Produced by Duncan Harrod. HTML version by Al Haines.
Half A Rogue
By
Harold MacGrath
To The Memory Of My Mother
Half A Rogue
Chapter I
It was Warrington's invariable habit--when no business or social
engagement pressed him to go elsewhere--to drop into a certain quaint
little restaurant just off Broadway for his dinners. It was out of the
way; the throb and rattle of the great commercial artery became like
the far-off murmur of the sea, restful rather than annoying. He always
made it a point to dine alone, undisturbed. The proprietor nor his
silent-footed waiters had the slightest idea who Warrington was. To
them he was simply a profitable customer who signified that he dined
there in order to be alone. His table was up stairs. Below, there was
always the usual dinner crowd till theater time; and the music had the
faculty of luring his thoughts astray, being, as he was, fonder of
music than of work. As a matter of fact, it was in this little
restaurant that he winnowed the day's ideas, revamped scenes, trimmed
the rough edges of his climaxes, revised this epigram or rejected this
or that line; all on the backs of envelopes and on the margins of
newspapers. In his den at his bachelor apartments, he worked; but here
he dreamed, usually behind the soothing, opalescent veil of Madame
Nicotine.
What a marvelous thing a good after-dinner cigar is! In the smoke of
it the poor man sees his ships come in, the poet sees his muse
beckoning with hands full of largess, the millionaire reverts to his
early struggles, and the lover sees his divinity in a thousand
graceful poses.
To-night, however, Warrington's cigar was without magic. He was out of
sorts. Things had gone wrong at the rehearsal that morning. The star
had demanded the removal of certain lines which gave the leading man
an opportunity to shine in the climax of the third act. He had labored
a whole month over this climax, and he revolted at the thought of
changing it to suit the whim of a capricious woman.
Everybody had agreed that this climax was the best the young dramatist
had yet constructed. A critic who had been invited to a reading had
declared that it lacked little of being great. And at this late hour
the star wanted it changed in order to bring her alone in the
lime-light! It was preposterous. As Warrington was on the first wave
of popularity, the business manager and the stage manager both agreed
to leave the matter wholly in the dramatist's hands. He resolutely
declined to make a single alteration in the scene. There was a fine
storm. The star declared that if the change was not made at once she
would leave the company. In making this declaration she knew her
strength. Her husband was rich; a contract was nothing to her. There
was not another actress of her ability to be found; the season was too
late. There was not another woman available, nor would any other
manager lend one. As the opening performance was but two weeks hence,
you will realize why Warrington's mood this night was anything but
amiable.
He scowled at his cigar. There was always something, some sacrifice to
make, and seldom for art's sake. It is all very well to witness a play
from the other side of the footlights; everything appears to work out
so smoothly, easily and without effort. To this phenomenon is due the
amateur dramatist--because it looks simple. A play is not written; it
is built, like a house. In most cases the dramatist is simply the
architect. The novelist has comparatively an easy road to travel. The
dramatist is beset from all sides, now the business manager--that is
to say, the box-office--now the stage manager, now the star, now the
leading man or woman. Jealousy's green eyes peer from behind every
scene. The dramatist's ideal, when finally presented to the public,
resembles those mutilated marbles that decorate the museums of Rome
and Naples. Only there is this difference: the public can easily
imagine what the sculptor was about, but seldom the dramatist.
Warrington was a young man, tolerably good-looking, noticeably well
set up. When they have good features, a cleft chin and a generous
nose, clean-shaven men are good to look at. He had fine eyes, in the
corners of which always lurked mirth and mischief; for he possessed
above all things an inexhaustible fund of dry humor. His lines seldom
provoked rough laughter; rather, silent chuckles.
Warrington's scowl abated none. In business, women were generally
nuisances; they were always taking impossible stands. He would find
some way out; he was determined not to submit to the imperious fancies
of an actress, however famous she might be.
"Sir, will you aid a lady in distress?" The voice was tremulous, but
as rich in tone as the diapason of an organ.
Warrington looked up from his cigar to behold a handsome young woman
standing at the side of his table. Her round, smooth cheeks were
flushed, and on the lower lids of her splendid dark eyes tears of
shame trembled and threatened to fall. Behind her stood a waiter, of
impassive countenance, who was adding up the figures on a check, his
movement full of suggestion.
The dramatist understood the situation at once. The young lady had
ordered dinner, and, having eaten it, found that she could not pay for
it. It was, to say the least, a trite situation. But what can a man do
when a pretty woman approaches him and pleads for assistance? So
Warrington rose.
"What may the trouble be?" he asked coldly, for all that he instantly
recognized her to be a person of breeding and refinement.
"I--I have lost my purse, and I have no money to pay the waiter." She
made this confession bravely and frankly.
He looked about. They were alone. She interpreted his glance rather
shrewdly.
"There were no women to appeal to. The waiter refused to accept my
word, and I really can't blame him. I had not even the money to send a
messenger home."
One of the trembling tears escaped and rolled down the blooming cheek.
Warrington surrendered. He saw that this was an exceptional case. The
girl was truly in distress. He knew his New York thoroughly; a man or
woman without funds is treated with the finished cruelty with which
the jovial Romans amused themselves with the Christians. Lack of money
in one person creates incredulity in another. A penniless person is
invariably a liar and a thief. Only one sort of person is pitied in
New York: the person who has more money than she or he can possibly
spend.
The girl fumbled in her hand-bag and produced a card, which she gave
to Warrington--"Katherine Challoner." He looked from the card to the
girl and then back to the card. Somehow, the name was not wholly
unfamiliar, but at that moment he could not place it.
"Waiter, let me see the check," he said. It amounted to two dollars
and ten cents. Warrington smiled. "Scarcely large enough to cause all
this trouble," he added reassuringly. "I will attend to it."
The waiter bowed and withdrew. So long as the check was paid he did
not care who paid it.
"Oh, it is so horribly embarrassing! What must you think of me?" She
twisted her gloves with a nervous strength which threatened to rend
them.
"May I give you a bit of friendly advice?" he asked.
She nodded, hiding the fall of the second tear.
"Well, never dine alone in public; at any rate, in the evening. It is
not wise for a woman to do so. She subjects herself to any number of
embarrassments."
She did not reply, and for a moment he believed that she was about to
break down completely. He aimlessly brushed the cigar ashes from the
tablecloth. He hated a scene in public. In the theater it was
different; it was a part of the petty round of business to have the
leading lady burst into tears when things didn't suit her. What fools
women are in general! But the girl surprised him by holding up
determinedly, and sinking her white teeth into her lips to smother the
sob which rose in her throat.
"Be seated," he said, drawing out the opposite chair.
A wave of alarm spread over her face. She clasped her hands.
"Sir, if you are a gentleman--"
Warrington interrupted her by giving her his card, which was
addressed. She glanced at it through a blur of tears, then sat down.
He shrugged his shoulders slightly; his vanity was touched. There was,
then, a young woman in New York who had not heard of Richard
Warrington.
"In asking you to be seated," he explained, "it was in order that you
might wait in comfort while I despatched a messenger to your home.
Doubtless you have a brother, a father, or some male relative, who
will come at once to your assistance." Which proved that Warrington
was prudent.
But instead of brightening as he expected she would, she straightened
in her chair, while her eyes widened with horror, as if she saw
something frightful in perspective.
What the deuce could be the matter now? he wondered, as he witnessed
this inexplicable change.
"No, no! You must not send a messenger!" she protested.
"But--"
"No, no!" tears welling into her beautiful eyes again. They were
beautiful, he was forced to admit.
"But," he persisted, "you wished the waiter to do so. I do not
understand." His tone became formal again.
"I have reasons. Oh, heavens! I am the most miserable woman in all the
world!" She suddenly bowed her head upon her hands and her shoulders
rose and fell with silent sobs.
Warrington stared at her, dumfounded. NOW what? He glanced cautiously
around as if in search of some avenue of escape. The waiter, ever
watchful, assumed that he was wanted, and made as though to approach
the table; but Warrington warned him off. All distrust in the girl
vanished. Decidedly she was in great trouble of some sort, and it
wasn't because she could not pay a restaurant check. Women--and
especially New York women--do not shed tears when a stranger offers to
settle for their dinner checks.
"If you will kindly explain to me what the trouble is," visibly
embarrassed, "perhaps I can help you. Have you run away from home?"
he asked.
A negative nod.
"Are you married?"
Another negative nod.
Warrington scratched his chin. "Have you done anything wrong?"
A decided negative shake of the head. At any other time the
gesticulation of the ostrich plume, so close to his face, would have
amused him; but there was something eminently pathetic in the diapasm
which drifted toward him from the feather.
"Come, come; you may trust me thoroughly. If you are afraid to return
home alone--"
He was interrupted by an affirmative nod this time. Possibly, he
conjectured, the girl had started out to elope and had fortunately
paused at the brink.
"Will it help you at all if I go home with you?" he asked.
His ear caught a muffled "Yes."
Warrington beckoned to the waiter.
"Order a cab at once," he said.
The waiter hurried away, with visions of handsome tips.
Presently the girl raised her head and sat up. Her eyes, dark as
shadows in still waters, glistened.
"Be perfectly frank with me; and if I can be of service to you, do not
hesitate to command me." He eyed her thoughtfully. Everything attached
to her person suggested elegance. Her skin was as fine as vellum; her
hair had a dash of golden bronze in it; her hands were white and
shapely, and the horn on the tips of the fingers shone rosily. Now,
what in the world was there to trouble a young woman who possessed
these favors, who wore jewels on her fingers and sable on her
shoulders? "Talk to me just as you would to a brother," he added
presently.
"You will take this ring," she said irrelevantly. She slipped a fine
sapphire from one of her fingers and pushed it across the table.
"And for what reason?" he cried.
"Security for my dinner. I can not accept charity," with a hint of
hauteur which did not in the least displease him.
"But, my dear young woman, I can not accept this ring. You have my
address. You may send the sum whenever you please. I see no reason
why, as soon as you arrive home, you can not refund the small sum of
two dollars and ten cents. It appears to me very simple."
"There will be no one at home, not even the servants," wearily.
Warrington's brows came together. Was the girl fooling him, after all?
But for what reason?
"You have me confused," he admitted. "I can do nothing blindly. Tell
me what the trouble is."
"How can I tell you, an absolute stranger? It is all so frightful, and
I am so young!"
Frightful? Young? He picked up his half-finished cigar, but
immediately let it fall. He stole a look at his watch; it was seven.
"Oh, I know what you must think of me," despairingly. "Nobody believes
in another's real misfortune in this horrid city. There are so many
fraudulent methods used to obtain people's sympathies that every one
has lost trust. I had no money when I entered here; but outside it was
so dark. Whenever I stopped, wondering where I should go, men turned
and stared at me. Once a policeman peered into my face suspiciously.
And I dared not return home, I dared not! No, no; I promise not to
embarrass you with any more tears." She brushed her eyes with a rapid
movement.
Warrington's success as a dramatist was due largely to his interest in
all things that passed under his notice. Nothing was too trivial to
observe. The tragic threads of human life, which escaped the eyes of
the passing many or were ignored by them, always aroused his interest
and attention; and more than once he had picked up one of these
threads and followed it to the end. Out of these seemingly
insignificant things he often built one of those breathless,
nerve-gripping climaxes which had, in a few years' time, made him
famous. In the present case he believed that he had stumbled upon
something worthy his investigation. This handsome young woman, richly
dressed, who dared not go home, who had jewels but no money--there
was some mystery surrounding her, and he determined to find out what
it was. And then, besides, for all that he was worldly, he was young
and still believed in his Keats.
"If, as you say, there is no one at your home, why do you fear to go
there?" he asked, with some remnant of caution.
"It is the horror of the place," shuddering; "the horror!" And indeed,
at that moment, her face expressed horror.
"Is it some one dead?" lowering his voice.
"Dead?" with a flash of cold anger in her eyes. "Yes--to me, to truth,
to honor; dead to everything that should make life worth the living.
Oh, it is impossible to say more in this place, to tell you here what
has happened this day to rob me of all my tender illusions. This
morning I awoke happy, my heart was light; now, nothing but shame and
misery!" She hid her eyes for a space behind the back of her hand.
"I will take you home," he said simply.
"You trust me?"
"Why not? I am a man, and can take care of myself."
"Thank you!"
What a voice! It possessed a marvelous quality, low and penetrating,
like the voices of great singers and actresses. Any woman with such a
voice ...
Here the waiter returned to announce that a cab awaited them in the
street below. Warrington paid the two checks, dropped a liberal tip,
rose and got into his coat. The girl also rose, picked up his card,
glanced carelessly at it, and put it into her hand-bag--a little
gold-link affair worth many dinners. It was the voice and these
evidences of wealth, more than anything else, that determined
Warrington. Frauds were always perpetrated for money, and this
exquisite creature had a small fortune on her fingers.
Silently they left the restaurant, entered the cab, and went rolling
out into Broadway. Warrington, repressing his curiosity, leaned back
against the cushions. The girl looked dully ahead.
What manner of tragedy was about to unfold itself to his gaze?
The house was situated in Central Park, West. It was of modern
architecture, a residence such as only rich men can afford to build.
It was in utter gloom; not a single light could be seen at any window.
It looked, indeed, as if tragedy sat enthroned within. Warrington's
spine wrinkled a bit as he got out of the cab and offered his hand to
the girl.
Mute and mysterious as a sphinx, the girl walked to the steps, not
even looking around to see if he was coming after her. Perhaps she
knew the power of curiosity. Without hesitance she mounted the steps;
he followed, a step behind. At the door, however, she paused. He could
hear her breath coming in quick gasps. Oddly enough, the recollection
of some detective stories flashed through his mind.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing, nothing; only I am afraid."
She stooped; there was a grating sound, a click, and the door opened.
Warrington was a man of courage, but he afterward confessed that it
took all his nerve force to move his foot across the threshold.
"Do not be frightened," she said calmly; "there is nothing but ghosts
here to frighten any one."
"Ghosts?"
"Yes."
"Have you brought me here to tell me a ghost story?" with an effort at
lightness. What misery the girl's tones conveyed to his ears!
"The ghosts of things that ought to, and should, have been; are not
those the most melancholy?" She pressed a button and flooded the
hallway with light.
His keen eyes roving met nothing but signs of luxury. She led him into
the library and turned on the lights. Not a servant anywhere in sight;
the great house seemed absolutely empty. Not even the usual cat or dog
came romping inquisitively into the room. The shelves of books stirred
his sense of envy; what a den for a literary man to wander in! There
were beautiful marbles, splendid paintings, taste and refinement
visible everywhere.
Warrington stood silently watching the girl as she took off her hat
and carelessly tossed it on the reading-table. The Russian sables were
treated with like indifference. The natural abundance of her hair
amazed him; and what a figure, so elegant, rounded, and mature! The
girl, without noticing him, walked the length of the room and back
several times. Once or twice she made a gesture. It was not addressed
to him, but to some conflict going on in her mind.
He sat down on the edge of a chair and fell to twirling his hat, a
sign that he was not perfectly at his ease.
"I am wondering where I shall begin," she said.
Warrington turned down his coat-collar, and the action seemed to
relieve him of the sense of awkwardness.
"Luxury!" she began, with a sweep of her hand which was full of
majesty and despair. "Why have I chosen you out of all the thousands?
Why should I believe that my story would interest you? Well, little as
I have seen of the world, I have learned that woman does not go to
woman in cases such as mine is." And then pathetically: "I know no
woman to whom I might go. Women are like daws; their sympathy comes
but to peck. Do you know what it is to be alone in a city? The desert
is not loneliness; it is only solitude. True loneliness is to be found
only in great communities. To be without a single friend or confidant,
when thousand of beings move about you; to pour your sorrows into
cold, unfeeling ears; to seek sympathy in blind eyes--that is
loneliness. That is the loneliness that causes the heart to break."
Warrington's eyes never left hers; he was fascinated.
"Luxury!" she repeated bitterly. "Surrounding me with all a woman
might desire--paintings that charm the eye, books that charm the mind,
music that charms the ear. Money!"
"Philosophy in a girl!" thought Warrington. His hat became motionless.
"It is all a lie, a lie!" The girl struck her hands together, impotent
in her wrath.
It was done so naturally that Warrington, always the dramatist, made a
mental note of the gesture.
"I was educated in Paris and Berlin; my musical education was
completed in Dresden. Like all young girls with music-loving souls, I
was something of a poet. I saw the beautiful in everything; sometimes
the beauty existed only in my imagination. I dreamed; I was happy. I
was told that I possessed a voice such as is given to few. I sang
before the Emperor of Austria at a private musicale. He complimented
me. The future was bright indeed. Think of it; at twenty I retained
all my illusions! I am now twenty-three, and not a single illusion is
left. I saw but little of my father and mother, which is not unusual
with children of wealthy parents. The first shock that came to my
knowledge was the news that my mother had ceased to live with my
father. I was recalled. There were no explanations. My father met me
at the boat. He greeted my effusive caresses--caresses that I had
saved for years!--with careless indifference. This was the second
shock. What did it all mean? Where was my mother? My father did not
reply. When I reached home I found that all the servants I had known
in my childhood days were gone. From the new ones I knew that I should
learn nothing of the mystery which, like a pall, had suddenly settled
down upon me."
She paused, her arms hanging listless at her sides, her gaze riveted
upon a pattern in the rug at her feet. Warrington sat like a man of
stone; her voice had cast a spell upon him.
"I do not know why I tell you these things. It may weary you. I do not
care. Madness lay in silence. I had to tell some one. This morning I
found out all. My mother left my father because he was ... a thief!"
"A thief!" fell mechanically from Warrington's lips.
"A thief, bold, unscrupulous; not the petty burglar, no. A man who has
stolen funds intrusted to him for years; a man who has plundered the
orphan and the widow, the most despicable of all men. My mother died
of shame, and I knew nothing. My father left last night for South
America, taking with him all the available funds, leaving me a curt
note of explanation. I have neither money, friends, nor home. The
newspapers as yet know nothing; but to-morrow, to-morrow! The banks
have seized everything."
She continued her story. Sometimes she was superb in her wrath; at
others, abject in her misery. She seemed to pass through the whole
gamut of the passions.
And all this while it ran through Warrington's head--"What a theme for
a play! What a voice!"
He pitied the girl from the bottom of his heart; but what could he do
for her other than offer her cold sympathy? He was ill at ease in the
face of this peculiar tragedy.
All at once the girl stopped and faced him, There was a smile on her
lips, a smile that might be likened to a flash of sunlight on a wintry
day. Directly the smile melted into a laugh, mellow, mischievous,
reverberating.
Warrington sat up stiffly in his chair.
"I beg your pardon!" he said.
The girl sat down before a small writing-table. She reached among some
papers and finally found what she sought.
"Mr. Warrington, all this has been in very bad taste; I frankly
confess it. There are two things you may do: leave the house in anger,
or remain to forgive me this imposition."
"I fail to understand." He was not only angered, but bewildered.
"I have deceived you."
"You mean that you have lured me here by trick? That you have played
upon my sympathies to gratify ..."
"Wait a moment," she interrupted proudly, her cheeks darkening richly.
"A trick, it is true; but there are extenuating circumstances. What I
have told you HAS happened, only it was not to-day nor yesterday.
Please remain seated till I have done. I AM poor; I WAS educated in
the cities I have named; I have to earn my living."
She rose and came over to his chair. She gave him a letter.
"Read this; you will fully understand."
Warrington experienced a mild chill as he saw a letter addressed to
him, and his rude scribble at the bottom of it.
Miss Challoner--I beg to state that I have neither the time nor the
inclination to bother with amateur actresses. Richard Warrington.
"It was scarcely polite, was it?" she asked, with a tinge of irony.
"It was scarcely diplomatic, either, you will admit. I simply asked
you for work. Surely, an honest effort to obtain employment ought not
to be met with insolence."
He stared dumbly at the evidence in his hand. He recalled distinctly
the rage that was in his heart when he penned this note. The stage
manager had lost some valuable manuscript that had to be rewritten
from memory, the notes having been destroyed.
"For weeks," said the girl, "I have tried to get a hearing. Manager
after manager I sought; all refused to see me. I have suffered a
hundred affronts, all in silence. Your manager I saw, but he referred
me to you, knowing that probably I should never find you. But I was
determined. So I wrote; that was your answer. I confess that at the
time I was terribly angry, for courtesy is a simple thing and within
reach of every one."
To receive a lesson in manners from a young woman, when that young
woman is handsome and talented, is not a very pleasant experience. But
Warrington was, a thorough gentleman, and he submitted with grace.
"I know that you are a busy man, that you are besieged with
applications. You ought, at least, to have formal slips, such as
editors have. I have confidence in my ability to act, the confidence
which talent gives to all persons. After receiving your letter I was
more than ever determined to see you. So I resorted to this
subterfuge. It was all very distasteful to me; but I possess a vein of
wilfulness. This is not my home. It is the home of a friend who was
kind enough to turn it over to me this night, relying upon my wit to
bring about this meeting."
"It was neatly done," was Warrington's comment. He was not angry now
at all. In fact, the girl interested him tremendously. "I am rather
curious to learn how you went about it."
"You are not angry?"
"I was."
This seemed to satisfy her.
"Well, first I learned where you were in the habit of dining. All day
long a messenger has been following you. A telephone brought me to the
restaurant. The rest you know. It was simple."
"Very simple," laconically.
"You listened and believed. I have been watching you. You believed
everything I have told you. You have even been calculating how this
scene might go in a play. Have I convinced you that I have the ability
to act?"
Warrington folded the letter and balanced it on his palm.
"You have fooled me completely; that ought to be sufficient
recommendation."
"Thank you." But her eyes were eager with anxiety.
"Miss Challoner, I apologize for this letter. I do more than that. I
promise not to leave this house till you agree to call at the theater
at ten to-morrow morning." He was smiling, and Warrington had a
pleasant smile. He had an idea besides. "Good fortune put it into my
head to follow you here. I see it all now, quite plainly. I am in a
peculiar difficulty, and I honestly believe that you can help me out
of it. How long would it take you to learn a leading part? In fact,
the principal part?"
"A week."
"Have you had any experience?"
"A short season out west in a stock company."
"Good!"
"And I love work."
"Do not build any great hopes," he warned, "for your chance depends
upon the whim of another woman. But you have my word and my good
offices that something shall be put in your way. You will come at
ten?" drawing on his gloves.
"Promptly."
"I believe that we both have been wise to-night; though it is true
that a man dislikes being a fool and having it made manifest."
"And how about the woman scorned?" with an enchanting smile.
"It is kismet," he acknowledged.