. "would you mind giving me a little something?" he asked this man boldly. the gentleman looked him over and fished for a dime. nothing but quarters were in his pocket. "here," he said, handing him one, to be rid of him. "be off, now." hurstwood moved on, wondering. the sight of the large, bright coin pleased him a little. he remembered that he was hungry and that he could get a bed for ten cents. with this, the idea of death passed, for the time being, out of his mind. it was only when he could get nothing but insults that death seemed worth while. one day, in the middle of the winter, the sharpest spell of the season set in. it broke grey and cold in the first day, and on the second snowed. poor luck pursuing him, he had secured but ten cents by nightfall, and this he had spent for food. at evening he found himself at the boulevard and sixty-seventh street, where he finally turned his face bowery-ward. especially fatigued because of the wandering propensity which had seized him in the morning, he now half dragged his wet feet, shuffling the soles upon the sidewalk. an old, thin coat was turned up about his red ears--his cracked derby hat was pulled down until it turned them outward. his hands were in his pockets. "i'll just go down broadway," he said to himself. when he reached forty-second street, the fire signs were already blazing brightly. crowds were hastening to dine. through bright windows, at every corner, might be seen gay companies in luxuriant restaurants. there were coaches and crowded cable cars. in his weary and hungry state, he should never have come here. the contrast was too sharp. even he was recalled keenly to better things. "what's the use?" he thought. "it's all up with me. i'll quit this." people turned to look after him, so uncouth was his shambling figure. several officers followed him with their eyes, to see that he did not beg of anybody. once he paused in an aimless, incoherent sort of way and looked through the windows of an imposing restaurant, before which blazed a fire sign, and through the large, plate windows of which could be seen the red and gold decorations, the palms, the white napery, and shining glassware, and, above all, the comfortable crowd. weak as his mind had become, his hunger was sharp enough to show the importance of this. he stopped stock still, his frayed trousers soaking in the slush, and peered foolishly in. "eat," he mumbled. "that's right, eat. nobody else wants any." then his voice dropped even lower, and his mind half lost the fancy it had. "it's mighty cold," he said. "awful cold." at broadway and thirty-ninth street was blazing, in incandescent fire, carrie's name. "carrie madenda," it read, "and the casino company." all the wet, snowy sidewalk was bright with this radiated fire. it was so bright that it attracted hurstwood's gaze. he looked up, and then at a large, gilt-framed poster-board, on which was a fine lithograph of carrie, life-size. hurstwood gazed at it a moment, snuffling and hunching one shoulder, as if something were scratching him. he was so run down, however, that his mind was not exactly clear. "that's you," he said at last, addressing her. "wasn't good enough for you, was i? huh!" he lingered, trying to think logically. this was no longer possible with him. "she's got it," he said, incoherently, thinking of money. "let her give me some." he started around to the side door. then he forgot what he was going for and paused, pushing his hands deeper to warm the wrists. suddenly it returned. the stage door! that was it. he approached that entrance and went in. "well?" said the attendant, staring at him. seeing him pause, he went over and shoved him. "get out of here," he said. "i want to see miss madenda," he said. "you do, eh?" the other said, almost tickled at the spectacle. "get out of here," and he shoved him again. hurstwood had no strength to resist. "i want to see miss madenda," he tried to explain, even as he was being hustled away. "i'm all right. i----" the man gave him a last push and closed the door. as he did so, hurstwood slipped and fell in the snow. it hurt him, and some vague sense of shame returned. he began to cry and swear foolishly. "god damned dog!" he said. "damned old cur," wiping the slush from his worthless coat. "i--i hired such people as you once." now a fierce feeling against carrie welled up--just one fierce, angry thought before the whole thing slipped out of his mind. "she owes me something to eat," he said. "she owes it to me." hopelessly he turned back into broadway again and slopped onward and away, begging, crying, losing track of his thoughts, one after another, as a mind decayed and disjointed is wont to do. it was truly a wintry evening, a few days later, when his one distinct mental decision was reached. already, at four o'clock, the sombre hue of night was thickening the air. a heavy snow was falling--a fine picking, whipping snow, borne forward by a swift wind in long, thin lines. the streets were bedded with it--six inches of cold, soft carpet, churned to a dirty brown by the crush of teams and the feet of men. along broadway men picked their way in ulsters and umbrellas. along the bowery, men slouched through it with collars and hats pulled over their ears. in the former thoroughfare business men and travellers were making for comfortable hotels. in the latter, crowds on cold errands shifted past dingy stores, in the deep recesses of which lights were already gleaming. there were early lights in the cable cars, whose usual clatter was reduced by the mantle about the wheels. the whole city was muffled by this fast-thickening mantle. in her comfortable chambers at the waldorf, carrie was reading at this time "père goriot," which ames had recommended to her. it was so strong, and ames's mere recommendation had so aroused her interest, that she caught nearly the full sympathetic significance of it. for the first time, it was being borne in upon her how silly and worthless had been her earlier reading, as a whole. becoming wearied, however, she yawned and came to the window, looking out upon the old winding procession of carriages rolling up fifth avenue. "isn't it bad?" she observed to lola. "terrible!" said that little lady, joining her. "i hope it snows enough to go sleigh riding." "oh, dear," said carrie, with whom the sufferings of father goriot were still keen. "that's all you think of. aren't you sorry for the people who haven't anything to-night?" "of course i am," said lola; "but what can i do? i haven't anything." carrie smiled. "you wouldn't care, if you had," she returned. "i would, too," said lola. "but people never gave me anything when i was hard up." "isn't it just awful?" said carrie, studying the winter's storm. "look at that man over there," laughed lola, who had caught sight of some one falling down. "how sheepish men look when they fall, don't they?" "we'll have to take a coach to-night," answered carrie, absently. * * * * * in the lobby of the imperial, mr. charles drouet was just arriving, shaking the snow from a very handsome ulster. bad weather had driven him home early and stirred his desire for those pleasures which shut out the snow and gloom of life. a good dinner, the company of a young woman, and an evening at the theatre were the chief things for him. "why, hello, harry!" he said, addressing a lounger in one of the comfortable lobby chairs. "how are you?" "oh, about six and six," said the other. "rotten weather, isn't it?" "well, i should say," said the other. "i've been just sitting here thinking where i'd go to-night." "come along with me," said drouet. "i can introduce you to something dead swell." "who is it?" said the other. "oh, a couple of girls over here in fortieth street. we could have a dandy time. i was just looking for you." "supposing we get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?" "sure," said drouet. "wait'll i go upstairs and change my clothes." "well, i'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "i want to get a shave." "all right," said drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward the elevator. the old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever. * * * * * on an incoming vestibuled pullman, speeding at forty miles an hour through the snow of the evening, were three others, all related. "first call for dinner in the dining-car," a pullman servitor was announcing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron and jacket. "i don't believe i want to play any more," said the youngest, a black-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed a euchre hand away from her. "shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all that fine raiment can make. "oh, not yet," she answered. "i don't want to play any more, though." "jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what good clothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie--it's coming up." jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking at a little jewel-faced watch. her husband studied her, for beauty, even cold, is fascinating from one point of view. "well, we won't have much more of this weather," he said. "it only takes two weeks to get to rome." mrs. hurstwood nestled comfortably in her corner and smiled. it was so nice to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man--one whose financial state had borne her personal inspection. "do you suppose the boat will sail promptly?" asked jessica, "if it keeps up like this?" "oh, yes," answered her husband. "this won't make any difference." passing down the aisle came a very fair-haired banker's son, also of chicago, who had long eyed this supercilious beauty. even now he did not hesitate to glance at her, and she was conscious of it. with a specially conjured show of indifference, she turned her pretty face wholly away. it was not wifely modesty at all. by so much was her pride satisfied. * * * * * at this moment hurstwood stood before a dirty four-story building in a side street quite near the bowery, whose one-time coat of buff had been changed by soot and rain. he mingled with a crowd of men--a crowd which had been, and was still, gathering by degrees. it began with the approach of two or three, who hung about the closed wooden doors and beat their feet to keep them warm. they had on faded derby hats with dents in them. their misfit coats were heavy with melted snow and turned up at the collars. their trousers were mere bags, frayed at the bottom and wobbling over big, soppy shoes, torn at the sides and worn almost to shreds. they made no effort to go in, but shifted ruefully about, digging their hands deep in their pockets and leering at the crowd and the increasing lamps. with the minutes, increased the number. there were old men with grizzled beards and sunken eyes, men who were comparatively young but shrunken by diseases, men who were middle-aged. none were fat. there was a face in the thick of the collection which was as white as drained veal. there was another red as brick. some came with thin, rounded shoulders; others with wooden legs, still others with frames so lean that clothes only flapped about them. there were great ears, swollen noses, thick lips, and, above all, red, blood-shot eyes. not a normal, healthy face in the whole mass; not a straight figure; not a straightforward, steady glance. in the drive of the wind and sleet they pushed in on one another. there were wrists, unprotected by coat or pocket, which were red with cold. there were ears, half covered by every conceivable semblance of a hat, which still looked stiff and bitten. in the snow they shifted, now one foot, now another, almost rocking in unison. with the growth of the crowd about the door came a murmur. it was not conversation, but a running comment directed at any one in general. it contained oaths and slang phrases. "by damn, i wish they'd hurry up." "look at the copper watchin'." "maybe it ain't winter, nuther!" "i wisht i was in sing sing." now a sharper lash of wind cut down and they huddled closer. it was an edging, shifting, pushing throng. there was no anger, no pleading, no threatening words. it was all sullen endurance, unlightened by either wit or good fellowship. a carriage went jingling by with some reclining figure in it. one of the men nearest the door saw it. "look at the bloke ridin'." "he ain't so cold." "eh, eh, eh!" yelled another, the carriage having long since passed out of hearing. little by little the night crept on. along the walk a crowd turned out on its way home. men and shop-girls went by with quick steps. the cross-town cars began to be crowded. the gas lamps were blazing, and every window bloomed ruddy with a steady flame. still the crowd hung about the door, unwavering. "ain't they ever goin' to open up?" queried a hoarse voice, suggestively. this seemed to renew the general interest in the closed door, and many gazed in that direction. they looked at it as dumb brutes look, as dogs paw and whine and study the knob. they shifted and blinked and muttered, now a curse, now a comment. still they waited and still the snow whirled and cut them with biting flakes. on the old hats and peaked shoulders it was piling. it gathered in little heaps and curves and no one brushed it off. in the centre of the crowd the warmth and steam melted it, and water trickled off hat rims and down noses, which the owners could not reach to scratch. on the outer rim the piles remained unmelted. hurstwood, who could not get in the centre, stood with head lowered to the weather and bent his form. a light appeared through the transom overhead. it sent a thrill of possibility through the watchers. there was a murmur of recognition. at last the bars grated inside and the crowd pricked up its ears. footsteps shuffled within and it murmured again. some one called: "slow up there, now," and then the door opened. it was push and jam for a minute, with grim, beast silence to prove its quality, and then it melted inward, like logs floating, and disappeared. there were wet hats and wet shoulders, a cold, shrunken, disgruntled mass, pouring in between bleak walls. it was just six o'clock and there was supper in every hurrying pedestrian's face. and yet no supper was provided here--nothing but beds. hurstwood laid down his fifteen cents and crept off with weary steps to his allotted room. it was a dingy affair--wooden, dusty, hard. a small gas-jet furnished sufficient light for so rueful a corner. "hm!" he said, clearing his throat and locking the door. now he began leisurely to take off his clothes, but stopped first with his coat, and tucked it along the crack under the door. his vest he arranged in the same place. his old wet, cracked hat he laid softly upon the table. then he pulled off his shoes and lay down. it seemed as if he thought a while, for now he arose and turned the gas out, standing calmly in the blackness, hidden from view. after a few moments, in which he reviewed nothing, but merely hesitated, he turned the gas on again, but applied no match. even then he stood there, hidden wholly in that kindness which is night, while the uprising fumes filled the room. when the odour reached his nostrils, he quit his attitude and fumbled for the bed. "what's the use?" he said, weakly, as he stretched himself to rest. * * * * * and now carrie had attained that which in the beginning seemed life's object, or, at least, such fraction of it as human beings ever attain of their original desires. she could look about on her gowns and carriage, her furniture and bank account. friends there were, as the world takes it--those who would bow and smile in acknowledgment of her success. for these she had once craved. applause there was, and publicity--once far off, essential things, but now grown trivial and indifferent. beauty also--her type of loveliness--and yet she was lonely. in her rocking-chair she sat, when not otherwise engaged--singing and dreaming. thus in life there is ever the intellectual and the emotional nature--the mind that reasons, and the mind that feels. of one come the men of action--generals and statesmen; of the other, the poets and dreamers--artists all. as harps in the wind, the latter respond to every breath of fancy, voicing in their moods all the ebb and flow of the ideal. man has not yet comprehended the dreamer any more than he has the ideal. for him the laws and morals of the world are unduly severe. ever hearkening to the sound of beauty, straining for the flash of its distant wings, he watches to follow, wearying his feet in travelling. so watched carrie, so followed, rocking and singing. and it must be remembered that reason had little part in this. chicago dawning, she saw the city offering more of loveliness than she had ever known, and instinctively, by force of her moods alone, clung to it. in fine raiment and elegant surroundings, men seemed to be contented. hence, she drew near these things. chicago, new york; drouet, hurstwood; the world of fashion and the world of stage--these were but incidents. not them, but that which they represented, she longed for. time proved the representation false. oh, the tangle of human life! how dimly as yet we see. here was carrie, in the beginning poor, unsophisticated, emotional; responding with desire to everything most lovely in life, yet finding herself turned as by a wall. laws to say: "be allured, if you will, by everything lovely, but draw not nigh unless by righteousness." convention to say: "you shall not better your situation save by honest labour." if honest labour be unremunerative and difficult to endure; if it be the long, long road which never reaches beauty, but wearies the feet and the heart; if the drag to follow beauty be such that one abandons the admired way, taking rather the despised path leading to her dreams quickly, who shall cast the first stone? not evil, but longing for that which is better, more often directs the steps of the erring. not evil, but goodness more often allures the feeling mind unused to reason. amid the tinsel and shine of her state walked carrie, unhappy. as when drouet took her, she had thought: "now am i lifted into that which is best"; as when hurstwood seemingly offered her the better way: "now am i happy." but since the world goes its way past all who will not partake of its folly, she now found herself alone. her purse was open to him whose need was greatest. in her walks on broadway, she no longer thought of the elegance of the creatures who passed her. had they more of that peace and beauty which glimmered afar off, then were they to be envied. drouet abandoned his claim and was seen no more. of hurstwood's death she was not even aware. a slow, black boat setting out from the pier at twenty-seventh street upon its weekly errand bore, with many others, his nameless body to the potter's field. thus passed all that was of interest concerning these twain in their relation to her. their influence upon her life is explicable alone by the nature of her longings. time was when both represented for her all that was most potent in earthly success. they were the personal representatives of a state most blessed to attain--the titled ambassadors of comfort and peace, aglow with their credentials. it is but natural that when the world which they represented no longer allured her, its ambassadors should be discredited. even had hurstwood returned in his original beauty and glory, he could not now have allured her. she had learned that in his world, as in her own present state, was not happiness. sitting alone, she was now an illustration of the devious ways by which one who feels, rather than reasons, may be led in the pursuit of beauty. though often disillusioned, she was still waiting for that halcyon day when she should be led forth among dreams become real. ames had pointed out a farther step, but on and on beyond that, if accomplished, would lie others for her. it was forever to be the pursuit of that radiance of delight which tints the distant hilltops of the world. oh, carrie, carrie! oh, blind strivings of the human heart! onward, onward, it saith, and where beauty leads, there it follows. whether it be the tinkle of a lone sheep bell o'er some quiet landscape, or the glimmer of beauty in sylvan places, or the show of soul in some passing eye, the heart knows and makes answer, following. it is when the feet weary and hope seems vain that the heartaches and the longings arise. know, then, that for you is neither surfeit nor content. in your rocking-chair, by your window dreaming, shall you long, alone. in your rocking-chair, by your window, shall you dream such happiness as you may never feel. the end * * * * * the following typographical errors have been corrected by the etext transcriber: his put his hand familiarly on her shoulder=>he put his hand familiarly on her shoulder meropolitan=>metropolitan semed life's object=>seemed life's object are we going to mcvicker's monday=>are we going to mcvickar's monday * * * * * proofreading team. the easiest way [illustration: eugene walter] eugene walter (born, cleveland, ohio, november , ) when questioned once regarding "the easiest way," mr. eugene walter said, "incidentally, i do not think much of it. to my mind a good play must have a tremendous uplift in thought and purpose. 'the easiest way' has none of this. there is not a character in the play really worth while, with the exception of the old agent. the rest, at best, are not a particular adornment to society, and the strength of the play lies in its true portrayal of the sordid type of life which it expressed. as it is more or less purely photographic, i do not think it should be given the credit of an inspiration--it is rather devilishly clever, but a great work it certainly is not." such was not the verdict of the first night audience, at the stuyvesant theatre, new york, january , . it was found to be one of the most direct pieces of work the american stage had thus far produced--disagreeably realistic, but purging--and that is the test of an effective play--by the very poignancy of the tragic forces closing in around the heroine. though it is not as literary a piece of dramatic expression as pinero's "iris," it is better in its effect; because its relentlessness is due, not so predominantly to the moral downgrade of the woman, as to the moral downgrade of a certain phase of life which engulfs those nearest the centre of it. the play roused a storm of comment; there were camps that took just the stand mr. walter takes in the opening quotation. but the play is included in this collection because its power, as a documentary report of a phase of american stage life, is undeniable; because, as a piece of workmanship, shorn of the usual devices called theatrical, it comes down to the raw bone of the theme, and firmly progresses to its great climax,--great in the sense of overpowering,--at the very fall of the final curtain. mr. walter's various experiences in the theatre as an advance man, his star reporting on the detroit _news_, his struggles to gain a footing in new york, contributed something to the bitter irony which runs as a dark pattern through the texture of "the easiest way." he is one of the many american dramatists who have come from the newspaper ranks, having served on the cleveland _plain dealer_ and _press_, the new york _sun_ and _globe_, the cincinnati _post_ and the seattle _star_. not many will disagree with the verdict that thus far he has not excelled this play, though "paid in full" (february , ) contains the same sting of modern life, which drives his characters to situations dramatic and dire, making them sell their souls and their peace of minds for the benefit of worldly ease and comfort. note this theme in "fine feathers" (january , ) and "nancy lee" (april , ). in this sense, his plays all possess a consistency which makes no compromises. arthur ruhl, in his "second nights", refers to walter as of the "no quarter" school. he brings a certain manly subtlety to bear on melodramatic subjects, as in "the wolf" (april , ) and "the knife" (april , ); he seems to do as he pleases with his treatment, as he did right at the start with his first successful play. for, of "the easiest way" it may be said that, for the first time in his managerial career, mr. david belasco agreed to accept it with the condition that not a word of the manuscript should be changed. it is interesting to note about walter that, though he may now repudiate it, "the easiest way" stands distinct in its class; perhaps the dramatist has ripened more in technique--one immediately feels the surety and vital grip of dramatic expertness in walter, much more so than in george broadhurst, bayard veiller, or other american dramatists of his class. but he has not surpassed "the easiest way" in the burning intention with which it was written. as a dramatist, walter adopts an interesting method; he tries out his plays on the road, experimenting with various names, and re-casting until ready for metropolitan production. his dramas have many _aliases_, and it is a long case to prove an alibi; any student who has attempted to settle dates will soon find that out. his military play, written out of his experiences as a united states cavalryman in the spanish american war, was called "boots and saddles," after it was given as "sergeant james." "fine feathers," "the knife," "the heritage," "nancy lee"--were all second or third choice as to name. in his advancement, mr. walter gives much credit to three american managers--kirke lashelle, and the selwyn brothers, archie and edgar. it was the selwyns who, during his various ventures in the "show business," persuaded him to move to shelter island, and write "the undertow." it was in their house that "paid in full" was finished. let mr. walter continue the narrative: the circumstances under which "the easiest way" was written are rather peculiar. when i was an advance-agent, ahead of second-class companies, the need of money caused me to write a one-act piece called "all the way from denver," which in time i was able to dispose of. later, after having written "paid in full," i realized that in the play, "all the way from denver," there was a situation or theme that might prove exceedingly valuable in a four-act play. after discussing the possibilities with mr. archie selwyn, we concluded to write it. in the meantime, the one-act piece had come into the possession of margaret mayo, and through her, mr. edgar selwyn decided that the title should be "the easiest way" instead of "all the way from denver." the play was then taken in its scenario form to mr. c.b. dillingham, and discussed with him at length. this was prior to the public presentation of "paid in full." i possessed no particular reputation as a dramatic writer--in fact, the messrs. selwyn--archie and edgar--were the only ones who took me seriously, and thought me a possibility. mr. dillingham was not particularly impressed with the piece, because he thought it was much too broad in theme, and he did not like the idea of slapping the managerial knuckles of the theatre. further, the obvious inference in "the easiest way," that _laura_ was kept out of work in order to be compelled to yield herself to _brockton_, was a point which did not appeal to him. however, we had a working agreement with him, and later, mr. archie selwyn, in discussing the story of the play with mr. david belasco, aroused his interest. the latter saw "paid in full" and "the wolf," and so he sent for me, with the result that "the easiest way" was first produced in hartford, conn., on december , . since its new york production, it has been presented in nearly every country of the world. it has not always met with commercial success, but it has always been regarded as a play of representative importance. william winter was one of the bitterest enemies of "the easiest way." he placed it with "zaza" and brieux's "three daughters of m. dupont." as an opposite extreme view, we give the opinion of mr. walter eaton, written in , concerning the play: "it places mr. walter as a leader among our dramatists." in some respects, we may have surpassed it since then, in imaginative ideality; but, as an example of relentless realism, it still holds its own as a distinct contribution. the text has been edited for private circulation, and it is this text which is followed here. a few modifications, of a technical nature, have been made in the stage directions; but even with these slight changes, the directions are staccato, utilitarian in conciseness, rather than literary in the shaw sense. david belasco's stuyvesant theatre th street _near_ broadway _new york city_ under the _sole_ management of david belasco david belasco presents frances starr --in-- the easiest way an american play concerning a peculiar phase of new york life. in four acts and four scenes. by eugene walter. characters of the play john madison edward h. robins willard brockton joseph kilcour jim weston william sampson laura murdock frances starr elfie st. clair laura nelson hall annie emma dunn program continued on second page following program continued. * * * * * synopsis. act i.--mrs. william's ranch house or country home, perched on the side of the ute pass, near colorado springs, colorado. time--late in an august afternoon. act ii.--laura murdock's furnished room, second story, back. new york. time--six months later. act iii.--laura murdock's apartments in an expensive hotel. new york. time--two months later. in the morning. act iv.--the same at act iii. time--the same afternoon. * * * * * the play produced under the personal supervision of mr. belasco. * * * * * program continued on second page following. program continued. stage director william j. dean stage manager langdon west * * * * * stage decorations and accessories designed by wilfred buckland. * * * * * scenes by ernest cross. * * * * * scenery built by charles j. carson. electrical effects by louis harlman. gowns by mollie o'hara. hats by bendel. * * * * * the pianola used is from the aeolian co., new york. the easiest way an american play concerning a particular phase of new york life _in four acts and four scenes_ by eugene walter by eugene walter [the editor wishes to thank mr. eugene walter for his courtesy in granting permission to include "the easiest way" in the present collection. all its dramatic rights are fully secured, and proceedings will immediately be taken against anyone attempting to infringe them.] characters. laura murdock. elfie st. clair. annie. willard brockton. john madison. jim weston. description of characters. laura murdoch, twenty-five years of age, is a type not uncommon in the theatrical life of new york, and one which has grown in importance in the profession since the business of giving public entertainments has been so reduced to a commercial basis. at an early age she came from australia to san francisco. she possessed a considerable beauty and an aptitude for theatrical accomplishment which soon raised her to a position of more or less importance in a local stock company playing in that city. a woman of intense superficial emotions, her imagination was without any enduring depths, but for the passing time she could place herself in an attitude of great affection and devotion. sensually, the woman had marked characteristics, and, with the flattery that surrounded her, she soon became a favourite in the select circles which made such places as "the poodle dog" and "zinkand's" famous. in general dissipation, she was always careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize her physical attractiveness, or for one moment to diminish her sense of keen worldly calculation. in time she married. it was, of course, a failure. her vacillating nature was such that she could not be absolutely true to the man to whom she had given her life, and, after several bitter experiences, she had the horror of seeing him kill himself in front of her. there was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal wave of remorse, and then the peculiar recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this type of woman. she was deceived by other men in many various ways, and finally came to that stage of life that is known in theatrical circles as being "wised up." at nineteen, the attention of a prominent theatrical manager being called to her, she took an important part in a new york production, and immediately gained considerable reputation. the fact that, before reaching the age of womanhood, she had had more escapades than most women have in their entire lives was not generally known in new york, nor was there a mark upon her face or a single coarse mannerism to betray it. she was soft-voiced, very pretty, very girlish. her keen sense of worldly calculation led her to believe that in order to progress in her theatrical career she must have some influence outside of her art and dramatic accomplishment; so she attempted, with no little success, to infatuate a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly invincible theatrical manager, who, in his cold, stolid way, gave her what love there was in him. this, however, not satisfying her, she played two ends against the middle, and, finding a young man of wealth and position who could give her, in his youth, the exuberance and joy utterly apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she adopted him, and for a while lived with him. exhausting his money, she cast him aside, always spending a certain part of the time with the theatrical manager. the young man became crazed, and, at a restaurant, tried to murder all of them. from that time up to the opening of the play, her career was a succession of brilliant coups in gaining the confidence and love, not to say the money, of men of all ages and all walks in life. her fascination was as undeniable as her insincerity of purpose. she had never made an honest effort to be an honest woman, although she imagined herself always persecuted, the victim of circumstances,--and was always ready to excuse any viciousness of character which led her into her peculiar difficulties. while acknowledged to be a mistress of her business--that of acting--from a purely technical point of view, her lack of sympathy, her abuse of her dramatic temperament in her private affairs, had been such as to make it impossible for her sincerely to impress audiences with real emotional power, and, therefore, despite the influences which she always had at hand, she remained a mediocre artist. at the time of the opening of our play, she has played a summer engagement with a stock company in denver, which has just ended. she has met john madison, a man of about twenty-seven years of age, whose position is that of a dramatic critic on one of the local papers. laura murdoch, with her usual wisdom, started to fascinate john madison, but has found that, for once in her life, she has met her match. john madison is good to look at, frank, virile, but a man of broad experience, and not to be hoodwinked. for the first time laura murdoch feels that the shoe is pinching the other foot, and, without any possible indication of reciprocal affection, she has been slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly and decently in love with him. she has for the past two years been the special favourite and mistress of willard brockton. the understanding is one of pure friendship. he is a man who has a varied taste in the selection of his women; is honest in a general way, and perfectly frank about his amours. he has been most generous with laura murdock, and his close relations with several very prominent theatrical managers have made it possible for him to secure her desirable engagements, generally in new york. with all her past experiences, tragic and otherwise, laura murdoch has found nothing equal to this sudden, this swiftly increasing, love for the young western man. at first she attempted to deceive him. her baby face, her masterful assumption of innocence and childlike devotion, made no impression upon him. he has let her know in no uncertain way that he knew her record from the day she stepped on american soil in san francisco to the time when she had come to denver, but still he liked her. john madison is a peculiar type of the western man. up to the time of his meeting laura, he had always been employed either in the mines or on a newspaper west of the mississippi river. he is one of those itinerant reporters; to-day you might find him in seattle, to-morrow in butte, the next week in denver, and then possibly he would make the circuit from los angeles to 'frisco, and then all around again. he drinks his whiskey straight, plays his faro fairly, and is not particular about the women with whom he goes. he started life in the western country at an early age. his natural talents, both in literature and in general adaptability to all conditions of life, were early exhibited, but his _alma mater_ was the bar-room, and the faculty of that college its bartenders and gamblers and general habitués. he seldom has social engagements outside of certain disreputable establishments, where a genial personality or an over-burdened pocketbook gives _entrée_, and the rules of conventionality have never even been whispered. his love affairs, confined to this class of women, have seldom lasted more than a week or ten days. his editors know him as a brilliant genius, irresponsible, unreliable, but at times inestimably valuable. he cares little for personal appearance beyond a certain degree of neatness. he is quick on the trigger, and in a time of over-heated argument can go some distance with his fists; in fact, his whole career is best described as "happy-go-lucky." he realizes fully his ability to do almost anything fairly well, and some things especially well, but he has never tried to accomplish anything beyond the earning of a comfortable living. twenty-five or thirty dollars a week was all he needed. with that he could buy his liquor, treat his women, sometimes play a little faro, sit up all night and sleep all day, and in general lead the life of good-natured vagabondage which has always pleased him and which he had chosen as a career. the objection of safer and saner friends to this form of livelihood was always met by him with a slap on the back and a laugh. "don't you worry about me, partner; if i'm going to hell i'm going there with bells on," was always his rejoinder; and yet, when called upon to cover some great big news story, or report some vital event, he settled down to his work with a steely determination and a grim joy that resulted in work which classified him as a genius. any great mental effort of this character, any unusual achievement along these lines, would be immediately followed by a protracted debauch that would upset him physically and mentally for weeks at a time, but he always recovered and landed on his feet, and with the same laugh and smile again went at his work. if there have been opportunities to meet decent women of good social standing, he has always thrown them aside with the declaration that they bore him to death, and there never had entered into his heart a feeling or idea of real affection until he met laura. he fell for a moment under the spell of her fascination, and then, with cold logic, he analyzed her, and found out that, while outwardly she had every sign of girlhood,--ingenuousness, sweetness of character and possibility of affection,--spiritually and mentally she was nothing more than a moral wreck. he observed keenly her efforts to win him and her disappointment at her failure--not that she cared so much for him personally, but that it hurt her vanity not to be successful with this good-for-nothing, good-natured vagabond, when men of wealth and position she made kneel at her feet. he observed her slowly-changing point of view: how from a kittenish ingenuousness she became serious, womanly, really sincere. he knew that he had awakened in her her first decent affection, and he knew that she was awakening in him his first desire to do things and be big and worth while. so together these two began to drift toward a path of decent dealing, decent ambition, decent thought, and decent love, until at last they both find themselves, and acknowledge all the wickedness of what had been, and plan for all the virtue and goodness of what is to be. it is at this point that our first act begins. elfie st. clair is a type of a tenderloin grafter in new york, who, after all, has been more sinned against than sinning; who, having been imposed upon, deceived, ill-treated and bulldozed by the type of men who prey on women in new york, has turned the tables, and with her charm and her beauty has gone out to make the same slaughter of the other sex as she suffered with many of her sisters. she is a woman without a moral conscience, whose entire life is dictated by a small mental operation. coming to new york as a beautiful girl, she entered the chorus. she became famous for her beauty. on every hand were the stage-door vultures ready to give her anything that a woman's heart could desire, from clothes to horses, carriages, money and what-not; but, with a girl-like instinct, she fell in love with a man connected with the company, and, during all the time she might have profited and become a rich woman by the attentions of these outsiders, she remained true to her love, until finally her fame as the beauty of the city had waned. the years told on her to a certain extent, and there were others coming, as young as she had been and as good to look at; and, where the automobile of the millionaire had once been waiting for her, she found that, through her faithfulness to her lover, it was now there for some one else. yet she was content with her joys, until finally the man deliberately jilted her and left her alone. what had gone of her beauty had been replaced by a keen knowledge of human nature and of men, so she determined to give herself up entirely to a life of gain. she knows just how much champagne should be drunk without injuring one's health. she knows just what physical necessities should be indulged in to preserve to the greatest degree her remaining beauty. there is no trick of the hair-dresser, the modiste, the manicurist, or any one of the legion of people who devote their time to aiding the outward fascinations of women, which she does not know. she knows exactly what perfumes to use, what stockings to wear, how she should live, how far she should indulge in any dissipation; and all this she has determined to devote to profit. she knows that as an actress she has no future; that the time of a woman's beauty is limited. conscious that she has already lost the youthful litheness of figure which had made her so fascinating in the past, she has laid aside every sentiment, physical and spiritual, and has determined to choose a man as her companion who has the biggest bank-roll and the most liberal nature. his age, his station in life, the fact whether she likes or dislikes him, do not enter into this scheme at all. she figures that she has been made a fool of by men, and that there is only one revenge,--the accumulation of a fortune to make her independent of them once and for all. there are, of course, certain likes and dislikes that she enjoys, and in a way she indulges them. there are men whose company she cares for, but their association is practically sexless and has come down to a point of mere good fellowship. willard brockton, a new york broker, is an honest sensualist, and when one says an honest sensualist, the meaning is--a man who has none of the cad in his character, who takes advantage of no one, and who allows no one to take advantage of him. he honestly detests any man who takes advantage of a pure woman. he detests any man who deceives a woman. he believes that there is only one way to go through life, and that is to be frank with those with whom one deals. he is a master-hand in stock manipulation, and in the questionable practises of wall street he has realized that he has to play his cunning and craft against the cunning and craft of others. he is not at all in sympathy with this mode of living, but he thinks it is the only method by which he can succeed in life. he measures success by the accumulation of money, but he considers his business career as a thing apart from his private existence. he does not associate, to any great extent, with what is known as "society." he keeps in touch with it simply to maintain his business position. there is always an inter-relationship among the rich in business and private life, and he gives such entertainments as are necessary to the members of new york's exclusive set, simply to make certain his relative position with other successful wall street men. as far as women are concerned, the particular type of actress, such as laura murdoch and elfie st. clair, appeals to him. he likes their good fellowship. he loves to be with a gay party at night in a café. he likes the rather looseness of living which does not quite reach the disreputable. behind all this, however, is a certain high sense of honour. he detests and despises the average stage-door johnny, and he loathes the type of man who seeks to take young girls out of theatrical companies for their ruin. his women friends are as wise as himself. when they enter into an agreement with him there is no deception. in the first place he wants to like them; in the second place he wants them to like him; and finally, he wants to fix the amount of their living expenses at a definite figure, and have them stand by it. he wants them to understand that he reserves the right, at any time, to withdraw his support, or transfer it to some other woman, and he gives them the same privilege. he is always ready to help anyone who is unfortunate, and he has always hoped that some of these girls whom he knew would finally come across the right man, marry and settle down; but he insists that such an arrangement can be possible only by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she has done and been, and by the thorough understanding of all these things by the man involved. he is gruff in his manner, determined in his purposes, honest in his point of view. he is a brute, almost a savage, but he is a thoroughly good brute and a pretty decent savage. at the time of the opening of this play, he and laura murdock have been friends for two years. he knows exactly what she is and what she has been, and their relations are those of pals. she has finished her season in denver, and he has come out there to accompany her home. he has always told her, whenever she felt it inconsistent with her happiness to continue her relations with him, it is her privilege to quit, and he has reserved the same condition. jim weston, between forty-five and fifty years of age, is the type of the semi-broken-down showman. in the evolution of the theatrical business in america, the old circus and minstrel men have gradually been pushed aside, while younger men, with more advanced methods, have taken their place. the character is best realized by the way it is drawn in the play. annie. the only particular attention that should be called to the character of the negress, annie, who is the servant of laura, is the fact that she must not in any way represent the traditional smiling coloured girl or "mammy" of the south. she is the cunning, crafty, heartless, surly, sullen northern negress, who, to the number of thousands, are servants of women of easy morals, and who infest a district of new york in which white and black people of the lower classes mingle indiscriminately, and which is one of the most criminal sections of the city. the actress who plays this part must keep in mind its innate and brutal selfishness. synopsis. act i. mrs. williams' ranch house or country home, perched on the side of ute pass, near colorado springs, colorado. time. late in an august afternoon. act ii. laura murdock's furnished room, second story back, new york. time. six months later. act iii. laura murdock's apartments in an expensive hotel. time. two months later. in the morning. act iv. laura murdock's apartments. the same as act iii. time. the afternoon of the same day. the easiest way act i. scene. _the scene is that of the summer country ranch house of_ mrs. williams, _a friend of_ laura murdock's, _and a prominent society woman of denver, perched on the side of ute pass, near colorado springs. the house is one of unusual pretentiousness, and, to a person not conversant with conditions as they exist in this part of colorado, the idea might be that such magnificence could not obtain in such a locality. at the left of stage the house rises in the form of a turret, built of rough stone of a brown hue, two stories high, and projecting a quarter of the way out on the stage. the door leads to a small elliptical terrace built of stone, with heavy benches of greek design, strewn cushions, while over the top of one part of this terrace is suspended a canopy made from a navajo blanket. the terrace is supposed to extend almost to the right of stage, and here it stops. the stage must be cut here so that the entrance of_ john _can give the illusion that he is coming up a steep declivity or a long flight of stairs. there are chairs at right and left, and a small table at left. there are trailing vines around the balustrade of the terrace, and the whole setting must convey the idea of quiet wealth. up stage is supposed to be the part of the terrace overlooking the cañon, a sheer drop of two thousand feet, while over in the distance, as if across the cañon, one can see the rolling foot-hills and lofty peaks of the rockies, with pike's peak in the distance, snow-capped and colossal. it is late in the afternoon, and, as the scene progresses, the quick twilight of a cañon, beautiful in its tints of purple and amber, becomes later pitch black, and the curtain goes down on an absolutely black stage. the cyclorama, or semi-cyclorama, must give the perspective of greater distances, and be so painted that the various tints of twilight may be shown_. at rise. laura murdock _is seen leaning a bit over the balustrade of the porch and shielding her eyes with her hand from the late afternoon sun, as she seemingly looks up the pass to the left, as if expecting the approach of someone. her gown is simple, girlish and attractive, and made of summery, filmy stuff. her hair is done up in the simplest fashion, with a part in the centre, and there is about her every indication of an effort to assume that girlishness of demeanour which has been her greatest asset through life_. willard brockton _enters; he is a man six feet or more in height, stocky in build, clean-shaven and immaculately dressed. he is smoking a cigar, and upon entering takes one step forward and looks over toward_ laura _in a semi-meditative manner_. will. blue? laura. no. will. what's up? laura. nothing. will. a little preoccupied. laura. perhaps. will. what's up that way? laura. which way? will. the way you are looking. laura. the road from manitou springs. they call it the trail out here. will. i know that. you know i've done a lot of business west of the missouri. laura. [_with a half-sigh_.] no, i didn't know it. will. oh, yes; south of here in the san juan country. spent a couple of years there once. laura. [_still without turning_.] that's interesting. will. it was then. i made some money there. it's always interesting when you make money. still-- laura. [_still leaning in an absent-minded attitude_.] still what? will. can't make out why you have your eyes glued on that road. someone coming? laura. yes. will. one of mrs. williams' friends, eh? [_will crosses, and sits on seat_. laura. yes. will. yours too? laura. yes. will. man? laura. yes, a _real_ man. will. [_catches the significance of this speech. he carelessly throws the cigar over the balustrade. he comes down and leans on chair with his back to_ laura. _she has not moved more than to place her left hand on a cushion and lean her head rather wearily against it, looking steadfastly up the pass_.] a real man. by that you mean-- laura. just that--a real man. will. any difference from the many you have known? laura. yes, from all i have known. will. so that is why you didn't come into denver to meet me to-day, but left word for me to come out here? laura. yes. will. i thought that i was pretty decent to take a dusty ride half-way across the continent in order to keep you company on your way back to new york, and welcome you to our home; but maybe i had the wrong idea. laura. yes, i think you had the wrong idea. will. in love, eh? laura. yes, just that,--in love. will. a new sensation. laura. no; the first conviction. will. you have had that idea before. every woman's love is the real one when it comes. [_crosses up to_ laura.] do you make a distinction in this case, young lady? laura. yes. will. for instance, what? laura. this man is poor--absolutely broke. he hasn't even got a [_crosses to armchair, leans over and draws with parasol on ground_.] good job. you know, will, all the rest, including yourself, generally had some material inducement. will. what's his business? [_crosses to table and sits looking at magazine_. laura. he's a newspaper man. will. h'm-m. romance? laura. yes, if you want to call it that,--romance. will. do i know him? laura. how could you? you only came from new york to-day, and he has never been there. _he regards her with a rather amused, indulgent, almost paternal expression, in contrast to his big, bluff, physical personality, with his iron-gray hair and his bulldog expression_. laura _looks more girlish than ever. this is imperative in order to thoroughly understand the character_. will. how old is he? laura. twenty-seven. you're forty-five. will. no, forty-six. laura. shall i tell you about him? huh? [_crosses to_ will, _placing parasol on seat_. will. that depends. laura. on what? will. yourself. laura. in what way? will. if it will interfere in the least with the plans i have made for you and for me. laura. and have you made any particular plans for me that have anything particularly to do with you? will. yes, i have given up the lease of our apartment on west end avenue, and i've got a house on riverside drive. everything will be quiet and decent, and it'll be more comfortable for you. there's a stable near by, and your horses and car can be kept over there. you'll be your own mistress, and besides i've fixed you up for a new part. laura. a new part! what kind of a part? will. one of charlie burgess's shows, translated from some french fellow. it's been running over in paris, berlin, and vienna, and all those places, for a year or more, and appears to be an awful hit. it's going to cost a lot of money. i told charlie he could put me down for a half interest, and i'd give all the money providing you got an important rôle. great part, i'm told. kind of a cross between a musical comedy and an opera. looks as if it might stay in new york all season. so that's the change of plan. how does it strike you? [laura _crosses to door, meditating; pauses in thought_. laura. i don't know. will. feel like quitting? [_turns to her._ laura. i can't tell. will. it's the newspaper man, eh? laura. that would be the only reason. will. you've been on the square with me this summer, haven't you? [_crosses to table_. laura. [_turns, looks at_ will.] what do you mean by "on the square?" will. don't evade. there's only one meaning when i say that, and you know it. i'm pretty liberal. but you understand where i draw the line. you've not jumped that, have you, laura? laura. no, this has been such a wonderful summer, such a wonderfully different summer. can you understand what i mean by that when i say "wonderfully different summer?" [_crossing to will_. will. well, he's twenty-seven and broke, and you're twenty-five and pretty; and he evidently, being a newspaper man, has that peculiar gift of gab that we call romantic expression. so i guess i'm not blind, and you both think you've fallen in love. that it? laura. yes, i think that's about it; only i don't agree to the "gift of gab" and the "romantic" end of it. [_crosses to table_.] he's a man and i'm a woman, and we both have had our experiences. i don't think, will, that there can be much of that element of what some folks call hallucination. [_sits on chair; takes candy-box on lap; selects candy_. will. then the riverside drive proposition and burgess's show is off, eh? laura. i didn't say that. will. and if you go back on the overland limited day after to-morrow, you'd just as soon i'd go to-morrow of wait until the day after you leave? [laura _places candy-box back on table_. laura. i didn't say that, either. will. what's the game? laura. i can't tell you now. will. waiting for him to come? [_crosses, sits on seat_. laura. exactly. will. think he is going to make a proposition, eh? laura. i know he is. will. marriage? laura. possibly. will. you've tried that once, and taken the wrong end. are you going to play the same game again? laura. yes, but with a different card. [_picks up magazine off table_. will. what's his name? laura. madison--john madison. [_slowly turning pages of magazine_. will. and his job? laura. reporter. will. what are you going to live on,--the extra editions? laura. no, we're young, there's plenty of time. i can work in the meantime, and so can he; and then with his ability and my ability it will only be a matter of a year or two when things will shape themselves to make it possible. will. sounds well--a year off. laura. if i thought you were going to make fun of me, will, i shouldn't have talked to you. [_throws down magazine, crosses to door of house_. will. [_crossing down in front of table_.] i don't want to make fun of you, but you must realize that after two years it isn't an easy thing to be dumped with so little ceremony. maybe you have never given me any credit for possessing the slightest feeling, but even i can receive shocks from other sources than a break in the market. laura. [_crosses to_ will.] it isn't easy for me to do this. you've been awfully kind, awfully considerate, but when i went to you it was just with the understanding that we were to be pals. you reserved the right then to quit me whenever you felt like it, and you gave me the same privilege. now, if some girl came along who really captivated you in the right way, and you wanted to marry, it would hurt me a little,--maybe a lot,--but i should never forget that agreement we made, a sort of two weeks' notice clause, like people have in contracts. will. [_is evidently very much moved. walks up stage to right end of seat, looks over the cañon_. laura _looks after him_. will _has his back to the audience. long pause_.] i'm not hedging, laura. if that's the way you want it to be, i'll stand by just exactly what i said [_turns to_ laura.], but i'm fond of you, a damn sight fonder than i thought i was, now that i find you slipping away; but if this young fellow is on the square [laura _crosses to_ will, _taking his right hand_.] and he has youth and ability, and you've been on the square with him, why, all right. your life hasn't had much in it to help you get a diploma from any celestial college, and if you can start out now and be a good girl, have a good husband, and maybe some day good children [laura _sighs_.], why, i'm not going to stand in the way. only i don't want you to make any of those mistakes that you made before. laura. i know, but somehow i feel that this time the real thing has come, and with it the real man. i can't tell you, will, how much different it is, but everything i felt before seems so sort of earthly--and somehow this love that i have for this man is so different. it's made me want to be truthful and sincere and humble for the first time in my life. the only other thing i ever had that i cared the least bit about, now that i look back, was your friendship. we have been good pals, haven't we? [_puts arms about_ will. will. yes, it's been a mighty good two years for me. i was always proud to take you around, because i think you one of the prettiest things in new york [laura _crosses and girlishly jumps into armchair._], and that helps some, and you're always jolly, and you never complained. you always spent a lot of money, but it was a pleasure to see you spend it; and then you never offended me. most women offend men by coming around looking untidy and sort of unkempt, but somehow you always knew the value of your beauty, and you always dressed up. i always thought that maybe some day the fellow would come along, grab you, and make you happy in a nice way, but i thought that he'd have to have a lot of money. you know you've lived a rather extravagant life for five years, laura. it won't be an easy job to come down to cases and suffer for the little dainty necessities you've been used to. laura. i've thought all about that, and i think i understand. [_facing audience; leaning elbows on lap._ will. you know if you were working without anybody's help, laura, you might have a hard time getting a position. as an actress you're only fair. laura. you needn't remind me of that. that part of my life is my own. [_crosses up to seat._] i don't want you to start now and make it harder for me to do the right thing. it isn't fair; it isn't square; and it isn't right. you've got to let me go my own way. [_crosses to_ will; _puts right hand on his shoulder._] i'm sorry to leave you, in a way, but i want you to know that if i go with john it changes the spelling of the word comradeship into love, and mistress into wife. now please don't talk any more. [_crosses to post; takes scarf off chair._ will. just a word. is it settled? laura. [_impatiently._] i said i didn't know. i would know to-day--that's what i'm waiting for. oh, i don't see why he doesn't come. [will _turns up to seat looking over pass._ will. [_pointing up the pass._] is that the fellow coming up here? laura. [_quickly running toward the balustrade of seat, saying as she goes_:] where? [_kneels on seat_. will. [_pointing_.] up the road there. on that yellow horse. laura. [_looking_.] yes, that's john. [_she waves her handkerchief, and putting one hand to her mouth cries_:] hello! john. [_off stage with the effect as if he was on the road winding up toward the house_.] hello yourself! laura. [_same effect_.] hurry up, you're late. john. [_same effect, a little louder_.] better late than never. laura. [_same effect_.] hurry up. john. [_little louder_.] not with this horse. laura. [_to_ will, _with enthusiastic expression_.] now, will, does he look like a yellow reporter? will. [_with a sort of sad smile_.] he _is_ a good-looking chap. laura. [_looking down again at_ john.] oh, he's just simply more than that. [_turns quickly to_ will.] where's mrs. williams? will. [_motioning with thumb toward left side of ranch house_.] inside, i guess, up to her neck in bridge. laura. [_goes hurriedly over to door_.] mrs. williams! oh, mrs. williams! mrs. williams. [_heard off stage_.] what is it, my dear? laura. mr. madison is coming up the path. mrs. williams. [_off stage_.] that's good. laura. sha'n't you come and see him? mrs. williams. [_same_.] lord, no! i'm six dollars and twenty cents out now, and up against an awful streak of luck. laura. shall i give him some tea? mrs. williams. [_same_.] yes, do, dear; and tell him to cross his fingers when he thinks of me. _in the meantime_ will _has leaned over the balustrade, evidently surveying the young man, who is supposed to be coming up the, path, with a great deal of interest. underneath his stolid, businesslike demeanour of squareness, there is undoubtedly within his heart a very great affection for_ laura. _he realizes that during her whole career he has been the only one who has influenced her absolutely. since the time they lived together, he has always dominated, and he has always endeavoured to lead her along a path that meant the better things of a bohemian existence. his coming all the way from new york to denver to accompany_ laura _home was simply another example of his keen interest in the woman, and he suddenly finds that she has drifted away from him in a manner to which he could not in the least object, and that she had been absolutely fair and square in her agreement with him._ will _is a man who, while rough and rugged in many ways, possesses many of the finer instincts of refinement, latent though they may be, and his meeting with_ john _ought, therefore, to show much significance, because on his impressions of the young man depend the entire justification of his attitude in the play._ laura. [_turning toward_ will _and going to him, slipping her hand involuntarily through his arm, and looking eagerly with him over the balustrade in almost girlish enthusiasm._] do you like him? will. [_smiling_.] i don't know him. laura. well, do you think you'll like him? will. well, i hope i'll like him. laura. well, if you hope you'll like him you ought to think you like him. he'll turn the corner of that rock in just a minute and then you can see him. do you want to see him? will. [_almost amused at her girlish manner._] why, yes--do you? laura. do i? why, i haven't seen him since last night! there he is. [_waves her hand._] hello, john! [_gets candy-box, throws pieces of candy at_ john. john. [_his voice very close now_.] hello, girlie! how's everything? laura. fine! do hurry. john. just make this horse for a minute. hurry is not in his dictionary. laura. i'm coming down to meet you. john. all--right. laura. [_turns quickly to_ will.] you don't care. you'll wait, won't you? will. surely. laura _hurriedly exits._ will _goes down centre of the stage. after a short interval_ laura _comes in, more like a sixteen-year-old girl than anything else, pulling_ john _after her. he is a tall, finely built type of western manhood, a frank face, a quick, nervous energy, a mind that works like lightning, a prepossessing smile, and a personality that is wholly captivating. his clothes are a bit dusty from the ride, but are not in the least pretentious, and his leggins are of canvas and spurs of brass, such as are used in the army. his hat is off, and he is pulled on to the stage, more like a great big boy than a man. his hair is a bit tumbled, and he shows every indication of having had a rather long and hard ride_. laura. hello, john! john. hello, girlie! _then she suddenly recovers herself and realizes the position she is in. both men measure each other for a moment in silence, neither flinching the least bit. the smile has faded from_ john's _face, and the mouth droops into an expression of firm determination._ laura _for a moment loses her ingenuousness. she is the least bit frightened at finally placing the two men face to face, and in a voice that trembles slightly from apprehension_: laura. oh, i beg your pardon! mr. madison, this is mr. brockton, a friend of mine from new york. you've often heard me speak of him; he came out here to keep me company when i go home. john. [_comes forward, extends a hand, looking_ will _right in the eye._] i am very glad to know you, mr. brockton. will. thank you. john. i've heard a great deal about you and your kindness to miss murdock. anything that you have done for her in a spirit of friendliness i am sure all her friends must deeply appreciate, and i count myself in as one. will. [_in an easy manner that rather disarms the antagonistic attitude of_ john.] then we have a good deal in common, mr. madison, for i also count miss murdock a friend, and when two friends of a friend have the pleasure of meeting, i dare say that's a pretty good foundation for them to become friends too. john. possibly. whatever my opinion may have been of you, mr. brockton, before you arrived, now i have seen you--and i'm a man who forms his conclusions right off the bat--i don't mind telling you that you've agreeably surprised me. that's just a first impression, but they run kind o' strong with me. will. well, young man, i size up a fellow in pretty short order, and all things being equal, i think you'll do. laura. [_radiantly._] shall i get the tea? john. tea! laura. yes, tea. you know it must be tea--nothing stronger. [_crosses to door._ john. [_looking at_ will _rather comically._] how strong are you for that tea, mr. brockton? will. i'll pass; it's your deal, mr. madison. john. mine! no, deal me out this hand. laura. i don't think you're at all pleasant, but i'll tell you one thing--it's tea this deal or no game. [_crosses up stage to seat, picks up magazine, turns pages._ will. no game then [_crosses to door._], and i'm going to help mrs. williams; maybe she's lost nearly seven dollars by this time, and i'm an awful dub when it comes to bridge. [_exit._ laura. [_tossing magazine on to seat, crosses quickly to_ john, _throws her arms around his neck in the most loving manner._] john! _as the act progresses the shadows cross the pass, and golden light streams across the lower hills and tops the snow-clad peaks. it becomes darker and darker, the lights fade to beautiful opalescent hues, until, when the curtain falls on the act, with_ john _and_ will _on the scene, it is pitch dark, a faint glow coming out of the door. nothing else can be seen but the glow of the ash on the end of each man's cigar as he puffs it in silent meditation on their conversation._ john. well, dear? laura. are you going to be cross with me? john. why? laura. because he came? john. brockton? laura. yes. john. you didn't know, did you? laura. yes, i did. john. that he was coming? laura. he wired me when he reached kansas city. john. does he know? laura. about us? john. yes. laura. i've told him. john. when? laura. to-day. john. here? laura. yes. john. with what result? laura. i think it hurt him. john. naturally. laura. more than i had any idea it would. john. i'm sorry. [_sits in armchair_. laura. he cautioned me to be very careful and to be sure i knew my way. john. that was right. laura _gets a cushion in each hand off seat; crosses down to left of armchair, throws one cushion on ground, then the other on top of it, and kneels beside his chair. piano in house playing a chopin nocturne_. laura. john. john. yes. laura. we've been very happy all summer. john. very. laura. [_rises, sits on left arm of chair, her arm over back_.] and this thing has gradually been growing on us? john. that's true. laura. i didn't think that, when i came out here to denver to play in a little stock company, it was going to bring me all this happiness, but it has, hasn't it? john. yes. laura. [_changing her position, sits on his lap, arms around his neck_.] and now the season's over and there is nothing to keep me in colorado, and i've got to go back to new york to work. john. i know; i've been awake all night thinking about it. laura. well? john. well? laura. what are we going to do? john. why, you've got to go, i suppose. laura. is it good-bye? john. for a while, i suppose--it's good-bye. laura. what do you mean by a while? [laura _turns_ john's _face to her, looks at him searchingly_. john. until [_piano plays crescendo, then softens down_.] i get money enough together, and am making enough to support you, then come and take you out of the show business and make you mrs. madison. laura _tightens her arm around his neck, her cheek goes close to his own, and all the wealth of affection the woman is capable of at times is shown. she seems more like a dainty little kitten purring close to its master. her whole thought and idea seem to be centred on the man whom she professes to love._ laura. john, that is what i want above everything else. john. but, laura, we must come to some distinct understanding before we start to make our plans. we're not children. laura. no, we're not. john. now in the first place [laura _rises, crosses to centre._] we'll discuss you, and in the second place we'll discuss me. we'll keep nothing from each other [laura _picks up cushions, places them on seat._], and we'll start out on this campaign [laura _turns back to centre, facing audience._] of decency and honour, fully understanding its responsibilities, without a chance of a come-back on either side. laura. [_becoming very serious._] you mean that we should tell each other all about each other, so, no matter what's ever said about us by other people, we'll know it first? john. [_rising._] that's precisely what i'm trying to get at. laura. well, john, there are so many things i don't want to speak of even to you. it isn't easy for a woman to go back and dig up a lot of ugly memories and try to excuse them. [_crosses to front of table, picks up magazine, places it on table_. john. i've known everything from the first; how you came to san francisco as a kid and got into the show business, and how you went wrong, and then how you married, still a kid, and how your husband didn't treat you exactly right, and then how, in a fit of drunkenness, he came home and shot himself. [laura _buries her head in her hands, making exclamations of horror._ john _crosses to her as if sorry for hurting her; touches her on shoulder._] but that's all past now, and we can forget that. and i know how you were up against it after that, how tough it was for you to get along. then finally how you've lived, and--and that you and this man brockton have been--well--never mind. i've known it all for months, and i've watched you. now, laura, the habit of life is a hard thing to get away from. you've lived in this way for a long time. if i ask you to be my wife you'll have to give it up; you'll have to go back to new york and struggle on your own hook until i get enough to come for you. i don't know how long that will be, but it _will_ be. do you love me enough to stick out for the right thing? laura _crosses to him, puts her arms around him, kisses him once very affectionately, looks at him very earnestly_. laura. yes. i think this is my one great chance. i do love you and i want to do just what you said. john. i think you will. i'm going to make the same promise. your life, dear girl, has been an angel's compared with mine. i've drank whiskey, played bank, and raised hell ever since the time i could develop a thirst; and ever since i've been able to earn my own living i've abused every natural gift god gave me. the women i've associated with aren't good enough to touch the hem of your skirt, but they liked me, and [john _crosses to armchair, turns up stage, then faces her_.] well--i must have liked them. my life hasn't been exactly loose, it's been all in pieces. i've never done anything dishonest. i've always gone wrong just for the fun of it, until i met you. [_crosses to her, takes her in his arms_.] somehow then i began to feel that i was making an awful waste of myself. laura. john! john. some lovers place a woman on a pedestal and say, "she never has made a mistake." [_taking her by each arm he playfully shakes her_.] well, we don't need any pedestals. i just know you never will make a mistake. laura. [_kissing him_.] john, i'll never make you take those words back. [_arms around his neck_. john. that goes double. you're going to cut out the cabs and cafés, and i'm going to cut out the whiskey and all-night sessions [laura _releases him; he backs slightly away_.]; and you're going to be somebody and i'm going to be somebody, and if my hunch is worth the powder to blow it up, we're going to show folks things they never thought were in us. come on now, kiss me. _she kisses him; tears are in her eyes. he looks into her face with a quaint smile_. john. you're on, ain't you, dear? laura. yes, i'm on. john. then [_points toward door with his left arm over her shoulder_.] call him. laura. brockton? john. yes, and tell him you go back to new york without any travelling companion this season. laura. now? john. sure. laura. you want to hear me tell him? john. [_with a smile_.] we're partners, aren't we? i ought to be in on any important transaction like that, but it's just as you say. laura. i think it would be right you should. i'll call him now. john. all right. [_crossing to stairway_. laura _crosses to door; twilight is becoming very much more pronounced_. laura. [_at door_.] mr. brockton! oh, mr. brockton! will. [_off stage_.] yes. laura. can you spare a moment to come out here? will. just a moment. laura. you must come now. will. all right. [_she waits for him and after a reasonable interval he appears at door_.] laura, it's a shame to lure me away from that mad speculation in there. i thought i might make my fare back to new york if i played until next summer. what's up? laura. mr. madison wants to talk to you, or rather i do, and i want him to listen. will. [_his manner changing to one of cold, stolid calculation_.] very well. [_comes down off step of house_. laura. will. will. yes? laura. i'm going home day after to-morrow on the overland limited. will. i know. laura. it's awfully kind of you to come out here, but under the circumstances i'd rather you'd take an earlier or a later train. will. and may i ask what circumstances you refer to? laura. mr. madison and i are going to be married. [_pause_.] he [will _looks inquiringly at_ john.] knows of your former friendship for me, and he has the idea that it must end. will. then the riverside drive proposition, with burgess's show thrown in, is declared off, eh? laura. yes; everything is absolutely declared off. will. can't even be friends any more, eh? john _crosses, and, taking_ laura's _arm, passes her over to seat; his back is partly to audience_. john. you could hardly expect miss murdock to be friendly with you under the circumstances. you could hardly expect me to [laura _puts scarf across her shoulders_.] sanction any such friendship. will. i think i understand your position, young man, and i perfectly agree with you, that is--if your plans come out successfully. john. thank you. laura. then everything is settled [_crossing in front of_ john _and facing_ will, _back to audience_.] just the way it ought to be--frankly and aboveboard? will. why, i guess so. if i was perfectly confident that this new arrangement was going to result happily for you both, i think it would be great, only i'm somewhat doubtful, for when people become serious and then fail, i know how hard those things hit, having _been_ hit once myself. john. so you think we're making a wrong move and there isn't a chance of success! will. no, i don't make any such gloomy prophecy. if you make laura a good husband, and she makes you a good wife, and together you win out, i'll be mighty glad. as far as i am concerned i shall absolutely forget every thought of laura's friendship for me. laura. i thought you'd be just that way. [_crosses to_ will, _shakes hands_. will. [_rising_.] and now i must be off. [_takes her by both hands and shakes them_.] good-bye, girlie! madison, good luck. [_crosses to_ john. _shakes_ john's _hands; looks into his eyes_.] i think you've got the stuff in you to succeed if your foot don't slip. john. what do you mean by my foot slipping, mr. brockton? will. you want me to tell you? john. i sure do. will. [_turns to laura_.] laura, run into the house and see if mrs. williams has won another quarter. [laura _sinks fearfully into chair_.] madison and i are going to smoke a cigar and have a friendly chat, and when we get through i think we'll both be better off. laura. you are sure that everything will be all right? will. sure. laura _looks at_ john _for assurance, and exits; he nods reassuringly_. will. have a cigar? [servant _places lamp on table inside house_. john. no, i'll smoke my own. [_crosses down right; sits in armchair_. will. what is your business? [_crosses up to seat centre; sits_. john. what's yours? will. i'm a broker. john. i'm a reporter, so i've got something on you. will. what kind? john. general utility, dramatic critic on sunday nights. will. pay you well? john. [_turns, looking at_ will.] that's pretty fresh. what's the idea? will. i'm interested. i'm a plain man, mr. madison, and i do business in a plain way. now, if i ask you a few questions and discuss this matter with you in a frank way, don't get it in your head that i'm jealous or sore, but simply i don't want either of you people to make a move that's going to cost you a lot of pain and trouble. if you want me to talk sense to you, all right. if you don't we'll drop it now. what's the answer? john. i'll take a chance, but before you start i want to tell you that the class of people that you belong to i have no use for--they don't speak my language. you are what they call a manipulator of stocks; that means that you're living on the weaknesses of other people, and it almost means that you get your daily bread, yes, and your cake and your wine, too, from the production of others. you're a "gambler under cover." show me a man who's dealing bank, and he's free and aboveboard. you can figure the percentage against you, and then, if you buck the tiger and get stung, you do it with your eyes open. with your financiers the game is crooked twelve months of the year, and, from a business point of view, i think you are a crook. now i guess we understand each other. if you've got anything to say, why, spill it. will _rises, comes down toward_ john, _showing anger in his tones_. will. we are not talking business now, but women. how much money do you earn? [_crosses to chair left of table; gets it_. john. understand i don't think it is any of your damn business, but i'm going through with you on this proposition, just to see how the land lays. but take my tip, you be mighty careful how you speak about the girl if you're not looking for trouble. will. all right, but how much did you say you made? [_crosses over to centre of stage, carrying chair; sits_. john. thirty dollars a week. will. do you know how much laura could make if she just took a job on her own merits? john. as i don't intend to share in her salary, i never took the trouble to inquire. will. she'd get about forty dollars. john. that laps me ten. will. how are you going to support her? her cabs cost more than your salary, and she pays her week's salary for an every-day walking-hat. she's always had a maid; her simplest gown flirts with a hundred-dollar note; her manicurist and her hair-dresser will eat up as much as you pay for your board. she never walks when it's stormy, and every afternoon there's her ride in the park. she dines at the best places in new york, and one meal costs her more than you make in a day. do you imagine for a moment that she's going to sacrifice these luxuries for any great length of time? john. i intend to give them to her. will. on thirty dollars a week? john. i propose to go out and make a lot of money. will. how? john. i haven't decided yet, but you can bet your sweet life that if i ever try and make up my mind that it's got to be, it's got to be. will. never have made it, have you? john. i have never tried. will. then how do you know you can? john. well, i'm honest and energetic. if you can get great wealth the way you go along, i don't see why i can't earn a little. will. there's where you make a mistake. money-getting doesn't always come with brilliancy. i know a lot of fellows in new york who can paint a great picture, write a good play, and, when it comes to oratory, they've got me lashed to a pole; but they're always in debt. they never get anything for what they do. in other words, young man, they are like a sky-rocket without a stick,--plenty of brilliancy, but no direction, and they blow up and fizzle all over the ground. john. that's new york. i'm in colorado, and i guess you know there is a difference. will. i hope you'll make your money, because i tell you frankly that's the only way you can hold this girl. she's full of heroics now, self-sacrifice, and all the things that go to make up the third act of a play, but the minute she comes to darn her stockings, wash out her own handkerchiefs and dry them on the window, and send out for a pail of coffee and a sandwich for lunch, take it from me it will go blah! [_rises, crosses to front of table with chair, places it with back to him, braces his back on it, facing_ john.] you're in colorado writing her letters once a day with no checks in them. that may be all right for some girl who hasn't tasted the joy of easy living, full of the good things of life, but one who for ten years has been doing very well in the way these women do is not going to let up for any great length of time. so take my advice if you want to hold her. get that money quick, and don't be so damned particular how you get it either. john's _patience is evidently severely tried. he approaches_ will, _who remains impassive_. john. of course you know you've got the best of me. will. how? john. we're guests. will. no one's listening. john. 'tisn't that. if it was anywhere but here, if there was any way to avoid all the nasty scandal, i'd come a shootin' for you, and you know it. will. gun-fighter, eh? john. perhaps. let me tell you this. i don't know how you make your money, but i know what you do with it. you buy yourself a small circle of sycophants; you pay them well for feeding your vanity; and then you pose,--pose with a certain frank admission of vice and degradation. and those who aren't quite as brazen as you call it manhood. manhood? [_crossing slowly to armchair, sits._] why, you don't know what the word means. it's the attitude of a pup and a cur. will. [_angrily_.] wait a minute [_crosses to_ john.], young man, or i'll-- john _rises quickly. both men stand confronting each other for a moment with fists clenched. they are on the very verge of a personal encounter. both seem to realize that they have gone too far_. john. you'll what? will. lose my temper and make a damn fool of myself. that's something i've not done for--let me see--why, it must be nearly twenty years--oh, yes, fully that. [_he smiles_; john _relaxes and takes one step back_. john. possibly it's been about that length of time since you were human, eh? will. possibly--but you see, mr. madison, after all, you're at fault. john. yes? will. yes, the very first thing you did was to lose your temper. now people who always lose their temper will never make a lot of money, and you admit that that is a great necessity--i mean now--to you. john. i can't stand for the brutal way you talk. [_crosses up to seat, picks up newspaper, slams it down angrily on seat, and sits with elbow on balustrade_. will. but you have got to stand it. the truth is never gentle. [_crosses up and sits left of_ john.] most conditions in life are unpleasant, and, if you want to meet them squarely, you have got to realize the unpleasant point of view. that's the only way you can fight them and win. john [_turns to_ will.] still, i believe laura means what she says, in spite of all you say and the disagreeable logic of it. i think she loves me. if she should ever want to go back to the old way of getting along, i think she'd tell me so. so you see, brockton, all your talk is wasted, and we'll drop the subject. [_crosses down and sits in armchair_. will. and if she should ever go back and come to me, i am going to insist that she let you know all about it. it'll be hard enough to lose her, caring for her the way you do, but it would hurt a lot more to be double-crossed. john. [_sarcastically_.] that's very kind. thanks! will. don't get sore. it's common sense and it goes, does it not? john. [_turns to_ will.] just what goes? will. if she leaves you first, you are to tell me, and if she comes to me i'll make her let you know just when and why. john _is leaning on arm, facing_ will; _his hand shoots out in a gesture of warning to_ will. john. look out! will. i said common sense. john. all right. will. agreed? [_a pause_. john. you're on. _by this time the stage is black and all that can be seen is the glow of the two cigars. piano in the next room is heard_. john _crosses slowly and deliberately to door, looks in, throws cigar away over the terrace, exits into house, closes doors, and, as_ will _is seated on terrace, puffing cigar, the red coal of which is alone visible, a slow curtain_. curtain. act ii. scene. _six months have elapsed. the furnished room of_ laura murdock, _second story back of an ordinary, cheap theatrical lodging-house in the theatre district of new york. the house is evidently of a type of the old-fashioned brown-stone front, with high ceilings, dingy walls, and long, rather insecure windows. the woodwork is depressingly dark. the ceiling is cracked, the paper is old and spotted and in places loose. there is a door leading to the hallway. there is a large old-fashioned wardrobe in which are hung a few old clothes, most of them a good deal worn and shabby, showing that the owner_--laura murdock--_has had a rather hard time of it since leaving colorado in the first act. the doors of this wardrobe must be equipped with springs so they will open outward, and also furnished with wires so they can be controlled from the back. this is absolutely necessary, owing to "business" which is done during the progress of the act. the drawer in the bottom of the wardrobe is open at rise. this is filled with a lot of rumpled, tissue-paper and other rubbish. an old pair of shoes is seen at the upper end of the wardrobe on the floor. there is an armchair over which is thrown an ordinary kimono, and on top of the wardrobe are a number of magazines and old books, and an unused parasol wrapped up in tissue paper._ _the dresser, which is upstage, against the wall, is in keeping with the general meanness, and its adornment consists of old postcards stuck in between the mirror and its frame, with some well-worn veils and ribbons hung on the side. on the dresser is a pincushion, a bottle of cheap perfume, purple in colour and nearly empty; a common crockery match-holder, containing matches, which must be practicable; a handkerchief-box, powder-box and puff, rouge-box and rouge paw, hand mirror, small alcohol curling-iron heater, which must also be practicable, as it is used in the "business" of the act; scissors, curling-tongs, hair comb and brush, and a small cheap picture of_ john madison; _a small work-box containing a thimble and thread,--and stuck in the pincushion are a couple of needles, threaded. directly to the left of the bureau, with the door to the outside closet intervening, is a broken-down washstand, on which is a basin half full of water, a bottle of tooth-powder, tooth brushes and holder, soap and soap-dish, and other cheap toilet articles, and a small drinking-glass. hung on the corner of the washstand is a soiled towel. hung on the rack across the top of the washstand one can see a pair of stockings. on the floor in front of the washstand is a pitcher half full of water; also a large waste-water jar of the cheapest type._ _below the washstand, and with the head against the wall, is a three-quarter old wooden bed, also showing the general decay of the entire room. tacked on the head of this bed is a large photo of_ john madison, _with a small bow of dainty blue ribbon at the top, covering the tack. under the photo are arranged half a dozen cheap, artificial violets, in pitiful recognition of the girl's love for her absent sweetheart._ _under the mattress at the head of the bed is a heavy cardboard box, about thirty inches long, seven inches wide and four inches deep, containing about one hundred and twenty-five letters and eighty telegrams, tied in about eight bundles with dainty ribbon. one bundle must contain all practical letters of several closely written pages each, each letter having been opened. they must be written upon business paper and envelopes, such as are used in newspaper offices and by business men._ _under the pillow at the head of the bed is carelessly thrown a woman's night-dress. on the bed is an old book, open, with face downward, and beside it is an apple which some one has been nibbling. across the foot of the bed is a soiled quilt, untidily folded. the pillows are hollow in the centre, as if having been used lately. at the foot of the bed is a small table, with soiled and ink-stained cover, upon which are a cheap pitcher, containing some withered carnations, and a desk-pad, with paper, pen, ink, and envelopes scattered around._ _against the wall below the bed is an old mantel-piece and fireplace with iron grate, such as are used in houses of this type. on the mantel-piece are photos of actors and actresses, an old mantel clock in the centre, in front of which is a box of cheap peppermint candy in large pieces, and a plate with two apples upon it; some cheap pieces of bric-à-brac and a little vase containing joss-sticks, such as one might burn to improve the atmosphere of these dingy, damp houses. below the mantel-piece is a thirty-six inch theatre trunk, with theatre labels on it, in the tray of which are articles of clothing, a small box of thread, and a bundle of eight pawn tickets. behind the trunk is a large cardboard box. hanging from the ceiling directly over the table is a single arm gas-jet, from which is hung a turkey wish-bone. on the jet is a little wire arrangement to hold small articles for heating. beside the table is a chair. under the bed are a pair of bedroom slippers and a box. between the bed and the mantel is a small tabourette on which are a book and a candle-stick with the candle half burned. on the floor in front of the door is a slipper,--also another in front of the dresser,--as if they had been thrown carelessly down. on the wardrobe door, on the down-stage side, is tacked another photo of_ john madison. _in an alcove off left is a table on which is a small oil stove, two cups, saucers and plates, a box of matches, tin coffee-box, and a small japanese teapot. on a projection outside the window is a pint milk bottle, half filled with milk, and an empty benzine bottle, which is labelled. both are covered with snow._ _the backing shows a street snow-covered. in arranging the properties it must be remembered that in the wardrobe is a box of uneeda biscuits, with one end torn open. there is a door down right, opening inward, leading into the hallway. the window is at back, running from floor nearly to the ceiling. this window does not rise, but opens in the manner of the french or door window._ _on the outside of the window covering the same is an iron guard such as is used in new york on the lower back windows. the rods running up and down are about four inches apart. there is a projection outside the window such as would be formed by a storm door in the basement; running the full length of the window and about thirty inches wide, raised about a foot from the floor in front and about nine inches in the back, there is opening inward a door at left back, leading into a small alcove, as has been mentioned before. the door is half glass, the glass part being the upper half, and is ajar when the curtain rises. a projection at fireplace such as would be made for a chimney is in the wall which runs from left centre diagonally to left first entrance._ at rise _the stage is empty. after a pause_ laura _enters, passes the dresser, places umbrella at the right, end of it against wall, crosses to back of armchair, removes gloves, lays them over back of chair, takes off coat and hat, hangs hat on end of wardrobe, and puts coat inside; notices old slipper in front of dresser and one on the extreme right, and with impatience picks them up and puts them in the wardrobe drawer. then crosses to dresser, gets needle and thread off pincushion, and mends small rip in glove, after which she puts gloves in top drawer of dresser, crosses to extreme end of dresser, and gets handkerchief out of box, takes up bottle containing purple perfume, holds it up so she can see there is only a small quantity left, sprinkles a drop on handkerchief carefully, so as not to use too much, looks at bottle again to see how much is left, places it on dresser; goes to up-stage side of bed, kneels on head of the bed and looks lovingly at photo of_ john madison, _and finally pulls up the mattress, takes out box of letters, and opens it. she then sits down in oriental fashion, with her feet under her, selects a bundle of letters, unties the ribbon, and takes out a letter such as has been hereinbefore described, glances it over, puts it down in her lap, and again takes a long look at the picture of_ john madison. annie _is heard coming upstairs_. laura _looks quickly towards the door, puts the letters back in box, and hurriedly places box under mattress, and replaces pillow_. annie _knocks on door_. laura _rises and crosses to door._ laura. come in. annie, _a chocolate-colored negress, enters. she is slovenly in appearance, but must not in any way denote the "mammy." she is the type one encounters in cheap theatrical lodging-houses. she has a letter in her hand,--also a clean towel folded,--and approaches_ laura. laura. hello, annie. annie. heah's yo' mail, miss laura. laura. [_taking letter._] thank you! [_she looks at the address and does not open it._ annie. one like dat comes every mornin', don't it? used to all be postmahked denver. must 'a' moved. [_trying to look over_ laura's _shoulder_; laura _turns and sees her_; annie _looks away._] where is dat place called goldfield, miss laura? laura. in nevada. annie. in _nevada_? laura. yes, nevada. annie. [_draws her jacket closer around her as if chilly._] must be mighty smaht to write yuh every day. de pos'man brings it 'leven o'clock mos' always, sometimes twelve, and again sometimes tehn; but it comes every day, don't it? laura. i know. annie. [_crosses to right of armchair, brushes it off and makes an effort to read letter, leaning across chair._] guess must be from yo' husban', ain't it? laura. no, i haven't any. annie. [_crossing to centre triumphantly._] dat's what ah tole mis' farley when she was down talkin' about you dis morning. she said if he all was yo' husband he might do somethin' to help you out. ah told her ah didn't think you had any husban'. den she says you ought to have one, you're so pretty. laura. oh, annie! annie. [_sees door open; goes and bangs it shut._] der ain't a decent door in dis old house. mis' farley said yo' might have mos' any man you [_hangs clean towel on washstand._] wanted just for de askin', but ah said yuh [_takes newspaper and books off bed, and places them on table._] was too particular about the man yo' 'd want. den she did a heap o' talking. laura. about what? [_places letter open on table, looks at hem of skirt, discovers a rip, rises, crosses up to dresser, gets needle, crosses down to trunk; opens and takes thimble out; closes lid of tray, sits on it, and sews skirt during scene._ annie. [_at bed, fussing around, folds nightgown and places it under pillow._] well, you know, mis' farley she's been havin' so much trouble wid her roomers. yestuhday dat young lady on de second flo' front, she lef'. she's goin' wiv some troupe on the road. she owed her room for three weeks and jus' had to leave her trunk. [_crosses and fusses over table._] my! how mis' farley did scold her. mis' farley let on she could have paid dat money if she wanted to, but somehow ah guess she couldn't-- [_reads letter on table._ laura. [_sees her, angrily exclaims._] annie! annie. [_in confusion, brushing off table._]--for if she could she wouldn't have left her trunk, would she, miss laura? [_crosses to armchair, and picks up kimono off back._ laura. no, i suppose not. what did mrs. farley say about me? annie. oh! nothin' much. [_crosses left and stands._ laura. well, what? annie. she kinder say somethin' 'bout yo' being three weeks behind in yo' room rent, and she said she t'ought it was 'bout time yuh handed her somethin', seein' as how yuh must o' had some stylish friends when yuh come here. laura. who, for instance? annie. ah don't know. mis' farley said some of 'em might slip yo' enough jest to help yuh out. [_pause._] ain't yo' got nobody to take care of you at all, miss laura? [_hangs kimono over back of armchair._ laura. no! no one. annie. dat's too bad. laura. why? annie. [_crossing again._] mis' farley says yuh wouldn't have no trouble at all gettin' any man to take care of yuh if yuh wanted to. laura. [_with sorrowful shudder._] please [_doors of wardrobe open very slowly._] don't, annie. annie. dere's a gemman [_playing with corner of tablecloth._] dat calls on one of de ladies from the hippodrome, in de big front room downstairs. he's mighty nice, and he's been askin' 'bout you. laura. [_exasperated._] oh, shut up! annie. [_sees doors of wardrobe have swung open; she crosses, slams them shut, turns to_ laura.] mis' farley says--[_doors have swung open again; they hit her in the back. she turns and bangs them to with all her strength_.] damn dat door! [_crosses to washstand, grabs basin which is half full of water, empties same into waste-jar, puts basin on washstand, and wipes it out with soiled towel_.] mis' farley says if she don't get someone in the house dat has reg'lar money soon, she'll have to shut up and go to the po'house. laura. i'm sorry; i'll try again to-day. [_rises, crosses up to mantel, gets desk-pad, &c., crosses to right of table, sits_. annie. [_crosses to back of bed, wiping basin with towel_.] ain't yo' got any job at all? laura. no. annie. when yuh come here yuh had lots of money and yo' was mighty good to me. you know mr. weston? laura. jim weston? annie. yassum, mr. weston what goes ahead o' shows and lives on the top floor back; he says nobody's got jobs now. dey're so many actors and actoresses out o' work. mis' farley says she don't know how she's goin' to live. she said you'd been mighty nice up until three weeks ago, but yuh ain't got much left, have you, miss laura? laura. [_rising and going to the bureau_.] no. it's all gone. annie. mah sakes! all dem rings and things? you ain't done sold them? [_sinks on bed_. laura. they're pawned. what did mrs. farley say she was going to do? annie. guess maybe ah'd better not tell. [_crosses to door hurriedly, carrying soiled towel_. laura. please do. [_crosses to chair, left side_. annie. yuh been so good to me, miss laura. never was nobody in dis house what give me so much, and ah ain't been gettin' much lately. and when mis' farley said yuh must either pay yo' rent or she would ask yuh for your room, ah jest set right down on de back kitchen stairs and cried. besides, mis' farley don't like me very well since you've ben havin' yo' breakfasts and dinners brought up here. laura. why not? [_takes kimono of chair-back, crosses up to dresser, puts kimono in drawer, takes out purse_. annie. she has a rule in dis house dat nobody can use huh chiny or fo'ks or spoons who ain't boa'ding heah, and de odder day when yuh asked me to bring up a knife and fo'k she ketched me coming upstairs, and she says, "where yuh goin' wid all dose things, annie?" ah said, "ah'm just goin' up to miss laura's room with dat knife and fo'k." ah said, "ah'm goin' up for nothin' at all, mis' farley, she jest wants to look at them, ah guess." she said, "she wants to eat huh dinner wid 'em, ah guess." ah got real mad, and ah told her if she'd give me mah pay ah'd brush right out o' here; dat's what ah'd do, ah'd brush right out o' here. [_violently shaking out towel_. laura. i'm sorry, annie, if i've caused you any trouble. never mind, i'll be able to pay the rent to-morrow or next day anyway. [_she fumbles in purse, takes out a quarter, and turns to_ annie.] here! annie. no, ma'am, ah don' want dat. [_making a show of reluctance_. laura. please take it. annie. no, ma'am, ah don' want it. you need dat. dat's breakfast money for yuh, miss laura. laura. please take it, annie. i might just as well get rid of this as anything else. annie. [_takes it rather reluctantly_.] yuh always was so good, miss laura. sho' yuh don' want dis? laura. sure. annie. sho' yo' goin' to get planty mo'? laura. sure. mrs. farley's voice. [_downstairs_.] annie! annie! annie. [_going to door, opens it_.] dat's mis' farley. [_to_ mrs. farley.] yassum, mis' farley. same voice. is miss murdock up there? annie. yassum, mis' farley, yassum! mrs. farley. anything doin'? annie. huh? mrs. farley. anything doin'? annie. [_at door_.] ah--ah--hain't asked, missy farley. mrs. farley. then do it. laura. [_coming to the rescue at the door. to_ annie.] i'll answer her. [_out of door to_ mrs. farley.] what is it, mrs. farley? mrs. farley. [_her voice softened_.] did ye have any luck this morning, dearie? laura. no; but i promise you faithfully to help you out this afternoon or to-morrow. mrs. farley. sure? are you certain? laura. absolutely. mrs. farley. well, i must say these people expect me to keep--[_door closed_. laura _quietly closes the door, and_ mrs. farley's _rather strident voice is heard indistinctly_. laura _sighs and walks toward table; sits_. annie _looks after her, and then slowly opens the door_. annie. yo' sho' dere ain't nothin' i can do fo' yuh, miss laura? laura. nothing. annie _exits_. laura _sits down and looks at letter, opening it. it consists of several pages closely written. she reads some of them hurriedly, skims through the rest, and then turns to the last page without reading; glances at it; lays it on table; rises_. laura. hope, just nothing but hope. _she crosses to bed, falls face down upon it, burying her face in her hands. her despondency is palpable. as she lies there a hurdy-gurdy in the street starts to play a popular air. this arouses her and she rises, crosses to wardrobe, takes out box of crackers, opens window, gets bottle of milk off sill outside, places them on table, gets glass off washstand, at the same time humming the tune of the hurdy-gurdy, when a knock comes; she crosses quickly to dresser; powders her nose. the knock is timidly repeated_. laura. [_without turning, and in a rather tired tone of voice_.] come in. jim weston, _a rather shabby theatrical advance-agent of the old school, enters timidly, halting at the door and holding the knob in his hand. he is a man of about forty years old, dressed in an ordinary manner, of medium height, and in fact has the appearance of a once prosperous clerk who has been in hard luck. his relations with_ laura _are those of pure friendship. they both live in the same lodging-place, and, both having been out of employment, they have naturally become acquainted_. jim. can i come in? laura. [_without turning_.] hello, jim weston. [_he closes door and enters_.] any luck? jim. lots of it. laura. that's good. tell me. jim. it's bad luck. guess you don't want to hear. laura. i'm sorry. where have you been? jim. i kind o' felt around up at burgess's office. i thought i might get a job there, but he put me off until to-morrow. somehow those fellows always do business to-morrow. [_hurdy-gurdy dies out_. laura. yes, and there's always to-day to look after. jim. i'm ready to give up. i've tramped broadway for nine weeks until every piece of flagstone gives me the laugh when it sees my feet coming. got a letter from the missis this morning. the kids got to have some clothes, there's measles in the town, and mumps in the next village. i've just got to raise some money or get some work, or the first thing you'll know i'll be hanging around central park on a dark night with a club. laura. i know just how you feel. sit down, jim. [jim _crosses and sits in chair right of table_.] it's pretty tough for me [_offers_ jim _glass of milk; he refuses; takes crackers_.], but it must be a whole lot worse for you with a wife and kids. jim. oh, if a man's alone he can generally get along--turn his hand to anything; but a woman-- laura. worse, you think? jim. i was just thinking about you and what burgess said? laura. what was that? [_crosses to bed; sits on up-stage side, sipping milk_. jim. you know burgess and i used to be in the circus business together. he took care of the grafters when i was boss canvas man. i never could see any good in shaking down the rubes for all the money they had and then taking part of it. he used to run the privilege car, you know. laura. privilege car? jim. had charge of all the pickpockets,--dips we called 'em--sure-thing gamblers, and the like. made him rich. i kept sort o' on the level and i'm broke. guess it don't pay to be honest-- laura. [_turns to him and in a significant voice_:] you don't really think that? jim. no, maybe not. ever since i married the missis and the first kid come, we figured the only good money was the kind folks worked for and earned; but when you can't get hold of that, it's tough. laura. i know. jim. burgess don't seem to be losing sleep over the tricks he's turned. he's happy and prosperous, but i guess he ain't any better now than he was then. laura. maybe not. i've been trying to get an engagement from him. there are half a dozen parts in his new attractions that i could do, but he has never absolutely said "no," but yet somehow he's never said "yes." jim. he spoke about you. laura. in what way? [_rising, stands behind_ jim's _chair._ jim. i gave him my address and he seen it was yours, too. asked if i lived in the same place. laura. was that all? jim. wanted to know how you was getting on. i let him know you needed work, but i didn't tip my hand you was flat broke. he said something about you being a damned fool. laura. [_suddenly and interested._] how? [_she crosses._ jim. well, johnny ensworth--you know he used to do the fights on the _evening journal_; now he's press-agent for burgess; nice fellow and way on the inside--he told me where you were in wrong. laura. what have i done? [_sits in armchair._ jim. burgess don't put up the money for any of them musical comedies--he just trails. of course he's got a lot of influence, and he's always johnny-on-the-spot to turn any dirty trick that they want. there are four or five rich men in town who are there with the bank-roll, providing he engages women who ain't so very particular about the location of their residence, and who don't hear a curfew ring at : every night. laura. and he thinks i am too particular? jim. that's what was slipped me. seems that one of the richest men that is in on mr. burgess's address-book is a fellow named brockton from downtown some place. he's got more money than the shoe and leather national bank. he likes to play show business. laura. [_rises quickly._] oh! [_crosses to wardrobe, gets hat; crosses to dresser, gets scissors with intention of curling feathers._ jim. i thought you knew him. i thought it was just as well to tell you where he and burgess stand. they're pals. laura. [_coming over to_ jim _and with emphasis crosses to down-stage side of bed; puts hat and scissors on bed._] i don't want you to talk about him or any of them. i just want you to know that i'm trying to do everything in my power to go through this season without any more trouble. i've pawned everything i've got; i've cut every friend i knew. but where am i going to end? that's what i want to know--where am i going to end? [_to bed and sits_.] every place i look for a position something interferes. it's almost as if i were blacklisted. i know i could get jobs all right if i wanted to pay the price, but i won't. i just want to tell you, i won't. no! [_rises, crosses to mantel, rests elbow._ jim. that's the way to talk. [_rises._] i don't know you very well, but i've watched you close. i'm just a common, ordinary showman who never had much money, and i'm going out o' date. i've spent most of my time with nigger-minstrel shows and circuses, but i've been on the square. that's why i'm broke. [_rather sadly._] once i thought the missis would have to go back and do her acrobatic act, but she couldn't do that, she's grown so damn fat. [_crosses to_ laura.] just you don't mind. it'll all come out right. laura. it's an awful tough game, isn't it? jim. [_during this speech_ laura _gets cup, pours milk back into bottle, closes biscuit-box, puts milk on shed outside, and biscuits into wardrobe, cup in alcove._] it's hell forty ways from the jack. it's tough for me, but for a pretty woman with a lot o' rich fools jumping out o' their automobiles and hanging around stage doors, it must be something awful. i ain't blaming the women. they say "self-preservation is the first law of nature," and i guess that's right; but sometimes when the show is over and i see them fellows with their hair plastered back, smoking cigarettes in a [laura _crosses to chair right of table and leans over back._] holder long enough to reach from here to harlem, and a bank-roll that would bust my pocket and turn my head, i feel as if i'd like to get a gun and go a-shooting around this old town. laura. jim! jim. yes, i do--you bet. laura. that wouldn't pay, would it? jim. no, they're not worth the job of sitting on that throne in sing sing, and i'm too poor to go to matteawan. but all them fellows under nineteen and over fifty-nine ain't much use to themselves or anyone else. laura. [_rather meditatively._] perhaps all of them are not so bad. jim. [_sits on bed._] yes, they are,--angels and all. last season i had one of them shows where a rich fellow backed it on account of a girl. we lost money and he lost his girl; then we got stuck in texas. i telegraphed: "must have a thousand, or can't move." he just answered: "don't move." we didn't. laura. but that was business. jim. bad business. it took a year for some of them folks to get back to broadway. some of the girls never did, and i guess never will. laura. maybe they're better off, jim. [_sits right of table._ jim. couldn't be worse. they're still in texas. [_to himself._] wish i knew how to do something else, being a plumber or a walking delegate; they always have jobs. laura. well, i wish i could do something else too, but i can't, and we've got to make the best of it. jim. i guess so. i'll see you this evening. i hope you'll have good news by that time. [_starts to exit, about to open door; then retreats a step, with hand on door-knob, crosses and in a voice meant to be kindly_] if you'd like to go to the theatre to-night, and take some other woman in the house, maybe i can get a couple of tickets for some of the shows. i know a lot of fellows who are working. laura. no, thanks. i haven't anything to wear to the theatre, and i don't-- jim. [_with a smile crosses to_ laura, _puts arm around her._] now you just cheer up! something's sure to turn up. it always has for me, and i'm a lot older than you, both in years and in this business. there's always a break in hard luck sometime--that's sure. laura. [_smiling through her tears._] i hope so. but things are looking pretty hopeless now, aren't they? jim. i'll go down and give mrs. f. a line o' talk and try to square you for a couple of days more anyway. but i guess she's laying pretty close to the cushion herself, poor woman. laura. annie says a lot of people owe her. jim. well, you can't pay what you haven't got. and even if money was growing on trees, it's winter now. [jim _goes towards door._] i'm off. maybe to-day is lucky day. so long! laura. good-bye. jim. keep your nerve. [_exit_ laura. i will. [_she sits for a moment in deep thought, picks up the letter received, as if to read it, and then throws it down in anger. she buries her head in hands_.] i can't stand it--i just simply can't stand it. mrs. farley's voice. [_off stage_.] miss murdock--miss murdock. laura. [_brushing away tears, rises, goes to door, and opens it_.] what is it? same voice. there's a lady down here to see you. elfie's voice. [_off stage_.] hello, dearie, can i come up? laura. is that you, elfie? elfie. yes; shall i come up? laura. why, certainly. _she waits at the door for a moment, and_ elfie st. clair _appears. she is gorgeously gowned in the rather extreme style affected by the usual new york woman who is cared for by a gentleman of wealth and who has not gone through the formality of matrimonial alliance. her conduct is always exaggerated and her attitude vigorous. her gown is of the latest design, and in every detail of dress she shows evidence of most extravagant expenditure. she carries a hand-bag of gold, upon which are attached such trifles as a gold cigarette-case, a gold powder-box, pencils, and the like_. elfie _throws her arms around_ laura, _and both exchange kisses_. elfie. laura, you old dear [_crossing to table_.], i've just found out where you've been hiding, and came around to see you. laura. [_who is much brightened by_ elfie's _appearance_.] elfie, you're looking bully. how are you, dear? elfie. fine. laura. come in and sit down. i haven't much to offer, but-- elfie. oh, never mind. it's such a grand day outside, and i've come around in my car to take you out. [_sits right of table_.] you know i've got a new one, and it can go some. laura. [_sits on arm of chair_.] i am sorry, but i can't go out this afternoon, elfie. elfie. what's the matter? laura. you see i'm staying home a good deal nowadays. i haven't been feeling very well and i don't go out much. elfie. i should think not. i haven't seen you in rector's or martin's since you come back from denver. got a glimpse of you one day trailing up broadway, but couldn't get to you--you dived into some office or other. [_for the first time she surveys the room, rises, looks around critically, crossing to mantel_.] gee! whatever made you come into a dump like this? it's the limit. laura. [_crossing and standing back of the table_.] oh, i know it isn't pleasant, but it's my home, and after all--a home's a home. elfie. looks more like a prison. [_takes candy from mantel; spits it out on floor_.] makes me think of the old days of child's sinkers and a hall bedroom. laura. it's comfortable. [_leaning hands on table_. elfie. not! [_sits on bed, trying bed with comedy effect_. say, is this here for an effect, or do you sleep on it? laura. i sleep on it. elfie. no wonder you look tired. say, listen, dearie. what else is the matter with you anyway? laura. nothing. elfie. yes, there is. what happened between you and brockton? [_notices faded flowers in vase on table; takes them out, tosses them into fireplace, replaces them with gardenias which she wears_.] he's not broke, because i saw him the other day. laura. where? elfie. in the park. asked me out to luncheon, but i couldn't go. you know, dearie, i've got to be so careful. jerry's so awful jealous--the old fool. laura. do you see much of jerry nowadays, elfie? elfie. not any more than i can help and be nice. he gets on my nerves. of course, i've heard about your quitting brockton. laura. then why do you ask? [_crosses around chair right of table; stands_. elfie. just wanted to hear from your own dear lips what the trouble was. now tell me all about it. can i smoke here? [_takes cigarette-case up, opens it, selecting cigarette_. laura. surely. [_gets matches off bureau, puts them on table_. elfie. have one? [_offers case_. laura. no, thank you. [_sits in chair right of table, facing_ elfie. elfie. h'm-m, h'm-m, hah! [_lights cigarette_.] now go ahead. tell me all the scandal. i'm just crazy to know. laura. there's nothing to tell. i haven't been able to find work, that is all, and i'm short of money. you can't live in hotels, you know, with cabs and all that sort of thing, when you're not working. elfie. yes, you can. i haven't worked in a year. laura. but you don't understand, dear. i--i--well, you know i--well, you know--i can't say what i want. elfie. oh, yes, you can. you can say anything to me--everybody else does. we've been pals. i know you got along a little faster in the business than i did. the chorus was my limit, and you went into the legitimate thing. but we got our living just the same way. i didn't suppose there was any secret between you and me about that. laura. i know there wasn't then, elfie, but i tell you i'm different now. i don't want to do that sort of thing, and i've been very unlucky. this has been a terribly hard season for me. i simply haven't been able to get an engagement. elfie. well, you can't get on this way. won't [_pauses, knocking ashes off cigarette to cover hesitation_.] brockton help you out? laura. what's the use of talking to you [_rises and crosses to fireplace_.], elfie; you don't understand. elfie. [_puffing deliberately on cigarette and crossing her legs in almost a masculine attitude_.] no? why don't i understand? laura. because you can't; you've never felt as i have. elfie. how do you know? laura. [_turning impatiently_.] oh, what's the use of explaining? elfie. you know, laura, i'm not much on giving advice, but you make me sick. i thought you'd grown wise. a young girl just butting into this business might possibly make a fool of herself, but you ought to be on to the game and make the best of it. laura. [_going over to her angrily_.] if you came up here, elfie, to talk that sort of stuff to me, please don't. i was west this summer. i met someone, a real man, who did me a whole lot of good,--a man who opened my eyes to a different way of going along--a man who--oh, well, what's the use? you don't know--you don't know. [_sits on bed_. elfie. [_throws cigarette into fireplace_.] i don't know, don't i? i don't know, i suppose, that when i came to this town from up state,--a little burg named oswego,--and joined a chorus, that i didn't fall in love with just such a man. i suppose i don't know that then i was the best-looking girl in new york, and everybody talked about me? i suppose i don't know that there were men, all ages and with all kinds of money, ready to give me anything for the mere privilege of taking me out to supper? and i didn't do it, did i? for three years i stuck by this good man who was to lead me in a good way toward a good life. and all the time i was getting older, never quite so pretty one day as i had been the day before. i never knew then what it was to be tinkered with by hair-dressers and manicures or a hundred and one of those other people who make you look good. i didn't have to have them then. [_rises, crosses to right of table, facing_ laura.] well, you know, laura, what happened. laura. wasn't it partly your fault, elfie? elfie. [_speaking across table angrily._] was it my fault that time made me older and i took on a lot of flesh? was it my fault that the work and the life took out the colour, and left the make-up? was it my fault that other pretty young girls came along, just as i'd come, and were chased after, just as i was? was it my fault the cabs weren't waiting any more and people didn't talk about how pretty i was? and was it my fault when he finally had me alone, and just because no one else wanted me, he got tired and threw me flat--cold flat [_brings hand down on table._]--and i'd been on the dead level with him! [_with almost a sob, crosses up to bureau, powders nose, comes down back of table._] it almost broke my heart. then i made up my mind to get even and get all i could out of the game. jerry came along. he was a has-been and i was on the road to be. he wanted to be good to me, and i let him. that's all. laura. still, i don't see how you can live that way. [_lies on bed._ elfie. well, you did, and you didn't kick. laura. yes, but things are different with me now. you'd be the same way if you were in my place. elfie. no. i've had all the romance i want, and i'll stake you to all your love affairs. [_crosses back of bed, touches picture over bed._] i am out to gather in as much coin as i can in my own way, so when the old rainy day comes along i'll have a little change to buy myself an umbrella. laura. [_rising and angrily crossing to armchair._] what did you come here for? why can't you leave me alone when i'm trying to get along? elfie. because i want to help you. laura. [_during speech crosses to up-stage side of bed, angrily tosses quilt to floor and sits on bed in tears._] you can't help me. i'm all right--i tell you i am. what do you care anyway? elfie. [_sits on bed, crosses down stage to lower left side of bed, sits facing_ laura.] but i do care. i know how you feel with an old cat for a landlady and living up here on a side street with a lot of cheap burlesque people. why, the room's cold [laura _rises, crosses to window._], and there's no hot water, and you're beginning to look shabby. you haven't got a job--chances are you won't have one. what does [_indicating picture on bed with thumb._] this fellow out there do for you? send you long letters of condolences? that's what i used to get. when i wanted to buy a new pair of shoes or a silk petticoat, he told me how much he loved me; so i had the other ones re-soled and turned the old petticoat. and look at you, you're beginning to show it. [_she surveys her carefully._] i do believe there are lines coming in your face [laura _crosses to dresser quickly, picks up hand mirror, and looks at herself._], and you hide in the house because you've nothing new to wear. laura. [_puts down mirror, crossing down to back of bed._] but i've got what you haven't got. i may have to hide my clothes, but i don't have to hide my face. and you with that man--he's old enough to be your father--a toddling dote hanging on your apron-strings. i don't see how you dare show your face to a decent woman. elfie. [_rises._] you don't!--but you did once and i never caught you hanging your head. you say he's old. i know he's old, but he's good to me. he's making what's left of my life pleasant. you think i like him. i don't,--sometimes i hate him,--but he understands; and you can bet your life his check is in my mail every saturday night or there's a new lock on the door sunday morning. [_crossing to fireplace._ laura. how can you say such things to me? elfie. [_crosses to left end of table._] because i want you to be square with yourself. you've lost all that precious virtue women gab about. when you've got the name, i say get the game. laura. you can go now, elfie, and don't come back. elfie. [_gathering up muff, &c._] all right, if that's the way you want it to be, i'm sorry. [_a knock on the door._ laura. [_controlling herself after a moment's hesitation._] come in. annie _enters with a note, crosses, and hands it to_ laura. annie. mis' farley sent dis, miss laura. [laura _takes the note and reads it. she is palpably annoyed_. laura. there's no answer. annie. she tol' me not to leave until ah got an answah. laura. you must ask her to wait. annie. she wants an answah. laura. tell her i'll be right down--that it will be all right. annie. but, miss laura, she tol' me to get an answah. [_exit reluctantly_. laura. [_half to herself and half to_ elfie.] she's taking advantage of your being here. [_standing near door_. elfie. how? laura. she wants money--three weeks' room-rent. i presume she thought you'd give it to me. elfie. huh! [_moves to left_. laura. [_crossing to table_.] elfie, i've been a little cross; i didn't mean it. elfie. well? laura. could--could you lend me thirty-five dollars until i get to work? elfie. me? laura. yes. elfie. lend _you_ thirty-five dollars? laura. yes; you've got plenty of money to spare. elfie. well, you certainly have got a nerve. laura. you might give it to me. i haven't a dollar in the world, and you pretend to be such a friend to me! elfie. [_turning and angrily speaking across table_.] so that's the kind of woman you are, eh? a moment ago you were going to kick me out of the place because i wasn't decent enough to associate with you. you know how i live. you know how i get my money--the same way you got most of yours. and now that you've got this spasm of goodness i'm not fit to be in your room; but you'll take my money to pay your debts. you'll let me go out and do this sort of thing for your benefit, while you try to play the grand lady. i've got your number now, laura. where in hell is your virtue anyway? you can go to the devil--rich, poor, or any other way. i'm off! elfie _rushes toward door; for a moment_ laura _stands speechless, then bursts into hysterics_. laura. elfie! elfie! don't go now! don't leave me now! [elfie _hesitates with hand on door-knob_.] i can't stand it. i can't be alone. don't go, please; don't go. laura _falls into_ elfie's _arms, sobbing. in a moment_ elfie's _whole demeanour changes and she melts into the tenderest womanly sympathy, trying her best to express herself in her crude way_. elfie. there, old girl, don't cry, don't cry. you just sit down here and let me put my arms around you. [elfie _leads_ laura _over to armchair, places muff, &c., in chair, and sits_ laura _down in chair_. elfie _sits on right arm of chair with her left arm behind_ laura; _hugs_ laura _to her_. laura _in tears and sobbing during scene_.] i'm awful sorry--on the level, i am. i shouldn't have said it. i know that. but i've got feelings too, even if folks don't give me credit for it. laura. i know, elfie. i've gone through about all i can stand. elfie. well, i should say you have--and more than i would. anyway a good cry never hurts any woman. i have one myself, sometimes--under cover. laura. [_more seriously, recovering herself_.] perhaps what you said was true. elfie. we won't talk about it. [_wiping_ laura's _eyes and kissing her_. laura. [_with persistence_.] but perhaps it was true, and, elfie-- elfie. yes. laura. i think i've stood this just as long as i can. every day is a living horror. elfie. [_looking around room_.] it's the limit. laura. i've got to have money to pay the rent. i've pawned everything i have, except the clothes on my back. elfie. i'll give you all the money you need, dearie. great heavens, don't worry about that. don't you care if i got sore and--and lost my head. laura. no; i can't let you do that. [_rises; crosses to table_.] you may have been mad,--awfully mad,--but what you said was the truth. i can't take your money. [_sits right of table_. elfie. oh, forget that. [_rises, crosses to centre_. laura. maybe--maybe if he knew all about it--the suffering--he wouldn't blame me. elfie. who--the good man who wanted to lead you to the good life without even a bread-basket for an advance-agent? huh! laura. still he doesn't know how desperately poor i am. elfie. he knows you're out of work, don't he? laura. [_turning to_ elfie.] not exactly. i've let him think that i'm getting along all right. elfie. then you're a chump. hasn't he sent you anything? laura. he hasn't anything to send. elfie. well, what does he think you're going to live on?--asphalt croquettes with conversation sauce? laura. i don't know--i don't know. [_sobbing_. elfie. [_crosses to_ laura, _puts arms around her_.] don't be foolish, dearie. you know there is somebody waiting for you--somebody who'll be good to you and get you out of this mess. laura. you mean will brockton? [_looking up_. elfie. yes. laura. do you know where he is? elfie. yes. laura. well? elfie. you won't get sore again if i tell you, will you? laura. no--why? [_rises_. elfie. he's downstairs--waiting in the car. i promised to tell him what you said. laura. then it was all planned, and--and-- elfie. now, dearie, i knew you were up against it, and i wanted to bring you two together. he's got half of the burgess shows, and if you'll only see him everything will be fixed. laura. when does he want to see me? elfie. now. laura. here? elfie. yes. shall i tell him to come up? laura. [_after a long pause, crossing around to bed, down-stage side_.] yes. elfie. [_suddenly becomes animated_.] now you're a sensible dear. i'll bet he's half frozen down there. [_goes to door_.] i'll send him up. look at you, laura, you're a sight. [_crosses to_ laura, _takes her by hand, leads her up to washstand, takes towel and wipes_ laura's _eyes_.] it'll never do to have him see you looking like this; come over here and let me fix your eyes. now, laura, i want you to promise me you won't do any more crying. [_leads_ laura _over to dresser, takes powder-puff and powders_ laura's _face_.] come over here and let me powder your nose. now when he comes up you tell him he has got to blow us all off to a dinner to-night at martin's, seven-thirty. let me look at you. now you're all right. [_after daubing_ laura's _face with the rouge paw_, elfie _takes_ laura's _face in her hands and kisses her_.] make it strong now, seven-thirty, don't forget. i'll be there. [_crosses to armchair, gathers up muff, &c_.] so long. [_exit_. _after_ elfie's _exit_ laura _crosses slowly to wardrobe, pulls off picture of_ john; _crosses to dresser, takes picture of_ john _from there; carries both pictures over to bed; kneels on bed, pulls down picture at head of bed; places all three pictures under pillow_. will _is heard coming upstairs, and knocks_. laura. come in. will _enters. his dress is that of a man of business, the time being about february. he is well groomed and brings with him the impression of easy luxury_. will. [_as he enters_.] hello, laura. _there is an obvious embarrassment on the part of each of them. she rises, goes to him and extends her hand_. laura. i'm--i'm glad to see you, will. will. thank you. laura. won't you sit down? will. [_regaining his ease of manner_.] thank you again. [_puts hat and cane at end of wardrobe; removes overcoat and places it on back of armchair; sits in armchair_. laura. [_sits right of table_.] it's rather cold out, isn't it? will. just a bit sharp. laura. you came with elfie in the car? will. she picked me up at martin's; we lunched there. laura. by appointment? will. i'd asked her. laura. well? will. well, laura. laura. she told you? will. not a great deal. what do you want to tell me? laura. [_very simply, and avoiding his glance_.] will, i'm ready to come back. will. [_with an effort concealing his sense of triumph and satisfaction. rises, crosses to_ laura.] i'm mighty glad of that, laura. i've missed you like the very devil. laura. do we--do we have to talk it over much? [_crosses to left of table in front of bed_. will. not at all unless you want to. i understand--in fact, i always have. laura. [_wearily_.] yes, i guess you always did. i didn't. [_crosses and sits right of table_. will. it will be just the same as it was before, you know. laura. yes. will. i didn't think it was possible for me to miss anyone the way i have you. i've been lonely. laura. that's nice in you to say that. will. you'll have to move out of here right away. [_crossing to back of table, surveying room_.] this place is enough to give one the colly-wabbles. if you'll be ready to-morrow i'll send my man over to help you take care of the luggage. laura. to-morrow will be all right, thank you. will. and you'll need some money in the meantime. i'll leave this here. [_he takes a roll of bills and places it on the bureau_. laura. you seem to have come prepared. did elfie and you plan this all out? will. not planned--just hoped. i think you'd better go to some nice hotel now. later we can arrange. [_sits on up-stage side of bed_. laura. will, we'll always be frank. i said i was ready to go. it's up to you--when and where. will. the hotel scheme is the best, but, laura-- laura. yes? will. you're quite sure this is in earnest. you don't want to change? you've time enough now. laura. i've quite made up my mind. it's final. will. if you want to work, burgess has a nice part for you. i'll telephone and arrange if you say so. laura. thanks. say i'll see him in the morning. will. and, laura, you know when we were in denver, and-- laura. [_rises hurriedly; crosses right_.] please, please, don't speak of it. will. i'm sorry, but i've got to. i told [_rises, and crosses to left_.] madison [laura _turns her head_.]--pardon me, but i must do this--that if this time ever came i'd have you write him the truth. before we go any further i'd like you to do that now. laura. say good-bye? [_turns to_ will. will. just that. laura. i wouldn't know how to begin. it will hurt him awfully deeply. will. it'll be worse if you don't. he'll like you for telling him. it would be honest, and that is what he expects. laura. must i--now? will. i think you should. laura. [_goes to table and sits down_.] how shall i begin, will? will. [_standing back of table_.] you mean you don't know what to say? laura. yes. will. then i'll dictate. laura. i'll do just as you say. you're the one to tell me now. will. address it the way you want to. [_she complies_.] i'm going to be pretty brutal. in the long run i think that is best, don't you? laura. it's up to you. will. ready? laura. begin. will. [_dictating_.] "all i have to say can be expressed in one word, 'good-bye.' i shall not tell you where i've gone, but remind you of what brockton told you the last time he saw you. he is here now [_pause_.], dictating this letter. what i am doing is voluntary--my own suggestion. don't grieve. be happy and successful. i do not love you"-- [_she puts pen down; looks at him_. laura. will--please. will. it has got to go just that way--"i do not love you." sign it "laura." [_she does it_.] fold it, put it in an envelope--seal it--address it. now shall i mail it? laura. no. if you don't mind i'd sooner. it's a sort of a last--last message. will. [_crosses to armchair; gets coat, puts it on_.] all right. you're a little upset now, and i'm going. we are all to dine at martin's to-night at seven-thirty. there'll be a party. of course you'll come. [_gets hat and cane_. laura. i don't think i can. you see-- will. i know. i guess there's enough there [_indicating money_.] for your immediate needs. later you can straighten things up. shall i send the car? laura. yes, please. will. good. it will be the first happy evening i've had in a long, long time. you'll be ready? [_approaches and bends over her as if to caress her_. laura. [_shrinking away_.] please don't. remember we don't dine until seven-thirty. will. all right. [_exit_. _for a moment_ laura _sits silent, and then angrily rises, crosses up to dresser, gets alcohol lamp, crosses to table with lamp, lights same, and starts back to dresser. knock at door_. laura. come in. [annie _enters, and stops_.] that you, annie? annie. yassum. laura. mrs. farley wants her rent. there is some money. [_tosses money on to table_.] take it to her. annie _goes to the table, examines the roll of bills and is palpably surprised_. annie. dey ain't nothin' heah, miss laura, but five great big one hunderd dollah bills. laura. take two. and look in that upper drawer. you'll find some pawn tickets there. [annie _complies_. annie. yassum. [_aside_.] dat's real money--dem's yellow-backs sure. laura. take the two top ones and go get my lace gown and one of the hats. the ticket is for a hundred and ten dollars. keep ten for yourself, and hurry. annie. [_aside_.] ten for myself--i never see so much money. [_to_ laura, _her astonishment nearly overcoming her_.] yassum, miss laura, yassum. [_she goes toward door, and then turns to_ laura.] ah'm so mighty glad yo' out all yo' trouble, miss laura. i says to mis' farley now-- laura. [_snapping her off_.] don't--don't. go do as i tell you and mind your business. [annie _turns sullenly and walks toward the door. at that moment_ laura _sees the letter, which she has thrown on the table_.] wait a minute. i want you to mail a letter. [_by this time her hair is half down, hanging loosely over her shoulders. her waist is open at the throat, collar off, and she has the appearance of a woman's untidiness when she is at that particular stage of her toilet. hands letter to_ annie, _but snatches it away as_ annie _turns to go. she glances at the letter long and wistfully, and her nerve fails her_.] never mind. annie _exits. slowly_ laura _puts the letter over the flame of the alcohol lamp and it ignites. as it burns she holds it in her fingers, and when half consumed throws it into waste-jar, sits on side of bed watching letter burn, then lies down across bed on her elbows, her chin in her hands, facing audience. as the last flicker is seen the curtain slowly descends_. curtain. act iii. scene. _two months have elapsed. the scene is at_ brockton's _apartment in a hotel such as is not over particular concerning the relations of its tenants. there are a number of these hotels throughout the theatre district of new york, and, as a rule, one will find them usually of the same type. the room in which this scene is placed is that of the general living-room in one of the handsomest apartments in the building. the prevailing colour is green, and there is nothing particularly gaudy about the general furnishings. they are in good taste, but without the variety of arrangement and ornamentation which would naturally obtain in a room occupied by people a bit more particular concerning their surroundings. down stage is a table about three feet square which can be used not only as a general centre-table, but also for service while the occupants are eating. there is a breakfast service on this table, and also a tray and stand behind it. there is a chair at either side of the table, and at right coming up stage, the room turns at a sharp angle of thirty-five degrees, and this space is largely taken up by a large doorway. this is equipped with sliding-doors and hung with green portières, which are handsome and in harmony with the general scheme of the furnishings of the room. this entrance is to the sleeping-room of the apartments_. _at the back of the stage is a large window or alcove. the window is on the ordinary plan, and the view through it shows the back of another building of new york, presumably a hotel of about the same character. green portières are also hung on the windows. down left is the entrance to the corridor of the hotel, and this must be so arranged that it works with a latch-key and opens upon a small hallway, which separates the apartment from the main hallway. this is necessary as the action calls for the slamming of a door, and later the opening of the direct and intimate door of the apartment with a latch-key. left of centre is a sofa, and there is a general arrangement of chairs without over-crowding the apartment. just below, where the right portière is hung, is a long, full-length mirror, such as women dress by. against wall is a lady's fancy dresser._ _to the immediate left of the sliding-doors, which go into the sleeping-apartment, is a lady's small writing-desk, with a drawer on the right-hand side, in which is a pearl-handled -calibre revolver. the front of the desk is open at rise. on top of the desk is a desk lamp and a large box of candy; inside the desk is writing material, &c. in pigeon-hole left there is a small photo and frame, which_ annie _places on the table when she removes the breakfast set. in front of centre window in alcove is a small table on which is a parlour lamp, and some newspapers, including the "new york sun." on the floor running between the desk and table is a large fur rug. in front of the table is a small gilt chair; in front of desk there is also a small gilt chair; there is a pianola piano, on top of which is a bundle of music-rolls. in place, ready to play, is a roll of a negro tune called "bon-bon buddie, my chocolate drop." on top of the piano, in addition to the music-rolls, are a fancy lamp, a large basket of chrysanthemums, and two photos in frames, at the upper corner. standing on the floor is a large piano lamp. on the sofa are cushions, and thrown over its back is a lady's opera-coat. on the sofa are also a fan and some small dinner favours._ _on the dresser are a lady's silver toilet set, including powder boxes, rouge boxes, manicuring implements, and a small plush black cat that might have been a favour at some time. two little dolls hang on the side of the glass of the dresser, which also might have been favours. these are used later in the action, and are necessary._ at rise. _when the curtain rises on this scene it is noticeable that the occupants of the room must have returned rather late at night, after having dined, not wisely, but too well. in the alcove is a man's dress-coat and vest thrown on the cushions in a most careless manner; a silk hat badly rumpled is near it. over the top of sofa is an opera-cloak, and hung on the mirror is a huge hat, of the evening type, such as women would pay handsomely for. a pair of gloves is thrown on top of the pier-glass. the curtains in the bay-window are half drawn, and the light shades are half drawn down the windows, so that when the curtain goes up the place is in a rather dim light. on the table are the remains of a breakfast, which is served in a box-like tray such as is used in hotels._ laura _is discovered sitting at right of table, her hair a bit untidy. she has on a very expensive negligée gown._ will, _in a business suit, is at the other side of the table, and both have evidently just about concluded their breakfast and are reading the newspapers while they sip their coffee._ laura _is intent in the scanning of her "morning telegraph," while_ will _is deep in the market reports of the "journal of commerce," and in each instance these things must be made apparent._ will _throws down the paper rather impatiently._ will. have you seen the _sun_, laura? laura. no. will. where is it? laura. i don't know. will. [_in a loud voice._] annie, annie! [_a pause._] annie! [_in an undertone, half directed to_ laura.] where the devil is that nigger? laura. why, i suppose she's at breakfast. will. well, she ought to be here. laura. did it ever occur to you that she has got to eat just the same as you have? will. she's your servant, isn't she? laura. my maid. will. well, what have you got her for,--to eat or to wait on you? annie! laura. don't be so cross. what do you want? will. i want the _sun_. [brockton _pours out one half glass of water from bottle._ laura. i will get it for you. _rather wearily she gets up and goes to the table, where there are other morning papers; she takes the "sun," hands it to him, goes back to her seat, re-opens the "morning telegraph." there is a pause._ annie _enters from the sleeping-room._ annie. do yuh want me, suh? will. yes, i did want you, but don't now. when i'm at home i have a man to look after me, and i get what i want. laura. for heaven's sake, will, have a little patience. if you like your man so well, you had better live at home, but don't come around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody. will. don't think for a moment that there's much to come around here for. annie, this room's stuffy. annie. yassuh. will. draw those portières. let those curtains up. [annie _lets up curtain._] let's have a little light. take away these clothes and hide them. don't you know that a man doesn't want to see the next morning anything to remind him of the night before. make the place look a little respectable. _in the meantime_ annie _scurries around, picking up the coat and vest, opera-cloak, &c., as rapidly as possible, and throwing them over her arm without any idea of order. it is very apparent that she is rather fearful of the anger of_ will _while he is in this mood._ will. [_looking at her._] be careful. you're not taking the wash off the line. annie. yassuh. [_exit in confusion._ laura. [_laying down paper and looking at_ will.] well, i must say you're rather amiable this morning. will. i feel like hell. laura. market unsatisfactory? will. no; head too big. [_he lights a cigar; as he takes a puff he makes an awful face._] tastes like punk. [_puts cigar into cup._ laura. you drank a lot. will. we'll have to cut out those parties. i can't do those things any more. i'm not as young as i was, and in the morning it makes me sick. how do you feel? laura. a little tired, that's all. [_rises, and crosses to bureau._ will. you didn't touch anything? laura. no. will. i guess you're on the safe side. it was a great old party, though, wasn't it? laura. did you think so? will. oh, for that sort of a blow-out. not too rough, but just a little easy. i like them at night and i hate them in the morning. [_he picks up the paper and commences to glance it over in a casual manner, not interrupting his conversation._] were you bored? laura. yes; always at things like that. will. well, you don't have to go. laura. you asked me. will. still, you could say no. [laura _picks up paper, puts it on table and crosses back to bureau._ laura. but you asked me. will. what did you go for if you didn't want to? laura. _you_ wanted me to. will. i don't quite get you. laura. well, will, you have all my time when i'm not in the theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. you pay for it. i'm working for you. will. is that all i've got,--just your time? laura. [_wearily._] that and the rest. [laura _crosses up to desk, gets "part," crosses to sofa, turning pages of "part."_] i guess you know. [_crosses to sofa and sits._ will. [_looking at her curiously._] down in the mouth, eh? i'm sorry. laura. no, only if you want me to be frank, i'm a little tired. you may not believe it, but i work awfully hard over at the theatre. burgess will tell you that. i know i'm not so very good as an actress, but i try to be. [laura _lies down on sofa._] i'd like to succeed, myself. they're very patient with me. of course they've got to be,--that's another thing you're paying for, but i don't seem to get along except this way. will. oh, don't get sentimental. if you're going to bring up that sort of talk, laura, do it sometime when i haven't got a hang-over, and then don't forget talk never does count for much. laura _crosses up to mirror, picks up hat from box, puts it on, looks in mirror. she turns around and looks at him steadfastly for a minute. during this entire scene, from the time the curtain rises, she must in a way indicate a premonition of an approaching catastrophe, a feeling, vague but nevertheless palpable, that something is going to happen. she must hold this before her audience so that she can show to them, without showing to him, the disgust she feels._ laura _has tasted of the privations of self-sacrifice during her struggle, and she has weakly surrendered and is unable to go back, but that brief period of self-abnegation has shown to her most clearly the rottenness of the other sort of living. there are enough sentimentality and emotion in her character to make it impossible for her to accept this manner of existence as_ elfie _does. hers is not a nature of careless candour, but of dreamy ideals and better living, warped, handicapped, disillusioned, and destroyed by a weakness that finds its principal force in vanity._ will _resumes his newspaper in a more attentive way. the girl looks at him and expresses in pantomime, by the slightest gesture or shrug of the shoulders, her growing distaste for him and his way of living. in the meantime_ will _is reading the paper rather carefully. he stops suddenly and then looks at his watch._ laura. what time is it? will. after ten. laura. oh. will _at this moment particularly reads some part of the paper, turns to her with a keen glance of suspicion and inquiry, and then for a very short moment evidently settles in his mind a cross-examination. he has read in this paper a despatch from chicago, which speaks of_ john madison _having arrived there as a representative of a big western mining syndicate which is going to open large operations in the nevada gold-fields, and representing_ mr. madison _as being on his way to new york with sufficient capital to enlist more, and showing him to be now a man of means. the attitude of_ laura _and the coincidence of the despatch bring back to_ will _the scene in denver, and later in new york, and with that subtle intuition of the man of the world he connects the two._ will. i don't suppose, laura, that you'd be interested now in knowing anything about that young fellow out in colorado? what was his name--madison? laura. do you know anything? will. no, nothing particularly. i've been rather curious to know how he came out. he was a pretty fresh young man and did an awful lot of talking. i wonder how he's doing and how he's getting along. i don't suppose by any chance you have ever heard from him? laura. no, no; i've never heard. [_crosses to bureau._ will. i presume he never replied to that letter you wrote? laura. no. will. it would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow should [_looks at paper._] happen to come across a lot of money--not that i think he ever could, but it would be funny, wouldn't it? laura. yes, yes; it would be unexpected. i hope he does. it might make him happy. will. think he might take a trip east and see you act. you know you've got quite a part now. laura. [_impatiently._] i wish you wouldn't discuss this. why do you mention it now? [_crossing to right of table._] is it because you were drinking last night and lost your sense of delicacy? you once had some consideration for me. what i've done i've done. i'm giving you all that i can. please, please, don't hurt me any more than you can help. that's all i ask. [_crossing up to mirror. crosses back to right of table; sits._ will. well, i'm sorry. i didn't mean that, laura. i guess i am feeling a little bad to-day. really, i don't want to hurt your feelings, my dear. _he gets up, goes to her, puts his hands on her shoulders, and his cheek close to the back of her head. she bends forward and shudders a little bit. it is very easy to see that the life she is leading is becoming intolerable to her._ will. you know, dearie, i do a lot for you because you've always been on the level with me. i'm sorry i hurt you, but there was too much wine last night and i'm all upset. forgive me. laura, _in order to avoid his caresses, has leaned forward; her hands are clasped between her knees, and she is looking straight outward with a cold, impassive expression._ will _regards her silently for a moment. really in the man's heart there is an affection, and really he wants to try to comfort her; but he seems to realize that she has slipped away from the old environment and conditions, and that he simply bought her back; that he hasn't any of her affection, even with his money; that she evinces toward him none of the old camaraderie; and it hurts him, as those things always hurt a selfish man, inclining him to be brutal and inconsiderate._ will _crosses to centre, and stands reading paper; bell rings; a pause and second bell._ will _seizes upon this excuse to go up-stage and over towards the door._ will. [_after second bell._] damn that bell. _he continues on his way; he opens the door, leaves it open, and passes on to the outer door, which he opens._ laura _remains immovable and impassive, with the same cold, hard expression on her face. he comes in, slamming the outer door with effect, which one must have at this point of the play, because it is essential to a situation coming later. enters the room, closes the door, and holds in his hand a telegram. looks from newspaper to telegram._ will. a wire. laura. for me? will. yes. laura. from whom, i wonder. perhaps elfie with a luncheon engagement. will. [_handing telegram to her._] i don't know. here. _pause; he faces her, looking at her. she opens it quickly. she reads it and, as she does, gasps quickly with an exclamation of fear and surprise. this is what the despatch says (it is dated at buffalo and addressed to_ laura): _"i will be in new york before noon. i'm coming to marry you and i'm coming with a bank-roll. i wanted to keep it secret and have a big surprise for you, but i can't hold it any longer, because i feel just like a kid with a new top. don't go out, and be ready for the big matrimonial thing. all my love. john."_ will. no bad news, i hope? laura. [_walking up stage rather hurriedly._] no, no--not bad news. will. i thought you were startled. laura. no, not at all. will. [_looking at paper about where he had left off._] from elfie? [_crosses to, and sits in armchair._ laura. no, just a friend. will. oh! _he makes himself rather comfortable in the chair, and_ laura _regards him for a moment from up stage as if trying to figure out how to get rid of him_. laura. won't you be rather late getting down town, will? will. doesn't make any difference. i don't feel much like the office now. thought i might order the car and take a spin through the park. the cold air will do me a lot of good. like to go? laura. no, not to-day. i thought your business was important; you said so last night. [_crosses to sofa, and stands_. will. no hurry. do you--er--want to get rid of me? laura. why should i? will. expecting someone? laura. no--not exactly. [_crosses up to window_. will. if you don't mind, i'll stay here. [_lets curtain fly up_. laura. just as you please. [_a pause. crosses to piano; plays_.] will? will. yes. laura. how long does it take to come from buffalo? will. depends on the train you take. laura. about how long? will. between eight and ten hours, i think. some one coming? laura. do you know anything about the trains? will. not much. why don't you find out for yourself? have annie get the time-table? laura. i will. annie! annie! [_rises from piano_. annie _appears at doorway_. annie. yassum! laura. go ask one of the hall-boys to bring me a new york central time-table. annie. yassum! _crosses the stage and exits through door_. laura _sits on left arm of sofa_. will. then you _do_ expect someone, eh? laura. only one of the girls who used to be in the same company with me. but i'm not sure that she's coming here. will. then the wire was from her? laura. yes. will. did she say what train she was coming on? laura. no. will. well, there are a lot of trains. about what time did you expect her in? laura. she didn't say. will. do i know her? laura. i think not. i met her while i worked in 'frisco. will. oh! [_resumes his paper_. annie _reënters with a time-table and hands it to_ laura. laura. thanks; take those breakfast things away, annie. [_sits on sofa_. annie _complies; takes them across stage, opens the door leading to the corridor, exits_. laura _in the meantime is studying the time-table_. laura. i can't make this out. will. give it here; maybe i can help you. laura _crosses to right of table, sits opposite_ will, _and hands him the time-table. he takes it and handles it as if he were familiar with it_. will. where is she coming from? laura. the west; the telegram was from buffalo. i suppose she was on her way when she sent it. will. there's a train comes in here at : --that's the twentieth century,--that doesn't carry passengers from buffalo; then there's one at : ; one at : ; another at : ; another at : ; and another at : --that's the lake shore limited, a fast train; and all pass through buffalo. did you think of meeting her? laura. no. she'll come here when she arrives. will. knows where you live? laura. she has the address. will. ever been to new york before? laura. i think not. will. [_passing her the time-table_.] well, that's the best i can do for you. laura. thank you. [_crosses and puts time-table in desk_. will. [_takes up the paper again_. laura _looks at clock_.] by george, this is funny. laura. what? will. speak of the devil, you know. laura. who? will. your old friend madison. laura. [_utters a slight exclamation and makes an effort to control herself_.] what--what about him? will. he's been in chicago. laura. how do you know? will. here's a despatch about him. laura. [_coming quickly over to him, looks over his shoulder_.] what--where--what's it about? will. well, i'm damned if he hasn't done what he said he'd do--see! [_holds the paper so that she can see_. laura _takes paper_.] he's been in chicago, and is on his way to new york. he's struck it rich in nevada and is coming with a lot of money. queer, isn't it? [laura _puts paper on table_.] did you know anything about it? [_lights cigarette_. laura. no, no; nothing at all. [_crosses to bureau_. will. lucky for him, eh? laura. yes, yes; it's very nice. will. too bad he couldn't get this a little sooner, eh, laura? laura. oh, i don't know--i don't think it's too bad. what makes you ask? will. oh, nothing. i suppose he ought to be here to-day. are you going to see him if he looks you up? laura. no, no; i don't want to see him. you know that, don't you, that i don't want to see him? what makes you ask these questions? [_crosses to sofa and sits_. will. just thought you might meet him, that's all. don't get sore about it. laura. i'm not. _she holds the telegram crumpled in one hand_. will _lays down the paper, and regards_ laura _curiously. she sees the expression on his face and averts her head in order not to meet his eye_. laura. what are you looking at me that way for? will. i wasn't conscious that i was looking at you in any particular way--why? laura. oh, nothing. i guess i'm nervous, too. [_lies on sofa_. will. i dare say you are. [_a pause_. laura. yes, i am. [will _crosses to_ laura. will. you know i don't want to delve into a lot of past history at this time, but i've got to talk to you for a moment. laura. why don't you do it some other time? i don't want to be talked to now. [_rises and crosses a little to left_. will. but i've got to do it just the same. laura. [_trying to affect an attitude of resigned patience and resignation_.] well, what is it? [_resuming seat on sofa_. will. you've always been on the square with me, laura. that's why i've liked you a lot better than the other women. laura. are you going into all that again now, this morning? i thought we understood each other. will. so did i, but somehow i think that maybe we _don't_ quite understand each other. laura. in what way? [_turns to_ will. will. [_looking her straight in the eye_.] that letter i dictated to you the day that you came back to me, and left it for you to mail--did you mail it? laura. yes. will. you're quite sure? laura. yes, i'm quite sure. i wouldn't say so if i wasn't. will. and you didn't know madison was coming east until you read about it in that newspaper? laura. no--no, i didn't know. will. have you heard from him? laura. no--no--i haven't heard from him. don't talk to me about this thing. why can't you leave me alone? i'm miserable enough as it is. [_crossing to extreme right_. will. [_crossing to table_.] but i've got to talk to you. laura, you're lying to me. laura. what! [_she makes a valiant effort to become angry_. will. you're lying to me, and you've been lying to me, and i've trusted you. show me that telegram! laura. no. will. [_going over towards her_.] show me that telegram! [laura _crosses up to doors leading into bedroom_. laura. [_tears telegram in half_.] you've no right to ask me. will. are you going to make me take it away [laura _crosses to window_.] from you? i've [_crosses to sofa_.] never laid my hands on you yet. laura. it's my business. [_crossing to left of sofa, around it on down-stage side_. will. yes, and it's mine. _during scene. backing away from_ will, _who is following her_, laura _backs against bureau_. will _grabs her and attempts to take telegram from her. she has put it in the front of her waist. she slowly draws it out_. will. that telegram's from madison. give it here! laura. no. will. i'm going to find out where i stand. give me that telegram, or i'll take it away from you. laura. no. will. come on! laura. i'll give it to you. [_takes telegram out of waist, and hands it to him_. _he takes it slowly, looking her squarely in the eye_. will _crosses to centre, and does not glance away while he slowly smoothes it out so that it can be read; when he finally takes it in both hands to read it she staggers back a step or two weakly_. will. [_reads the telegram aloud_.] "i will be in new york before noon. i'm coming to marry you, and i'm coming with a bank-roll. i wanted to keep it a secret and have a big surprise for you, but i can't hold it any longer, because i feel just like a kid with a new top. don't go out, and be ready for the big matrimonial thing. all my love. john." then you knew? laura. yes. will. but you didn't know he was coming until this arrived? laura. no. will. and you didn't mail the letter [_tossing telegram on table_], did you? laura. no. will. what did you do with it? laura. i--i burned it. will. why? [laura _is completely overcome and unable to answer_. will. why? laura. i--i couldn't help it--i simply couldn't help it. will. so you've been corresponding all this time. laura. yes. will. and he doesn't know [_with a gesture around the room, indicating the condition in which they live._] about us? laura. no. will. [_taking a step towards her._] by god, i never beat a woman in my life, but i feel as though i could wring your neck. laura. why don't you? you've done everything else. why don't you? will. don't you know that i gave madison my word that if you came back to me i'd let him know? don't you know that i like that young fellow, and i wanted to protect him, and did everything i could to help him? and do you know what you've done to me? you've made me out a liar--you've made me lie to a man--a man--you understand. what are you going to do now? tell me--what are you going to do now? don't stand there as if you've lost your voice--how are you going to square me? laura. i'm not thinking about squaring you. what am i going to do for him? will. not what _you_ are going to do for him--what am _i_ going to do for him. why, i couldn't have that young fellow think that i tricked him into this thing for you or all the rest of the women of your kind on earth. god! i might have known that you, and the others like you, couldn't be square. [_the girl looks at him dumbly. he glances at his watch, walks up stage, looks out of the window, comes down again, goes to the table, and looks at her across it._] you've made a nice mess of it, haven't you? laura. [_weakly._] there isn't any mess. please go away. he'll be here soon. please let _me_ see him--please do that. will. no, i'll wait. this time i'm going to tell him myself, and i don't care how tough it is. laura. [_immediately regaining all her vitality._] no, you mustn't do that. [_crossing back of table to centre._] oh, will, i'm not offering any excuse. i'm not saying anything, but i'm telling you the truth. i couldn't give him up--i couldn't do it. i love him. will. huh. [_grins; crosses to front of sofa._ laura. don't you think so? i know you can't see what i see, but i do. and why can't you go away? why can't you leave me this? it's all i ever had. he doesn't know. no one will ever tell him. i'll take him away. it's the best for him--it's the best for me. please go. will. why--do you think that i'm going to let you trip him the way you tripped me? [_crosses and sits in armchair._] no. i'm going to stay right here until that young man arrives, and i'm going to tell him that it wasn't my fault. you were to blame. laura. then you are going to let him know. you're not going to give me a single, solitary chance? will. i'll give you every chance that you deserve when he knows. then he can do as he pleases, but there must be no more deception, that's flat. [laura _crosses and kneels beside_ will's _chair._ laura. then you must let me tell him--[will _turns away impatiently._]--yes, you must. if i didn't tell him before, i'll do it now. you must go. if you ever had any regard for me--if you ever had any affection--if you ever had any friendship, please let me do this now. i want you to go--you can come back. then you'll see--you'll know--only i want to try to make him understand that--that maybe if i am weak i'm not vicious. i want to let him know that i didn't want to do it, but i couldn't help it. just give me the chance to be as good as i can be. [will _gives her a look._] oh, i promise you, i will tell him, and then--then i don't care what happens--only he must learn everything from me--please--please--let me do this--it's the last favour i shall ever--ever ask of you. won't you? [laura _breaks down and weeps._ will. [_rising, looks at her a moment as if mentally debating the best thing to do. crosses in front of table; stands facing her with back to audience._] all right, i won't be unkind. i'll be back early this afternoon, and just remember, this is the time you'll have to go right through to the end. understand? laura. yes, i'll do it,--all of it. won't you please go--now? [_crosses; sits in armchair._ will. all right. [_he exits into the bedroom and immediately enters again with overcoat on his arm and hat in hand; he goes centre, and turns._] i am sorry for you, laura, but remember you've got to tell the truth. laura. [_who is sitting in a chair looking straight in front of her with a set expression._] please go. [will _exits._ laura _sits in a chair in a state of almost stupefaction, holding this attitude as long as possible._ annie _enters, and in a characteristic manner begins her task of tidying up the room;_ laura, _without changing her attitude, and staring straight in front of her, her elbows between her knees and her chin on her hands._ laura. annie! annie. yassum. laura. do you remember in the boarding-house--when we finally packed up--what you did with everything? annie. yassum. laura. you remember that i used to keep a pistol? annie. yo' all mean dat one yo' say dat gemman out west gave yuh once? laura. yes. annie. yassum, ah 'membuh it. laura. where is it now? annie. [_crosses to writing-desk._] last ah saw of it was in dis heah draw' in de writin'-desk. [_this speech takes her across to desk; she opens the drawer, fumbles among a lot of old papers, letters, &c., and finally produces a small thirty-two calibre, and gingerly crosses to_ laura.] is dis it? laura. [_slowly turns around and looks at it._] yes. put it back. i thought perhaps it was lost. [annie _complies, when the bell rings._ laura _starts suddenly, involuntarily gathering her negligée gown closer to her figure, and at once she is under a great stress of emotion, and sways upon her feet to such an extent that she is obliged to put one hand out on to the table to maintain her balance. when she speaks, it is with a certain difficulty of articulation._] see--who--that is--and let me know. annie. [_turning._] yassum. [_crosses, opens the first door, and afterwards opens the second door._ elfie's voice. [_off stage._] hello, annie,--folks home? annie. yassum, she's in. laura _immediately evinces her tremendous relief, and_ elfie, _without waiting for a reply, has shoved_ annie _aside and enters,_ annie _following and closing the door._ elfie _is beautifully gowned in a morning dress with an overabundance of fur trimmings and all the furbelows that would accompany the extravagant raiment generally affected by a woman of that type._ elfie _approaching effusively._ elfie. hello, dearie. laura. hello, elfie. laura _crosses and sits on sofa._ elfie _puts muff, &c., on table._ elfie. it's a bully day out. [_crossing to bureau, looking in mirror._] i've been shopping all morning long; just blew myself until i'm broke, that's all. my goodness, don't you ever get dressed? listen. [_crosses left of table to centre._] talk about cinches. i copped out a gown, all ready made, and fits me like the paper on the wall, for $ . . looks like it might have cost $ . anyway i had them charge $ on the bill, and i kept the change. there are two or three more down town there, and i want you to go down and look them over. models, you know, being sold out. i don't blame you for not getting up earlier. [_she sits at the table, not noticing_ laura.] that was some party last night. i know you didn't drink a great deal, but gee! what an awful tide will had on. how do you feel? [_looks at her critically._] what's the matter, are you sick? you look all in. what you want to do is this--put on your duds and go out for an hour. it's a perfectly grand day out. my gaud! how the sun does shine! clear and cold. [_a pause._] well, much obliged for the conversation. don't i get a "good-morning," or a "how-dy-do," or a something of that sort? laura. i'm tired, elfie, and blue--terribly blue. elfie. [_rises; crosses to_ laura.] well now, you just brace up and cut out all that emotional stuff. i came down to take you for a drive. you'd like it; just through the park. will you go? laura. [_going up stage._] not this morning, dear; i'm expecting somebody. elfie. a man? laura. [_finding it almost impossible to suppress a smile._] no, a gentleman. elfie. same thing. do i know him? laura. you've heard of him. [_at desk, looking at clock._ elfie. well, don't be so mysterious. who is he? laura. what is your time, elfie? elfie. [_looks at her watch._] five minutes past eleven. laura. oh, i'm slow. i didn't know it was so late. just excuse me, won't you, while i get some clothes on. he may be here any moment. annie! [_she goes up stage towards portières._ elfie. who? laura. i'll tell you when i get dressed. make yourself at home, won't you, dear? elfie. i'd sooner hear. what is the scandal anyway? laura. [_as she goes out._] i'll tell you in a moment. just as soon as annie gets through with me. [_exit._ elfie. [_gets candy-box off desk, crosses, sits on arm of sofa, selecting candy. in a louder voice._] do you know, laura, i think i'll go back on the stage. laura. [_off stage._] yes? elfie. yes, i'm afraid i'll have to. i think i need a sort of a boost to my popularity. laura. how a boost, elfie? elfie. i think jerry is getting cold feet. he's seeing a little too much of me [_places candy-box on sofa._] nowadays. laura. what makes you think that? elfie. i think he is getting a relapse of that front-row habit. there's no use in talking, laura, it's a great thing for a girl's credit when a man like jerry can take two or three friends to the theatre, and when you make your entrance delicately point to you with his forefinger and say, "the third one from the front on the left belongs to muh." the old fool's hanging around some of these musical comedies lately, and i'm getting a little nervous every time rent day comes. laura. oh, i guess you'll get along all right, elfie. elfie. [_with serene self-satisfaction._] oh, that's a cinch [_rises; crosses to table, looking in dresser mirror at herself, and giving her hat and hair little touches._], but i like to leave well enough alone, and if i had to make a change right now it would require a whole lot of thought and attention, to say nothing of the inconvenience, and i'm so nicely settled in my flat. [_she sees the pianola._] say, dearie, when did you get the piano-player? i got one of them phonographs [_crosses to pianola, tries the levers, &c._], but this has got that beat a city block. how does it work? what did it cost? laura. i don't know. elfie. well, jerry's got to stake me to one of these. [_looks over the rolls on top. mumbles to herself._] "tannhauser, william tell, chopin." [_then louder._] listen, dear. ain't you got anything else except all this high-brow stuff? laura. what do you want? elfie. oh, something with a regular tune to it [_looks at empty box on pianola._]. oh, here's one; just watch me tear this off. [_the roll is the tune of "bon-bon buddie, my chocolate drop." she starts to play and moves the lever marked "swell" wide open, increases the tempo, and is pumping with all the delight and enthusiasm of a child._] ain't it grand? laura. gracious, elfie, don't play so loud. what's the matter? elfie. i shoved over that thing marked "swell." [_stops and turns. rises; crosses to centre and stands._] i sure will have to speak to jerry about this. i'm stuck on that swell thing. hurry up. [laura _appears._] gee! you look pale. [_and then in a tone of sympathy:_] i'll just bet you and will have had a fight, and he always gets the best of you, doesn't he, dearie? [laura _crosses to dresser, and busies herself._] listen. don't you think you can ever get him trained? i almost threw jerry down the stairs the other night and he came right back with a lot of american beauties and a check. i told him if he didn't look out i'd throw him down-stairs every night. he's getting too damned independent and it's got me nervous. oh, dear, i s'pose i will have to go back on the stage. [_sits in armchair._ laura. in the chorus? elfie. well, i should say not. i'm going to give up my musical career. charlie burgess is putting on a new play, and he says he has a part in it for me if i want to go back. it isn't much, but very important,--sort of a pantomime part. a lot of people talk about me, and just at the right time i walk across the stage and make an awful hit. i told jerry that if i went [laura _crosses to sofa, picks up candy-box, puts it upon desk, gets telegram from table, crosses to centre._] on he'd have to come across with one of those irish crochet lace gowns. he fell for it. do you know, dearie, i think he'd sell out his business just to have me back on the stage for a couple of weeks, just to give box-parties every night for my _en_-trance and _ex_-its. laura. [_seriously._] elfie! [laura _takes_ elfie _by the hand, and leads her over to sofa._ laura _sits,_ elfie _standing._ elfie. yes, dear. laura. come over here and sit down. elfie. what's up? laura. do you know what i'm going to ask of you? elfie. if it's a touch, you'll have to wait until next week. [_sits opposite_ laura. laura. no: just a little advice. elfie. [_with a smile._] well, that's cheap, and lord knows you need it. what's happened? laura _takes the crumpled and torn telegram that_ will _has left on the table and hands it to_ elfie. _the latter puts the two pieces together, reads it very carefully, looks up at_ laura _about middle of telegram, and lays it down._ elfie. well? laura. will suspected. there was something in the paper about mr. madison--the telegram came--then we had a row. elfie. serious? laura. yes. do you remember what i told you about that letter--the one will made me write--i mean to john--telling him what i had done? elfie. yes, you burned it. laura. i tried to lie to will--he wouldn't have it that way. he seemed to know. he was furious. elfie. did he hit you? laura. no; he made me admit that john didn't know, and then he said he'd stay here and tell himself that i'd made him lie, and then he said something about liking the other man and wanting to save him. elfie. save--shucks! he's jealous. laura. i told him if he'd only go i'd--tell john myself when he came, and now you see i'm waiting--and i've got to tell--and--and i don't know how to begin--and--and i thought you could help me--you seem so sort of resourceful, and it means--it means so much to me. if john turned on me now i couldn't go back to will, and, elfie,--i don't think i'd care to--stay here any more. elfie. what! [_in an awestruck tone, taking_ laura _in her arms impulsively._] dearie, get that nonsense out of your head and be sensible. i'd just like to see any two men who could make me think about--well--what you seem to have in your mind. laura. but i don't know; don't you see, elfie, i don't know. if i don't tell him, will will come back and he'll tell him, and i know john and maybe--elfie, do you know, i think john would kill him. elfie. well, don't you think anything about that. now let's get [_rises, crosses to armchair, draws it over a little, sits on left arm._] down to cases, and we haven't much time. business is business, and love is love. you're long on love and i'm long on business, and between the two of us we ought to straighten this thing out. now, evidently john is coming on here to marry you. laura. yes. elfie. and you love him? laura. yes. elfie. and as far as you know the moment that he comes in here it's quick to the justice and a big matrimonial thing. laura. yes, but you see how impossible it is-- elfie. i don't see anything impossible. from all you've said to me about this fellow there is only one thing to do. laura. one thing? elfie. yes--get married quick. you say he has the money and you have the love, and you're sick of brockton, and you want to switch and do it in the decent, respectable, conventional way, and he's going to take you away. haven't you got sense enough to know that, once you're married to mr. madison, will brockton wouldn't dare go to him, and if he did madison wouldn't believe him? a man will believe a whole lot about his girl, but nothing about his wife. laura. [_turns and looks at her. there is a long pause._] elfie [_rises; crosses to right of table._]--i--i don't think i could do like that to john. i don't think--i could deceive him. elfie. you make me sick. the thing to do is to lie to all men. [_rises; pushes chair to table._]--they all lie to you. protect yourself. you seem to think that your happiness depends on this. now do it. listen. [_touches_ laura _to make her sit down;_ laura _sits right of table;_ elfie _sits on right arm of chair left of table, with elbows on table._] don't you realize that you and me, and all the girls that are shoved into this life, are practically the common prey of any man who happens to come along? don't you know that they've got about as much consideration for us as they have for any pet animal around the house, and the only way that we've got it on the animal is that we've got brains? this is a game, laura, _not a sentiment_. do you suppose this madison [laura _turns to_ elfie.]--now don't get sore--hasn't turned these tricks himself before he met you, and i'll gamble he's done it since! a man's natural trade is a heartbreaking business. don't tell me about women breaking men's hearts. the only thing they can ever break is their bank roll. and besides, this is not will's business; he has no right to interfere. you've been with him--yes, and he's been nice to you; but i don't think that he's given you any the best of it. now if you want to leave and go your own way and marry any tom, dick, or harry that you want, it's nobody's affair but yours. laura. but you don't understand--it's john. i can't lie to him. elfie. well, that's too bad about you. i used to have that truthful habit myself, and the best i ever got was the worst of it. all this talk about love and loyalty and constancy is fine and dandy in a book, but when a girl has to look out for herself, take it from me, whenever you've got that trump card up your sleeve just play it and rake in the pot. [_takes_ laura's _hand affectionately._] you know, dearie, you're just about the only one in the world i love. laura. elfie! elfie. since i broke away from the folks up state and they've heard things, there ain't any more letters coming to me with an oswego postmark. ma's gone, and the rest don't care. you're all i've got in the world, laura, and what i'm asking you to do is because i want to see you happy. i was afraid this thing was coming off, and the thing to do now is to grab your happiness, no matter how you get it nor where it comes from. there ain't a whole lot of joy in this world for you and me and the others we know, and what little you get you've got to take when you're young, because, when those gray hairs begin to come, and the make-up isn't going to hide the wrinkles, unless you're well fixed, it's going to be hell. you know what a fellow doesn't know doesn't hurt him, and he'll love you just the same and you'll love him. as for brockton, let him get another girl; there're plenty 'round. why, if this chance came to me i'd tie a can to jerry so quick that you could hear it rattle all the way down broadway. [_rises, crosses back of table to_ laura, _leans over back of chair, and puts arms around her neck very tenderly._] dearie, promise me that you won't be a damn fool. [_the bell rings; both start._ laura. [_rises._] maybe that's john. [elfie _brushes a tear quickly from her eye._ elfie. oh! and you'll promise me, laura? laura. i'll try. [annie _enters up stage from the adjoining room and crosses to the door._] if that's mr. madison, annie, tell him to come in. laura _stands near the table, almost rigid. instinctively_ elfie _goes to the mirror and re-arranges her gown and hair as_ annie _exits._ elfie _turns to_ laura. elfie. if i think he's the fellow when i see him, watch me and i'll tip you the wink. [_kisses_ laura; _up stage puts on coat._ _she goes up stage to centre;_ laura _remains in her position. the doors are heard to open, and in a moment_ john _enters. he is dressed very neatly in a business suit, and his face is tanned and weather-beaten. after he enters, he stands still for a moment. the emotion that both he and_ laura _go through is such that each is trying to control it,_ laura _from the agony of her position, and_ john _from the mere hurt of his affection. he sees_ elfie _and forces a smile._ john. [_quietly._] hello, laura! i'm on time. laura _smiles, quickly crosses the stage, and holds out her hand._ laura. oh, john, i'm so glad--so glad to see you. [_they hold this position for a moment, looking into each other's eyes._ elfie _moves so as to take_ john _in from head to toe and is obviously very much pleased with his appearance. she coughs slightly._ laura _takes a step back with a smile._] oh, pardon me, john--one of my dearest friends, miss sinclair; she's heard a lot about you. elfie, _with a slight gush, in her most captivating manner, goes over and holds out her gloved hand laden with bracelets, and with her sweetest smile crosses to centre._ elfie. how do you do? madison. i'm glad to meet you, i'm sure. elfie. [_still holding_ john's _hand._] yes, i'm sure you are--particularly just at this time. [_to_ laura.] you know that old stuff about two's company and three [laura _smiles._] is a crowd. here's where i vamoose. [_crosses to door._ laura. [_as_ elfie _goes toward door._] don't hurry, dear. elfie. [_with a grin._] no, i suppose not; just fall down stairs and get out of the way, that's all. [_crosses to_ john.] anyway, mr. madison, i'm awfully glad to have met you, and i want to congratulate you. they tell me you're rich. john. oh, no; not rich. elfie. well, i don't believe you--anyway i'm going. ta-ta, dearie. good-bye, mr. madison. john. good-bye. [john _crosses up to back of sofa; removes coat, puts it on sofa._ elfie. [_goes to the door, opens it and turns._ john's _back is partly toward her and she gives a long wink at_ laura, _snapping fingers to attract_ laura's _attention._] i must say, laura, that when it comes to picking live ones, you certainly can go some. [_after this remark both turn toward her and both smile._ [_exit._ _after_ elfie _exits,_ john _turns to_ laura _with a pleasant smile, and jerks his head towards the door where_ elfie _has gone out._ john. i bet she's a character. laura. she's a dear. john. i can see that all right. [_crossing to centre._ laura. she's been a very great friend to me. john. that's good, but don't i get a "how-dy-do," or a handshake, or a little kiss? you know i've come a long way. laura _goes to him and places herself in his arms; he kisses her affectionately. during all this scene between them the tenderness of the man is very apparent. as she releases herself from his embrace he takes her face in his hands and holds it up towards his._ john. i'm not much on the love-making business, laura, but i never thought i'd be as happy as i am now. [john _and_ laura _cross to centre._ laura _kneels in armchair with back to audience,_ john _stands left of her._] i've been counting mile-posts ever since i left chicago, and it seemed like as if i had to go 'round the world before i got here. laura. you never told me about your good fortune. if you hadn't telegraphed i wouldn't even have known you were coming. john. i didn't want you to. i'd made up my mind to sort of drop in here and give you a great big surprise,--a happy one, i knew,--but the papers made such a fuss in chicago that i thought you might have read about it--did you? laura. no. john. gee! fixed up kind o' scrumptious, ain't you? [_crosses in front of sofa, around behind it, surveying rooms._] maybe you've been almost as prosperous as i have. laura. you can get a lot of gilt and cushions in new york at half price, and besides, i've got a pretty good part now. john. of course i know that, but i didn't think it would make you quite so comfortable. great, ain't it? laura. yes. john. [_standing beside her chair, with a smile._] well, are you ready? laura. for what, dear? [_looking up at him._ john. you know what i said in the telegram? laura. yes. [_leans her head affectionately on his shoulder._ john. well, i meant it. laura. i know. john. i've got to get back [john _looks around; crosses behind table to chair right of table, and sits facing her across it._], laura, just as soon as ever i can. there's a lot of work to be done out in nevada and i stole away to come to new york. i want to take you back. can you go? laura. yes--when? john. this afternoon. we'll take the eighteen-hour train to chicago, late this afternoon, and connect at chicago with the overland, and i'll soon have you in a home. [_pause._] and here's another secret. laura. what, dear? john. i've got that home all bought and furnished, and while you couldn't call it a fifth avenue residence, still it has got something on any other one in town. laura. but, john, you've been so mysterious. in all your letters you haven't told me a single, solitary thing about your good luck. john. i've planned to take you out and show you all that. laura. you should have told me,--i've been so anxious. john. i waited until it was a dead-sure thing. you know it's been pretty tough sledding out there in the mining country, and it did look as if i never would make a strike; but your spirit was with me and luck was with me, and i knew if i could only hold out that something would come my way. i had two pals, both of them miners,--they had the knowledge and i had the luck,--and one day, clearing away a little snow to build a fire, i poked my toe into the dirt, and there was somethin' there, dearie, that looked suspicious. i called jim,--that's one of the men,--and in less time than it takes to tell you there were three maniacs scratching away at old mother earth for all there was in it. we staked our claims in two weeks, and i came to reno to raise enough money for me to come east. now things are all fixed and it's just a matter of time. [_taking_ laura's _hand._ laura. so you're very, very rich, dear? john. oh, not rich [_releasing her hand, he leans back in his chair._], just heeled. i'm not going down to the wall street bargain counter and buy the union pacific, or anything like that; but we won't have to take the trip on tourists' tickets, and there's enough money to make us comfortable all the rest of our lives. laura. how hard you must have worked and suffered. john. nobody else ever accused me of that, but i sure will have to plead guilty to you. [_rises; stands at upper side of table._] why, dear, since the day you came into my life, hell-raising took a sneak out the back door and god poked his toe in the front, and ever since then i think he's been coming a little closer to me. [_crossing over._] i used to be a fellow without much faith, and kidded everybody who had it, and i used to say to those who prayed and believed, "you may be right, but show me a message." you came along and you brought that little document in your sweet face and your dear love. laura, you turned the trick for me, and i think i'm almost a regular man now. laura _turns away in pain; the realization of all she is to_ john _weighs heavily upon her. she almost loses her nerve, and is on the verge of not going through with her determination to get her happiness at any price._ laura. john, please, don't. i'm not worth it. [_rises, crosses to right._ john. [_with a light air._] not worth it? why, you're worth [_crossing behind table, stands behind_ laura.] that and a whole lot more. and see how you've got on! brockton told me you never could get along in your profession, but i knew you could. [_crosses back of_ laura, _takes her by the shoulders, shakes her playfully._] i knew what you had in you, and here you are. you see, if my foot hadn't slipped on the right ground and kicked up pay-dirt, you'd been all right. you succeeded and i succeeded, but i'm going to take you away; and after a while, when things sort of smooth out, and it's all clear where the money's [_crosses to sofa and sits._] coming from, we're going to move back here, and go to europe, and just have a great time, like a couple of good pals. laura. [_slowly crosses to_ john.] but if i hadn't succeeded and if things--things weren't just as they seem--would it make any difference to you, john? john. not the least in the world. [_he takes her in his arms and kisses her, drawing her on to sofa beside him._] now don't you get blue. i should not have surprised you this way. it's taken you off your feet. [_he looks at his watch, rises, crosses behind sofa, gets overcoat._] but we've not any time to lose. how soon can you get ready? laura. [_kneeling on sofa, leaning over back._] you mean to go? john. nothing else. laura. take all my things? john. all your duds. laura. why, dear, i can get ready most any time. john. [_looking off into bedroom._] that your maid? laura. yes,--annie. john. well, you and she can pack everything you want to take; the rest can follow later. [_puts coat on._] i planned it all out. there's a couple of the boys working down town,--newspaper men on park row. telephoned them when i got in and they're waiting for me. i'll just get down there as soon as i can. i won't be gone long. laura. how long? john. i don't know just how long, but we'll make that train. i'll get the license. we'll be married and we'll be off on our honeymoon this afternoon. can you do it? laura _goes up to him, puts her hands in his, and they confront each other._ laura. yes, dear, i could do anything for you. _he takes her in his arms and kisses her again. looks at her tenderly._ john. that's good. hurry now. i won't be long. good-bye. laura. hurry back, john. john. yes. i won't be long. [_exit._ laura. [_stands for a moment looking after him; then she suddenly recovers herself and walks rapidly over to the dresser, picks up large jewel-case, takes doll that is hanging on dresser, puts them on her left arm, takes black cat in her right hand and uses it in emphasizing her words in talking to_ annie. _places them all on table._] annie, annie, come here! annie. yassum. [_she appears at the door._ laura. annie, i'm going away, and i've got to hurry. annie. goin' away? laura. yes. i want you to bring both my trunks out here,--i'll help you,--and start to pack. we can't take everything. [annie _throws fur rug from across doorway into bedroom._], but bring all the clothes out and we'll hurry as fast as we can. come on. _exit_ laura _with_ annie. _in a very short interval she re-appears, and both are carrying a large trunk between them. they put it down, pushing sofa back._ annie. look out for your toes, miss laura. laura. i can take two. annie. golly, such excitement. [_crosses to table; pushes it over further, also armchair._] wheah yuh goin', miss laura? laura. never mind where i'm going. i haven't any time to waste now talking. i'll tell you later. this is one time, annie, that you've got to move. hurry up. laura _pushes her in front of her. exeunt the same way and re-appear with a smaller trunk._ annie. look out fo' your dress, miss laura. _these trunks are of the same type as those in act ii. when the trunks are put down_ laura _opens one and commences to throw things out._ annie _stands watching her._ laura _kneels in front of trunk, working and humming "bon-bon buddie."_ annie. ah nevah see you so happy, miss laura. laura. i never was so happy. for heaven's sake, go get something. don't stand there looking at me. i want you to hurry. annie. i'll bring out all de fluffy ones first. laura. yes, everything. [annie _enters with armful of dresses and hat-box of tissue-paper; dumps tissue-paper on floor, puts dresses in trunk._ annie. [_goes out again. outside._] you goin' to take dat opera-cloak? [_enters with more dresses, puts them on sofa, takes opera-cloak, spreads it on top of dresses on trunk._] my, but dat's a beauty. i jest love dat crushed rosey one. [_exit._ laura. annie, you put the best dresses on the foot of the bed and i'll get them myself. you heard what i said? annie. [_off stage._] yassum. annie _hangs dresses across bed in alcove._ laura _continues busily arranging the contents of the trunk, placing some garments here and some there, as if she were sorting them out._ will _quietly enters and stands at the door, looking at her. he holds this position as long as possible, and when he speaks it is in a very quiet tone._ will. going away? laura. [_starts, rises, and confronts him._] yes. will. in somewhat of a hurry, i should say. laura. yes. will. what's the plan? laura. i'm just going, that's all. will. madison been here? laura. he's just left. will. of course you are going with him? laura. yes. will. west? laura. to nevada. will. going--er--to get married? laura. yes, this afternoon. will. so he didn't care then? laura. what do you mean when you say "he didn't care"? will. of course you told him about the letter, and how it was burned up, and all that sort of thing, didn't you? laura. why, yes. will. and he said it didn't make any difference? laura. he--he didn't say anything. we're just going to be married, that's all. will. did you mention my name and say that we'd been rather companionable for the last two months? laura. i told him you'd been a very good friend to me. _during this scene_ laura _answers_ will _with difficulty, and to a man of the world it is quite apparent that she is not telling the truth._ will _looks over toward her in an almost threatening way._ will. how soon do you expect him back? [_crossing to centre._ laura. quite soon. i don't know just exactly how long he'll be. will. and you mean to tell me that you kept your promise and told him the truth? [_crossing to trunk._ laura. i--i--[_then with defiance._] what business have you got to ask me that? what business have you got to interfere anyway? [_crossing up to bed in alcove, gets dresses off foot, and puts them on sofa._ will. [_quietly._] then you've lied again. you lied to him, and you just tried to lie to me now. i must say, laura, that you're not particularly clever at it, although i don't doubt but that you've had considerable practice. _gives her a searching look and slowly walks over to the chair at the table and sits down, still holding his hat in his hand and without removing his overcoat._ laura _sees_ brockton _sitting, stops and turns on him, laying dresses down._ laura. what are you going to do? will. sit down here and rest a few moments; maybe longer. laura. you can't do that. will. i don't see why not. this is my own place. laura. but don't you see that he'll come back here soon and find you here? will. that's just exactly what i want him to do. laura. [_with suppressed emotion, almost on the verge of hysteria._] i want to tell you this. if you do this thing you'll ruin my life. you've done enough to it already. now i want you to go. you've got to go. i don't think you've got any right to come here now, in this way, and take this happiness from me. i've given you everything i've got, and now i want to live right and decent, and he wants me to, and we love each other. now, will brockton, it's come to this. you've got to leave this place, do you hear? you've got to leave this place. please get out. [_crossing to trunk._ will. [_rises and comes to her._] do you think i'm going to let a woman make a liar out of me? i'm going to stay right here. i like that boy, and i'm not going to let you put him to the bad. laura. i want you to go. [_slams trunk lid down, crosses to dresser, opens drawer to get stuff out._ will. and i tell you i won't go. i'm going to show you up. i'm going to tell him the truth. it isn't you i care for--he's got to know. laura. [_slams drawer shut, loses her temper, and is almost tiger-like in her anger._] you don't care for me? will. no. laura. it isn't me you're thinking of? will. no. laura. who's the liar now? will. liar? laura. yes, liar. you are. you don't care for this man, and you know it. will. you're foolish. laura. yes, i am foolish and i've been foolish all my life, but i'm getting a little sense now. [_kneels in armchair, facing_ will; _her voice is shaky with anger and tears._] all my life, since the day you first took me away, you've planned and planned and planned to keep me, and to trick me and bring me down with you. when you came to me i was happy. i didn't have much, just a little salary and some hard work. will. but like all the rest you found that wouldn't keep you, didn't you? laura. you say i'm bad, but who's made me so? who took me out night after night? who showed me what these luxuries were? who put me in the habit of buying something i couldn't afford? you did. will. well, you liked it, didn't you? laura. who got me in debt, and then, when i wouldn't do what you wanted me to, who had me discharged from the company, so i had no means of living? who followed me from one place to another? who, always entreating, tried to trap me into this life, and i didn't know any better? will. you didn't know any better? laura. i knew it was wrong--yes; but you told me everybody in this business did that sort of thing, and i was just as good as anyone else. finally you got me and you kept me. then, when i went away to denver, and for the first time found a gleam of happiness, for the first time in my life-- will. you're crazy. laura. yes, i am crazy. [_rises angrily, crosses and sweeps table-cover off table; crosses to dresser, knocks bottles, &c., off upper end; turns, faces him, almost screaming._] you've made me crazy. you followed me to denver, and then when i got back you bribed me again. you pulled me down, and you did the same old thing until this happened. now i want you to get out, you understand? i want you to get out. will. laura, you can't do this. [_starts to sit on trunk._ laura. [_screaming, crossing to_ will; _she attempts to push him._] no, you won't; you won't stay here. you're not going to do this thing again. i tell you i'm going to be happy. i tell you i'm going to be married. [_he doesn't resist her very strongly. her anger and her rage are entirely new to him. he is surprised and cannot understand._] you won't see him; i tell you, you won't tell him. you've got no business to. i hate you. i've hated you for months. i hate the sight of your face. i've wanted to go, and now i'm going. you've got to go, do you hear? you've got to get out--get out. [_pushes him again._ will. [_throwing her off;_ laura _staggers to armchair, rises, crosses left._] what the hell is the use of fussing with a woman. [_exit._ laura. [_hysterically._] i want to be happy, i'm going to be married, i'm going to be happy. [_sinks down in exhausted state in front of trunk._ curtain, slow. act iv. scene. _the same scene as act iii. it is about two o'clock in the afternoon._ at rise. _when the curtain rises, there are two big trunks and one small one up stage. these are marked in the usual theatrical fashion. there are grips packed, umbrellas, and the usual paraphernalia that accompanies a woman when she is making a permanent departure from her place of living. all the bric-à-brac, &c., has been removed from dresser. on down-stage end of dresser is a small alligator bag containing night-dress, toilet articles, and bunch of keys. the dresser drawers are some of them half open, and old pieces of tissue-paper and ribbons are hanging out. the writing-desk has had all materials removed and is open, showing scraps of torn-up letters, and in one pigeon-hole is a new york central time-table; between desk and bay-window is a lady's hat-trunk containing huge picture hat. it is closed. behind table is a suit-case with which_ annie _is working when curtain rises. under desk are two old millinery boxes, around which are scattered old tissue-paper, a pair of old slippers, a woman's shabby hat, old ribbon, &c. in front of window at end of pianola is thrown a lot of old empty boxes, such as are used for stocking and shirtwaist boxes. the picture-frame and basket of flowers have been removed from pianola. the stool is on top of pianola, upside down. there is an empty white rock bottle, with glass turned over it, standing between the legs of the stool. the big trunk is in front of sofa, and packed, and it has a swing tray under which is packed a fancy evening gown; the lid is down. on top of lid are an umbrella, lady's travelling-coat, hat and gloves. on left end of sofa are a large gladstone bag, packed and fastened, a smaller trunk (thirty-four inch), tray with lid. in tray are articles of wearing apparel. in end of tray is revolver wrapped in tissue-paper. trunk is closed, and supposed to be locked. tossed across left arm of armchair are couple of violet cords. down stage centre is a large piece of wide tan ribbon. the room has the general appearance of having been stripped of all personal belongings. there are old magazines and tissue-paper all over the place. a bearskin rug is thrown up against table in low window, the furniture is all on stage as used in act iii. at rise_ laura _is sitting on trunk with clock in hand._ annie _is on floor behind table, fastening suit-case._ laura _is pale and perturbed._ annie. ain't yuh goin' to let me come to yuh at all, miss laura? laura. i don't know yet, annie. i don't even know what the place is like that we're going to. mr. madison hasn't said much. there hasn't been time. annie. why, ah've done ma best for yuh, miss laura, yes, ah have. ah jest been with yuh ev'ry moment of ma time, an' [_places suit-case on table; crosses to centre._] ah worked for yuh an' ah loved yuh, an' ah doan' wan' to be left 'ere all alone in dis town 'ere new york. [laura _turns to door;_ annie _stoops, grabs up ribbon, hides it behind her back._] ah ain't the kind of cullud lady knows many people. can't yuh take me along wid yuh, miss laura?--yuh all been so good to me. laura. why, i told you to [_crosses to door, looks out, returns disappointed._] stay here and get your things together [annie _hides ribbon in front of her waist._], and then mr. brockton will probably want you to do something. later, i think he'll have you pack up, just as soon as he finds i'm gone. i've got the address that you gave me. i'll let you know if you can come on. annie. [_suddenly._] ain't yuh goin' to give me anything at all jes' to remembuh yuh by? ah've been so honest-- laura. honest? annie. honest, ah have. laura. you've been about as honest as most coloured [_crosses to table; gets suit-case; crosses to sofa end puts suit-case on it._] girls are who work for women in the position that i am in. you haven't stolen enough to make me discharge you, but i've seen what you've taken. [_sits on end of sofa facing left._ annie. now, miss laura. laura. don't try to fool me. what you've got you're welcome to, but for heaven's sake don't prate around here about loyalty and honesty. i'm sick of it. annie. ain't yuh goin' to give me no recommendation? laura. [_impatiently looking around the room._] what good would my recommendation do? you can always go and get another position with people who've lived the way i've lived, and my recommendation to the other kind wouldn't amount to much. annie. [_sits on trunk._] ah can just see whah ah'm goin',--back to dat boa'din'-house in th street fo' me. [_crying._ laura. now shut your noise. i don't want to hear any more. i've given you twenty-five dollars for a present. i think that's enough. [annie _assumes a most aggrieved appearance._ annie. ah know, but twenty-five dollars ain't a home, and i'm [_rises, crosses to rubbish heap, picks up old slippers and hat, puts hat on head as she goes out, looks into pier-glass._] losin' my home. dat's jest my luck--every time i save enough money to buy my weddin' clothes to get married i lose my job. [_exit._ laura. i wonder where john is. we'll never be able to make that train. [_she crosses to window, then to desk, takes out time-table, crosses to armchair and spreads time-table on back, studies it, crosses impatiently to trunk, and sits nervously kicking her feet. after a few seconds' pause the bell rings. she jumps up excitedly._] that must be he,--annie--go quick. [annie _crosses and opens the door in the usual manner._ jim's voice. [_outside._] is miss murdock in? annie. yassuh, she's in. laura _is up stage and turns to receive visitor._ jim _enters. he is nicely dressed in black and has an appearance of prosperity about him, but in other respects he retains the old drollness of enunciation and manner. he crosses to_ laura _in a cordial way and holds out his hand._ annie _crosses, after closing the door, and exits through the portières into the sleeping-apartment._ jim. how-dy-do, miss laura? laura. jim western, i'm mighty glad to see you. jim. looks like as if you were going to move? laura. yes, i am going to move, and a long ways, too. how well you're looking,--as fit as a fiddle. jim. yes; i am feelin' fine. where yer goin'? troupin'? laura. no, indeed. jim. [_surveying the baggage._] thought not. what's comin' off now? [_takes off coat, puts coat and hat on trunk._ laura. [_very simply._] i'm going to be married this afternoon. jim. married? laura. and then i'm going west. jim. [_leaving the trunk, walking toward her and holding out his hands._] now i'm just glad to hear that. ye know when i heard how--how things was breakin' for ye--well, i ain't knockin' or anythin' like that, but me and the missis have talked ye over a lot. i never did think this feller was goin' to do the right thing by yer. brockton never looked to me like a fellow would marry anybody, but now that he's goin' through just to make you a nice, respectable wife, i guess everything must have happened for the best. [laura _averts her eyes. both sit on trunk,_ jim _left of_ laura.] y' see i wanted to thank you for what you did a couple of weeks ago. burgess wrote me a letter and told me i could go ahead of one of his big shows if i wanted to come back, and offering me considerable money. he mentioned your name, miss laura, and i talked it over with the missis, and--well, i can tell ye now when i couldn't if ye weren't to be hooked up--we decided that i wouldn't take that job, comin' as it did from you [_slowly._] and the way i knew it was framed up. laura. why not? jim. [_embarrassed._] well, ye see, there are three kids and they're all growing up, all of them in school, and the missis, she's just about forgot show business and she's playing a star part in the kitchen, juggling dishes and doing flip-flaps with pancakes; and we figgered that as we'd always gone along kinder clean-like, it wouldn't be good for the kids to take a job comin' from brockton because you--you--well--you-- laura. i know. [_rises; sits on left arm of chair._] you thought it wasn't decent. is that it? jim. oh, not exactly, only--well, you see i'm gettin' along pretty [_rises; crosses to_ laura.] good now. i got a little one-night-stand theatre out in ohio--manager of it, too. the town is called gallipolis. [_with a smile._ laura. gallipolis? jim. oh, that ain't a disease. it is the name of a town. maybe you don't know much about gallipolis, or where it is. laura. no. jim. well, it looks just like it sounds. we got a little house, and the old lady is happy, and i feel so good that i can even stand her cookin'. of course we ain't makin' much money, but i guess i'm gettin' a little old-fashioned around theatres anyway. the fellows from newspapers and colleges have got it on me. last time i asked a man for a job he asked me what i knew about the greek drama, and when i told him i didn't know the greeks had a theatre in new york he slipped me a laugh and told me to come in again on some rainy tuesday. then gallipolis showed on the map, and i beat it for the west. [jim _notices by this time the pain he has caused_ laura, _and is embarrassed._] sorry if i hurt ye--didn't mean to; and now that yer goin' to be mrs. brockton, well, i take back all i said, and, while i don't think i want to change my position, i wouldn't turn it down for--for that other reason, that's all. laura. [_with a tone of defiance in her voice._] but, mr. weston, i'm not going to be mrs. brockton. jim. no? [_crosses left a little._ laura. no. jim. oh--oh-- laura. i'm going to marry another man, and a good man. jim. the hell you are! [laura _rises and puts hand on_ jim's _shoulder._ laura. and it's going to be altogether different. i know what you meant when you said about the missis and the kids, and that's what i want--just a little home, just a little peace, just a little comfort, and--and the man has come who's going to give it to me. you don't want me to say any more, do you? [_crosses to door, opens it, and looks out; closes it and crosses to_ jim. jim. [_emphatically, and with a tone of hearty approval._] no, i don't, and now i'm just going to put my mit out and shake yours and be real glad. i want to tell ye it's the only way to go along. i ain't never been a rival to rockefeller, nor i ain't never made morgan jealous, but since the day my old woman took her make-up off for the last time, and walked out of that stage-door to give me a little help and bring my kids into the world, i knew that was the way to go along; and if you're goin' to take that road, by jiminy, i'm glad of it, for you sure do deserve it. i wish yer luck. laura. thank you. jim. i'm mighty glad you side-stepped brockton. you're young [laura _sits on trunk._], and you're pretty, and you're sweet, and if you've got the right kind of a feller there ain't no reason on earth why you shouldn't jest forgit the whole business and see nothin' but laughs and a good time comin' to you, and the sun sort o' shinin' every twenty-four hours in the day. you know the missis feels just as if she knew you, after i told her about them hard times we had at farley's boarding-house, so i feel that it's paid me to come to new york [_picks up pin; puts it in lapel of coat._] even if i didn't book anything but "east lynne" and "uncle tom's cabin." [_goes over to her._] now i'm goin'. don't forget gallipolis's [laura _helps him on with his coat._] the name, and sometimes the mail does get there. i'd be awful glad if you wrote the missis a little note tellin' us how you're gettin' along, and if you ever have to ride on the kanawha and michigan, just look out of the window when the train passes our town, because that is about the best you'll get. laura. why? jim. they only stop there on signal. and make up your mind that the weston family is with you forty ways from the jack day and night. good-bye, and god bless you. laura. good-bye, jim. i'm so glad to know you're happy, for it is good to be happy. [_kisses him._ jim. you bet. [_moves toward the door. she follows him after they have shaken hands._] never mind, i can get out all right. [_opens the door, and at the door:_] good-bye again. laura. [_very softly._] good-bye. [_exit_ jim _and closes the door. she stands motionless until she hears the outer door slam._] i wonder why he doesn't come. [_she goes up and looks out of the window and turns down stage, crosses right, counting trunks; as she counts suitcase on table, bell rings; she crosses hurriedly to trunk centre._] hurry, annie, and see who that is. annie _enters, crosses, opens door, exits, and opens the outer door._ annie's voice. she's waitin' for yer, mr. madison. laura _hurries down to the centre of stage._ john _enters, hat in hand and his overcoat on arm, followed by_ annie. _he stops just as he enters and looks at_ laura _long and searchingly._ laura _instinctively feels that something has happened. she shudders and remains firm._ annie _crosses and exits. closes doors._ laura. [_with a little effort._ john _places hat and coat on trunk._] aren't you a little late, dear? john. i--i was detained down town a few minutes. i think that we can carry out our plan all right. laura. [_after a pause._] has anything happened? john. i've made all the arrangements. the men will be here in a few minutes for your trunks. [_crosses to coat; feels in pocket._] i've got the railroad tickets and everything else, but-- laura. but what, john? _he goes over to her. she intuitively understands that she is about to go through an ordeal. she seems to feel that_ john _has become acquainted with something which might interfere with their plan. he looks at her long and searchingly. evidently he too is much wrought up, but when he speaks to her it is with a calm dignity and force which show the character of the man._ john. laura. laura. yes? john. you know when i went down town i said i was going to call on two or three of my friends in park row. laura. i know. john. i told them who i was going to marry. laura. well? john. they said something about you and brockton, and i found that they'd said too much, but not quite enough. laura. what did they say? john. just that--too much and not quite enough. there's a minister waiting for us over on madison avenue. you see, then you'll be my wife. that's pretty serious business, and all i want now from you is the truth. laura. well? john. just tell me that what they said was just an echo of the past--that it came from what had been going on before that wonderful day out in colorado. tell me that you've been on the level. i don't want their word, laura--i just want yours. laura _summons all her courage, looks up into his loving eyes, shrinks a moment before his anxious face, and speaks as simply as she can._ laura. yes, john, i have been on the level. john. [_very tenderly._] i knew that, dear, i knew it. [_he takes her in his arms and kisses her. she clings to him in pitiful helplessness. his manner is changed to one of almost boyish happiness._] well, now everything's all ready, let's get on the job. we haven't a great deal of time. get your duds on. laura. when do we go? john. right away. the great idea is to get away. laura. all right. [_gets hat off trunk, crosses to bureau, puts it on._ john. laura, you've got trunks enough, haven't you? one might think we're moving a whole colony. [_turns to her with a smile._] and, by the way, to me you are a whole colony--anyway you're the only one i ever wanted to settle with. laura. that's good. [_takes bag off bureau, crosses to trunk, gets purse, coat, umbrella, as if ready to leave. she hurriedly gathers her things together, adjusting her hat and the like, and almost to herself in a low tone:_] i'm so excited. [_continues preparations._] come on. _in the meantime_ john _crosses by to get his hat and coat, and while the preparations are about to be completed and_ laura _has said "come on," she is transfixed by the noise of the slamming of the outer door. she stops as if she had been tremendously shocked, and a moment later the rattling of a latch-key in the inner door also stops_ john _from going any further. his coat is half on._ laura _looks toward the door, paralyzed with fright, and_ john _looks at her with an expression of great apprehension. slowly the door opens, and_ brockton _enters with coat and hat on. as he turns to close the door after him,_ laura, _pitifully and terribly afraid, retreats two or three steps, and lays coat, bag, purse and umbrella down in armchair, standing dazed._ brockton _enters leisurely, paying no attention to anyone, while_ john _becomes as rigid as a statue, and follows with his eyes every move_ brockton _makes. the latter walks leisurely across the stage, and afterwards into the rooms through the portières. there is a wait of a second. no one moves._ brockton _finally reënters with coat and hat off, and throws back the portières in such a manner as to reveal the bed and his intimate familiarity with the outer room. he goes down stage in the same leisurely manner and sits in a chair opposite_ john, _crossing his legs._ will. hello, madison, when did you get in? _slowly_ john _seems to recover himself. his right hand starts up toward the lapel of his coat and slowly he pulls his colt revolver from the holster under his armpit. there is a deadly determination and deliberation in every movement that he makes._ will _jumps to his feet and looks at him. the revolver is uplifted in the air, as a western man handles a gun, so that when it is snapped down with a jerk the deadly shot can be fired._ laura _is terror-stricken, but before the shot is fired she takes a step forward and extends one hand in a gesture of entreaty._ laura. [_in a husky voice that is almost a whisper._] don't shoot. _the gun remains uplifted for a moment._ john _is evidently wavering in his determination to kill. slowly his whole frame relaxes. he lowers the pistol in his hand in a manner which clearly indicates that he is not going to shoot. he quietly puts it back in the holster, and_ will _is obviously relieved, although he stood his ground like a man._ john. [_slowly._] thank you. you said that just in time. [_a pause._ will. [_recovering and in a light tone._] well, you see, madison, that what i said when i was-- john. [_threateningly._] look out, brockton, i don't want to talk to you. [_the men confront._ will. all right. john. [_to_ laura.] now get that man out of here. laura. john, i-- john. get him out. get him out before i lose my temper or they'll take him out without his help. laura. [_to_ will.] go--go. please go. will. [_deliberately._] if that's the way you want it, i'm willing. _exit_ will _into the sleeping-apartment._ laura _and_ john _stand facing each other. he enters again with hat and coat on, and passes over toward the door._ laura _and_ john _do not move. when he gets just a little to the left of the centre of the stage_ laura _steps forward and stops him with her speech._ laura. now before you go, and to you both, i want to tell you how i've learned to despise him. john, i know you don't believe me, but it's true--it's true. i don't love anyone in the world but just you. i know you don't think that it can be explained--maybe there isn't any explanation. i couldn't help it. i was so poor, and i had to live, and he wouldn't let me work, and he's only let me live one way, and i was hungry. do you know what that means? i was hungry and didn't have clothes to keep me warm, and i tried, oh, john, i tried so hard to do the other thing,--the right thing,--but i couldn't. john. i--i know i couldn't help much, and perhaps i could have forgiven you if you hadn't lied to me. that's what hurt. [_turning to_ will _and approaching until he can look him in the eyes._] i expected you to lie, you're that kind of a man. you left me with a shake of the hand, and you gave me your word, and you didn't keep it. why should you keep it? why should anything make any difference with you? why, you pup, you've no right to live in the same world with decent folks. now you make yourself scarce, or take it from me, i'll just kill you, that's all. will. i'll leave, madison, but i'm not going to let you think that i didn't do the right thing with you. she came to me voluntarily. she said she wanted to come back. i told you that, when i was in colorado, and you didn't believe me, and i told you that when she did this sort of thing i'd let you know. i dictated a letter to her to send to you, and i left it sealed and stamped in her hands to mail. she didn't do it. if there's been a lie, she told it. i didn't. john _turns to her. she hangs her head and averts her eyes in a mute acknowledgment of guilt. the revelation hits_ john _so hard that he sinks on the trunk centre, his head fallen to his breast. he is utterly limp and whipped. there is a moment's silence._ will. [_crosses to_ john.] you see! why, my boy, whatever you think of me or the life i lead, i wouldn't have had this come to you for anything in the world. [john _makes an impatient gesture._] no, i wouldn't. my women don't mean a whole lot to me because i don't take them seriously. i wish i had the faith and the youth to feel the way you do. you're all in and broken up, but i wish i could be broken up just once. i did what i thought was best for you because i didn't think she could ever go through the way you wanted her to. i'm sorry it's all turned out bad. [_pause._] good-bye. _he looks at_ john _for a moment as if he was going to speak._ john _remains motionless. the blow has hit him harder than he thought._ will _exits. the first door closes. in a moment the second door is slammed._ john _and_ laura _look at each other for a moment. he gives her no chance to speak. the hurt in his heart and his accusation are shown by his broken manner. a great grief has come into his life and he doesn't quite understand it. he seems to be feeling around for something to say, some way to get out. his head turns toward the door. with a pitiful gesture of the hand he looks at her in all his sorrow._ john. well? [_rises._ laura. john, i--[_takes off hat and places it on table._ john. i'd be careful what i said. don't try to make excuses. i understand. laura. it's not excuses. i want to tell you what's in my heart, but i can't; it won't speak, and you don't believe my voice. john. you'd better leave it unsaid. laura. but i must tell. i can't let you go like this. [_she goes over to him and makes a weak attempt to put her arms around him. he takes her arms and puts them back to her side._] i love you. i--how can i tell you--but i do, i do, and you won't believe me. _he remains silent for a moment and then takes her by the hand, leads her over to the chair and places her in it._ john. i think you do as far as you are able; but, laura, i guess you don't know what a decent sentiment is. [_he gathers himself together. his tone is very gentle and very firm, but it carries a tremendous conviction, even with his grief ringing through his speech._] laura, you're not immoral, you're just unmoral, kind o' all out of shape, and i'm afraid there isn't a particle of hope for you. when we met neither of us had any reason to be proud, but i thought that you thought that it was the chance of salvation which sometimes comes to a man and a woman fixed as we were then. what had been had been. it was all in the great to-be for us, and now, how you've kept your word! what little that promise meant, when i thought you handed me a new lease of life! laura. [_in a voice that is changed and metallic. she is literally being nailed to the cross._] you're killing me--killing me. john. don't make such a mistake. in a month you'll recover. there will be days when you will think of me, just for a moment, and then it will be all over. with you it is the easy way, and it always will be. you'll go on and on until you're finally left a wreck, just the type of the common woman. and you'll sink until you're down to the very bed-rock of depravity. i pity you. laura. [_still in the same metallic tone of voice._] you'll never leave me to do that. i'll kill myself. john. perhaps that's the only thing left for you to do, but you'll not do it. it's easier to live. [_crosses, gets hat and coat, turns and looks at her,_ laura _rising at the same time._ laura. john, i said i'd kill myself, and i mean it. if it's the only thing to do, i'll do it, and i'll do it before your very eyes. [_she crosses quickly, gets keys out of satchel, opens trunk, takes gun out of trunk, stands facing_ john--_waiting a moment._] you understand that when your hand touches that door i'm going to shoot myself. i will, so help me god! john. [_stops and looks at her._] kill yourself? [_pause._] before me? [_pause._] all right. [_raising his voice._] annie, annie! annie. [_enters._] yes, sir. john. [laura _looks at_ john _in bewilderment._] you see your mistress there has a pistol in her hand? annie. [_frightened._] yassuh-- john. she wants to kill herself. i just called you to witness that the act is entirely voluntary on her part. now, laura, go ahead. laura. [_nearly collapsing, drops the pistol to the floor._] john, i--can't-- john. annie, she's evidently changed her mind. you may go. annie. but, miss laura, ah-- john. [_peremptorily._] you may go. [_bewildered and not understanding,_ annie _exits through the portières. in that same gentle tone, but carrying with it an almost frigid conviction._] you didn't have the nerve. i knew you wouldn't. for a moment you thought the only decent thing for you to do was to die, and yet you couldn't go through. i am sorry for you,--more sorry than i can tell. [_he takes a step towards the door._ laura. you're going--you're going? john. yes. laura. and--and--you never thought that perhaps i'm frail, and weak, and a woman, and that now, maybe, i need your strength, and you might give it to me, and it might be better. i want to lean on you,--lean on you, john. i know i need someone. aren't you going to let me? won't you give me another chance? john. i gave you your chance, laura. laura. [_throws arms around his neck._] give me another. john. but you leaned the wrong way. good-bye. [_he pulls away and goes out, slamming both doors._ laura. [_screaming._] john--john--i--[_she sits on trunk, weeping in loud and tearful manner; rises in a dazed fashion, starts to cross, sees gun, utters loud cry of mingled despair and anger, grabs up gun, crossing to bureau, opens up-stage drawer, throws gun in, slams drawer shut, calling:_] annie! annie! annie. [_appears through the portières._] ain't yuh goin' away, miss laura? laura. [_suddenly arousing herself, and with a defiant voice._] no, i'm not. i'm going to stay right here. [annie _crosses and opens trunk, takes out handsome dress, hangs it over back of armchair, crosses up to hat-trunk, takes out hat._ laura _takes it from her, crosses to trunk left, starts to unpack it._] open these trunks, take out those clothes, get me my prettiest dress. hurry up. [_she goes before the mirror._] get my new hat, dress up my body and paint up my face. it's all they've left of me. [_to herself._] they've taken my soul away with them. annie. [_in a happy voice._] yassum, yassum. laura. [_who is arranging her hair._] doll me up, annie. annie. yuh goin' out, miss laura? laura. yes. i'm going to rector's to make a hit, and to hell with the rest! _at this moment the hurdy-gurdy in the street, presumably immediately under her window, begins to play the tune of "bon-bon buddie, my chocolate drop." there is something in this ragtime melody which is particularly and peculiarly suggestive of the low life, the criminality and prostitution that constitute the night excitement of that section of new york city known as the tenderloin. the tune,--its association,--is like spreading before_ laura's _eyes a panorama of the inevitable depravity that awaits her. she is torn from every ideal that she so weakly endeavoured to grasp, and is thrown into the mire and slime at the very moment when her emancipation seems to be assured. the woman, with her flashy dress in one arm and her equally exaggerated type of picture hat in the other, is nearly prostrated by the tune and the realization of the future as it is terrifically conveyed to her. the negress, in the happiness of serving_ laura _in her questionable career, picks up the melody and hums it as she unpacks the finery that has been put away in the trunk._ laura. [_with infinite grief, resignation, and hopelessness._] o god--o my god. [_she turns and totters toward the bedroom. the hurdy-gurdy continues, with the negress accompanying it._ a slow curtain. end of the play.