Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Carol David, Joshua
Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at https://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: WITHOUT FURTHER ARGUMENT, HE SEIZED HOLD OF HER. PAGE
234.]
BOUGHT AND
PAID FOR
_A Story of To-day_
From the Play of
GEORGE BROADHURST
by
ARTHUR HORNBLOW
ILLUSTRATIONS FROM
SCENES IN THE PLAY
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1912, by
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
_Bought and Paid For_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. 7
II. 21
III. 39
IV. 52
V. 67
VI. 83
VII. 97
VIII. 115
IX. 131
X. 146
XI. 160
XII. 175
XIII. 191
XIV. 202
XV. 216
XVI. 236
XVII. 254
XVIII. 271
XIX. 280
XX. 292
XXI. 312
XXII. 325
CHAPTER I
"How is he now, doctor? Don't--don't tell me there is no hope!"
The wife, a tall, aristocratic looking woman who, despite her advanced
years, her snow-white hair, her eyes now red and swollen from weeping,
and pallid face seamed with careworn lines from constant vigils, still
showed traces of former beauty, scanned the physician fearfully,
trying to read in the expression of his countenance what the friend
and man of science, out of sheer compassion, was doing his utmost to
conceal. He had just emerged from the sick chamber; the trained nurse,
methodical and quick, and singularly attractive looking in her neat
uniform, had closed the door noiselessly behind him. Two young girls,
one about eighteen and the other some four years her junior, both
possessing more than average good looks, stood timidly in the
background anxiously awaiting, together with their grief-stricken
mother, to hear the dreaded verdict.
The physician paid no attention to them, but paced up and down the
room, his manner stern and forbidding, his head inclined in deep
thought, as if bent under the weight of tremendous responsibilities. A
noted specialist in pulmonary troubles, Dr. Wilston Everett was well
past middle age, and his tall, erect figure, massive frame and fine,
leonine head, crowned by a mass of stubborn, iron-gray hair, made him
a conspicuous figure everywhere. His expression, stern in repose, was
that of a profound student; it was a face where lofty thoughts, humane
feeling and every other noble attribute had left its indelible
impress.
Mrs. Blaine watched him fearfully, afraid to intrude on his
reflections. Finally, summoning up courage, she stammered weakly:
"How do you find him--not worse, is he?"
The doctor made no reply, but for a few moments stood looking at the
three women in silence. He felt sorry for them--so sorry that it was
only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that he kept his
eyes from filling with tell-tale tears. Who, better than he, could
realize the full extent of the misfortune which had suddenly befallen
these poor people? It was almost the same as if it had happened to
himself. Was he not, indeed, one of the family? Had he not been
present at poor Blaine's wedding, brought each of these girls into the
world and played with them on his knees? Now they had grown up to be
young women, they looked upon him as their second father.
Blaine, poor fellow, little thought that the end was so near! That's
what he had got for giving up his life to the most exciting and
ungrateful profession in the world. He had worked himself to death for
a pittance, until, giving way under the strain, his constitution
completely undermined, he proved an easy victim for pneumonia. If he
had been less scrupulous, more of a grafter, if he had seen in his
profession only the money to be made out of it, he might have been a
rich man by this time. But he was honest, honorable to a fault. No
amount of money could induce him to take tainted money. No matter what
legal white washing he was promised, he would have nothing to do with
thieves and perjurers. What was the result? After twenty years of
legal practice he was still a poor man and here on his deathbed,
suddenly struck down in the prime of life before he had time to
properly provide for his dear ones.
Probably there was no insurance. In fact, everyone knew that there was
not. Blaine had admitted as much to him some time ago. He had said
then that he had only $2,000 worth, but intended getting more. Now it
was too late. Only a few paltry dollars--barely enough to bury him.
The comfortably furnished room with its piano, books and pictures and
other scattered evidence of culture and refinement, showed the manner
in which the Blaines liked to live. Through the open window, affording
a fine view of Central Park, with its rolling lawns, winding paths and
masses of green foliage, came the distant sounds of busy traffic on
the Avenue, ten stories below. Of course, they would have to give up
all this. There was not the slightest hope for the patient. He was
past human aid. It was only a question of a few hours, perhaps only
minutes, when the end would come. Yet how could he break the terrible
truth to this poor woman, to these children who now stood watching
him, their lips not daring to give utterance to the dread question he
could plainly read in their tired, red eyes?
There was an unnatural silence. When anyone spoke it was in an almost
inaudible whisper. Each seemed to feel that Death, grim and awful of
aspect, was stalking invisible through the room. From behind the
closed door where the father and husband lay dying there came no
sound. Only an occasional sob from the wife, and the movements of the
two girls as they endeavored to console her, relieved the oppressive
stillness. Suddenly the doctor's eye encountered Mrs. Blaine's
searching, questioning gaze. Averting his head, he said:
"We must wait and hope for the best. You must be brave. He may rally.
I don't like the heart action. That's what bothers me. If there's
another sinking spell--"
Mrs. Blaine laid her cold, trembling hand on his. Quickly she said:
"You won't go away?"
He shook his head.
"Of course not. I'll stay until the crisis is past."
The bedchamber door opened softly and the nurse appeared, with a
worried look on her face.
"What is it, nurse," demanded the physician quickly.
"May I see you a minute, doctor?"
Dr. Everett went towards the bedroom. Mrs. Blaine was about to follow
when he turned and barred the way.
"Let me see him, doctor. Please let me go in," she pleaded.
The physician shook his head. Kindly but firmly he said:
"Not now. We may have to administer oxygen. You'd only be in the way.
You are better in here taking care of your daughters. If you are
needed I'll call you."
He disappeared into the inner room, and Mrs. Blaine, feeling faint
from anxiety and suspense, sank exhausted into a chair. The two girls,
nervous and ill at ease, too young to grasp the full significance of
the calamity that had befallen them, approached timidly. Fanny, the
elder girl, stood still, alarm and consternation written plainly on
her face. Her younger sister, bursting into a paroxysm of weeping,
threw her arms round her mother's neck.
"Oh, mother!" she sobbed. "Surely God won't let papa be taken from us!
I wouldn't believe in Him any more if He couldn't prevent that!"
Mrs. Blaine raised one hand reprovingly as with the other she caressed
her daughter's beautiful, long, dark hair.
"Hush! Virginia, dear. It's wicked to talk like that. God does
everything for the best. If it is His will, we must be resigned."
Clasping her sobbing child to her breast, Mrs. Blaine sat in silence,
her heart throbbing wildly, straining her ears to hear what was being
done in the inner room, momentarily expecting to be summoned. As she
sat there, enduring mental torture, each moment seeming like an hour,
she rapidly thought over the situation. In spite of her grief, her
helplessness, her brain worked lucidly enough. She realized that her
husband was dying. Her life's companion, the father of her children,
was going away from her--forever. Like a lightning flash, her whole
life passed suddenly in review: She saw herself a young girl again,
about Virginia's age, and with the same fondness for gaiety and
companionship. She, too, had been fond of music, art and literature,
and she was filled with ambition to make a name for herself. One day
she met John Blaine, then a young law student. It was a case of love
at first sight. They did not stop to consider ways and means. They got
married, and to-day, after thirty years of loving companionship, her
only regret was that she could not die before him. John had been a
loyal friend, a faithful companion, both in fair weather and foul, and
now their life's journey together had come to an abrupt end. It was
too dreadful to think of. It seemed to her that all these happenings
of the last few days--this sudden sickness, the coming of the trained
nurse, Dr. Everett's grave demeanor--was a hideous dream from which
she would soon awake.
Their situation was, indeed, desperate. It had taken practically all
John's income to live respectably. Living expenses were high and rents
exorbitant. What made matters worse, there was practically no life
insurance. John had intended taking out more, but it had been
neglected. After the funeral and other expenses what would be left of
the paltry $2,000? They would have to find a cheaper apartment. The
girls--she herself--would have to find work of some kind. It would be
terribly hard on the girls. Not only they lost a loving, devoted
father, but at an age when a nice home, and comfortable surroundings
meant everything in ensuring their future, they would find themselves
penniless and forced to go out into a cold, unsympathetic world to
earn their living. Fanny, she knew, would not mind. She was fond of
work and had no artistic aspirations; but the blow would fall heavily
on poor Virginia, who had set her heart on going to high school.
"Why are you so silent, mother dear?" asked Virginia suddenly. "Of
what are you thinking?"
"Just thinking--that's all," sighed Mrs. Blaine.
Virginia, not to be put off so easily, was about to insist on an
answer less vague, when suddenly the bedroom door opened and Dr.
Everett appeared. He advanced quickly into the room, his coat rumpled,
his manner strangely agitated. It was so unusual to see the physician
otherwise than calm and dignified that it seemed incredible that
anything, no matter how important, could ruffle him. Mrs. Blaine's
instinct told her the reason. Startled, she sprang to her feet.
"My God!" she exclaimed. "He's not--"
The doctor shook his head.
"No; a weak spell--that's all. You'd better come in. The children can
remain here."
The next instant the two sisters were alone.
For a few moments the girls, their arms clasped round each other's
waists, stood still, as if spellbound, staring at the door which
mercifully veiled from their view the tragedy of life then being
enacted in the adjoining room. Terror-stricken, too frightened even to
cry, they sat down and waited, straining their ears to hear what was
going on. Why had Doctor Everett summoned their mother? If Dad was
worse, if the crisis had come, why were they, too, not permitted to
see him? Instinctively they felt that their fears were only too well
founded. They shuddered, and it seemed to them that they felt a chill
in the air as if the Angel of Death had already entered the apartment
and was hovering near them. Virginia, nervous and hysterical, began to
cry. Fanny, endeavoring to appear brave, but inwardly as nervous, took
the girl in her arms and spoke consolingly and sensibly to her as
became an elder sister.
But Virginia obstinately refused to be comforted. Burying her face on
her sister's shoulder, she gave free vent to the storm of tears which
had been gathering in her girlish bosom all day. Devoted to her father
even more than to her mother, the mere thought of losing him was
intolerable. He was her comrade, her adviser, her mentor. All she had
undertaken or was about to undertake was to please him. If she had
excelled in her studies and advanced more rapidly than other girls in
her class, he was the cause. She needed his praise, his censure to
spur her on in her work. With him gone, it seemed to her that her own
life, too, had come to an end, not realizing, in her youthful
inexperience, that it had not yet commenced.
She was a singularly attractive girl and gave every promise of
developing into a remarkably handsome woman. Slight and somewhat
delicate in build, she was of brunette type, with a face oval in
shape, small features and large, lustrous eyes shaded by unusually
long lashes. The nose was aristocratic, and when she spoke her mouth,
beautifully curved, revealed perfect teeth. Her hands were white and
shapely, and the mass of dark, silky hair which fell luxuriantly over
her shoulders was the despair of every other girl of her acquaintance.
But it was not the possession of these mere externals that made people
look twice at Virginia Blaine. If she had had only beauty there would
have been nothing to particularly distinguish her from the many
millions of girls to whom Nature has been kind. Beauty _per se_
has no permanent power to attract. One soon tires of admiring an
inanimate piece of sculpture, no matter how perfectly chiselled. If a
woman lacks intelligence, _esprit_, temperament, men soon grow
weary of her society, even though she have the beauty of a Venus de
Medici; whereas, even a plain woman, by sheer force of soul and wit,
can attract friends and make the world forget her ugliness. What made
John Blaine's younger daughter an especial favorite was that in her
case good looks were allied with brains. She made friends by her
natural charm, her vivacity, her keen intelligence and uncommon
strength of character, which, despite her youth, she had exhibited on
more than one occasion. She was a merry-hearted, spirited, independent
kind of a girl with decided views of her own regarding right and wrong
and with the courage to express them. As the poet wrote:
Her glossy hair was clustered o'er her brow
Bright with intelligence and fair and smooth;
Her eyebrow's shape was the aerial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth
Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,
As if her veins ran lightning.
Two sisters more unlike in character and tastes it would be almost
impossible to discover. Fanny, the elder, lacked not only Virginia's
good looks, and also her brains. Yet she was good-natured and
easy-going, and, as long as she had her own way, managed to get along
with everybody. She went through the lower grades of public school,
but did not shine as a particularly bright pupil, evincing little love
for books, and shirking study when possible. Her fondness for
amusement and her uncultivated taste also led to her associating
habitually with companions beneath her socially. She was a thoroughly
good girl. A vulgar allusion would have shocked her, an impertinence
she would have quickly resented; yet she seemed of a coarser fibre
than the rest of the family, the reason for which, seeing that both
girls had equal advantages and opportunities, only an expert
psychologist could explain. She had gone through school mechanically
as an unpleasant task to be gotten over with as soon as possible,
taking no interest in her work, and when she came out her brain was a
sluggish and unresponsive as one might expect. Well aware of her
shortcomings, she made light of them, insisting laughingly that she
was the dunce of the family and Virginia its genius. She would do the
drudgery of housekeeping while her sister went to college.
There was no bitterness, no jealousy in this apparent rivalry. Fanny
was devoted to her little sister and proud of her cleverness. She
declared that one day Virginia would make a brilliant marriage and
then she could pay it all back. That Virginia should ultimately go to
college had been fully determined on. Everything attracted her to a
liberal education. She was ambitious; she craved knowledge and showed
talent in almost everything--in music, composition, painting. To her a
liberal education would mean everything--the widening of her mental
horizon, the initiation into keen, intellectual delights. No matter
what sacrifice was to be made, to college the girl should go. So
declared the parents.
Now all was changed. This blow which robbed her of her father also
shattered her hopes for the future. All this flashed through
Virginia's mind as they sat there, waiting. Turning to her sister, she
said through her tears:
"If the worst happened--Fan--if Dad died--we couldn't go on living
here, could we?"
Fanny shook her head. Sagely she replied:
"No, I'm afraid not. Father's got no insurance. Mother says we've
lived up to everything. I guess I'll have to go to work--"
"So will I," said Virginia quickly.
"What nonsense you talk, Virgie!" interrupted her sister almost
angrily. "As if you were intended for work! Nature intended you to be
a lady, and a lady you'll be if I have to work all the flesh off my
bones. Don't you suppose mother and I haven't talked it over already."
With mock contempt she went on: "You work! What at, I'd like to know.
Giving music lessons or writing articles for the ten-cent magazines!
It's different with 'yours truly.' I'm not a highbrow. I never cared
for books or culture and all that sort of thing. But I guess as a
saleslady in some store I'll make a hit. Anyway, I'll make enough to
keep things going--so there'll be enough for you and mother.
Now--there isn't any use arguing. It's college for yours, Virgie, and
when you graduate you'll marry a millionaire and we'll all be happy
and comfy."
Virginia was about to protest when suddenly there was a commotion
behind them. The bedroom door was abruptly opened and Dr. Everett came
in, supporting Mrs. Blaine, who was weeping bitterly. The two girls
sprang to their feet with a startled cry.
"How's father?" they exclaimed.
Staggering to a chair, Mrs. Blaine clasped both her children to her
breast.
"Your father is in Heaven!" she murmured.
Then she fell prostrate on the sofa, her whole being shaken by
convulsive sobs. Virginia, panic-stricken, darted forward, but the
Doctor held out a restraining hand.
"Don't, child--let her cry. It will do her good."