It was in a city in the far West that this small incident took place--a
city of the mountains still so young that some of its stateliest
business buildings of stone or marble, with plate-glass, fine furniture,
and electric lighting, were neighboured not merely by shanties, but
actually by tents.
But though high up in the mountains, the young city was neither too far
nor too high for vice to reach it; and so it came about that a certain
woman, whose gold-bought smiles had become a trifle too mocking and
satirical to be attractive, had come to the young city and placed
herself at the head of an establishment where, at command, every one
from sunset laughed and was merry, and held out hungry, grasping little
hands for the gold showered upon them--laughed, with weary, pain-filled
eyes--laughed, with stiff, tired lips sometimes--but still laughed till
sunrise--and then, well, who cared what they did _then_?
And this woman had waxed rich, and owned valuable property and much
mining stock, and was generous to those who were down on their luck, and
was quick with her revolver--as the man who tried to hold her up on a
lonely road found out to his sorrow.
Now to this city there came a certain actress, and the papers and the
theatre bills announced a performance of the old French play of
"Camille." The wealthy Madame Elize, as she styled herself, had heard
and read much of both actress and play, and knew that it was almost a
nightly occurrence for men to shed tears over two of the scenes, while
women wept deliciously through the whole play.
She determined that she would go to that performance, though the manager
assured the public, in large letters, that no one of her order could
possibly be admitted. And she declared "that she could sit out that or
any other play without tears. That no amount of play-acting could move
her, unless it was to laughter."
And so the night came, and the best seat in the best box in all that
crowded theatre was occupied by a woman of forty-five, who looked about
thirty-eight, who, but for the fixed, immovable colour in her cheeks and
her somewhat too large and too numerous diamonds, might from her black
silk, rich dark furs, and her dignified bearing have passed for an
honest woman.
She watched the first act with a somewhat supercilious manner, but the
second act found her wiping her eyes--very cautiously; there was that
unvarying colour to think of. The third act found her well back in the
shadow of the box curtain, and the last act she watched with a face of
such fixed determination as to attract the wondering comment of several
of the actors.
When the curtain fell, one of them remarked, "I'd like to know what that
woman will do in the next few hours?"
This is what she did. Keeping back till the house was nearly empty, she
left the theatre alone. Then she engaged a carriage--of which there were
very, very few in that city of the mountains, where the people did most
of their going and coming on horseback--and had herself conveyed to her
home, ablaze with light and full of laughter; and bidding the driver
wait, she entered quietly and went swiftly to her own apartment, where a
man in slippers and dressing-gown sat in a big armchair, sleeping over
the evening paper.
She lost no time, but aroused him at once, shaking him by the shoulder,
and in cold, curt tones ordered him "to rise and dress for the street,
and to go with her."
[Illustration: _Clara Morris in the 1st Act of "Camille"_]
But he objected, asking: "Why the deuce he should go out that bitter
night? And was she a fool, or did she take him for one?"
Upon which she had so savagely ordered him "to get on his boots, his
coat, and overcoat" that the sleepiness had vanished from his sharp
eyes, and he had exclaimed, "What is it, Kate? what's happened to you?"
And she answered: "I've had a blow--no, don't reach for your gun. I
don't mean that--but, Jim, it hurts. (Here, let me tie that for you.)
I've had a blow straight at the heart, and a woman gave it--God bless
her! (Can't you brush your hair up over that thin place? Jim--why, Jim,
upon my soul, you're grey!) Oh, hurry! here, take your fur coat--you'll
need it. Come now--no, I won't tell till we're outside this house.
Come--on the quiet, now--come," and taking him by the arm she dragged
him down the hall and stairs, and so outside the front door.
There she stopped. The man shivered at the cold, but kept his gleaming
eyes fastened on her white face, "Well?" he said.
She stood looking up at the glory of the sky above her, where the stars
glittered with extraordinary brilliancy, and in an abstracted tone she
observed, "There's the 'Dipper.'"
He watched her still silently; she went on: "Do you remember, Jim, when
I taught school down in Westbury, how we used to look at the 'Dipper'
together, because you didn't dare speak--of anything else? You got seven
dollars a week, then, and I--oh, Jim! why in God's name _didn't_ you
speak? Then I might never have come to this." She struck the lintel of
the door passionately, but went right on: "Yes--yes, I'm going to tell
you, and you've got to make a decision, right here, _now_! You'll think
I'm mad, I know; but see here now, I've got that woman's dying eyes
looking into mine; I've got that woman's voice in my ears, and her words
burnt into my living heart! I'll tell you by and by, perhaps, what
those words are, but first, my proposal: you are free to accept it, you
are free to refuse it, or you are free to curse me for a drivelling
idiot; but look you here, man, if you _laugh_ at it, I swear I'll _kill_
you! Now, will you help me out of this awful life? Jim, will you get
into that carriage and take me to the nearest minister and marry me, or
will you take this 'wad' and go down that street and out of my life
forever?"
In the pause that followed they looked hard into one another's eyes.
Then the man answered in six words. Pushing away the hand that offered
him a great tight-rolled mass of paper money, he said, "Put that
away--now, come on," and they entered the carriage, and drove to the
home of a minister. There a curious thing happened. They had answered
satisfactorily the reverend gentleman's many questions before he quite
realized _who_ the woman was. When he did recognize her, he refused to
perform the ceremony, and with words of contemptuous condemnation
literally drove them from the house, and with his ecclesiastical hand
banged the door after them.
They visited another minister, and their second experience differed from
their first in two points,--the gentleman was quicker in his recognition
and refusal, and refrained from banging the door. And so they drove up
and down and across the city, till at last they stood at the carriage
door and looked helpless at each other. Then the man said, "That's the
last one, Kate," and the woman answered, "Yes, I know--I know." She drew
a long, hard breath that was not far from a sob, and added, "Yes,
they've downed me; but it wasn't a fair game, Jim, for they've played
with marked cards."
She had entered the carriage when the driver with the all-pervading
knowledge and unlimited assurance of the Western hackman remarked
genially: "Madame Elize, there's another gospel-sharp out on the edge of
the town. He's poorer than Job's turkey, and his whole dorgon'd little
scantlin' church ain't bigger than one of them Saratogy trunks, but his
people just swear by him. Shall I take you out there?"
Madame Elize nodded an assent, and once more they started. It was a long
drive. The horses strained up killing grades, sending out on the cold
air columns of steam from their dilating nostrils. The driver beat first
one hand and then the other upon his knees, and talked amicably if
profanely to his horses; but inside the carriage there was utter
silence.
At last they stopped before a poor, cold-looking little cottage, and
entering made their wishes known to a blue-eyed, tall young man, with
thin, sensitive lips, who listened with grave attention. He knew
precisely who and what she was, and very gently told her he would have
to ask one unpleasant question, "Was the man at her side acquainted with
her past, or was he a stranger who was being deceived--victimized, in
fact?"
And Kate, with shining eyes, turned and said: "Tell him, Jim, how for
six honest, innocent years we were friends. Then tell him how for
fifteen years we've been partners in life. Tell him whether you know me,
Jim, or whether you're victimized."
And then the young minister had told them he was proud and thankful to
clasp their hands and start them on their new path, with God's blessing
on them. And they were married at last; and as they drove away, they
noted the strange outlines of the mountains, where they reared their
stupendous bulk against the star-sown sky. A sense of awe came upon
them--of smallness, of helplessness. Instinctively they clasped hands,
and presently the woman said: "Oh, Jim, the comfort of a wedding ring!
It circles us about so closely, and keeps out all the rest of the
world."
And Jim stooped his head and kissed her.
_CHAPTER XIX