Gila Dare, in her very most startling costume, lavishly plastered with
costly fur, and high-laced, French-heeled boots, came tripping down her
father's steps to the limousine. She carried a dangling little trick of
a hand-bag and a muff big enough for a rug. Her two eyes looked forth
from the rim of the low-squashed, bandage-like fur hat like the eyes of
a small, sly mouse that was about to nibble somebody else's cheese.
By her side a logy youth, with small, blue fish-eyes fixed adoringly on
her, sauntered protectingly. She wore a large bunch of pale-yellow
orchids, evidently his gift, and was paying for them with her glances.
One knew by the excited flush on the young man's face that he had rarely
been paid so well. His eyes took on a glint of intelligence, one might
almost say of hope, and he smiled egregiously, egotistically. His
assurance grew with each step he took. As he opened the door of the
luxurious car for her he wore an attitude of one who might possibly be a
fiancé. Her little mouse-eyes--you wouldn't have dreamed they could ever
be large and wistful, nor innocent, either--twinkled pleasurably. She
was playing her usual game and playing it well. It was the game for
which she was rapidly becoming notorious, young as she was.
"Oh, now, _Chaw_-! _Ree_-ally! Why, I never dreamed it was that bad! But
you mustn't, you know! I never gave you permission!"
The chauffeur, sitting stolidly in his uniform, awaiting the word to
move, wondered idly what she was up to now. He was used to seeing the
game played all around him day after day, as if he were a stick or a
stone, or one of the metal trappings of the car.
"Chawley" Hathaway looked unutterable things, and the little mouse-eyes
looked back unutterable things, with that lingering,
just-too-long-for-pardoning glance that a certain kind of men and women
employ when they want to loiter near the danger-line and toy with vital
things. An impressive hand-clasp, another long, languishing look, just a
shade longer this time; then he closed the door, lifted his hat at the
mouse-eyed goddess, and the limousine swept away. They had parted as if
something momentous had occurred, and both knew in their hearts that
neither had meant anything at all except to play with fire for an
instant, like children sporting at lighting a border of forest that has
a heart of true homes in its keeping.
Gila swept on in her chariot. The young man with whom she had played was
well skilled in the game. He understood her perfectly, as she him. If he
got burned sometimes it was "up to him." She meant to take good care of
herself.
Around another corner she spied another acquaintance. A word to the
automaton on the front seat and the limousine swept up to the curb where
he was passing. Gila leaned out with the sweetest bow. She was the
condescending lady now; no mouse-eyes in evidence this time; just a
beautiful, commanding presence to be obeyed. She would have him ride
with her, so he got in.
He was a tall, serious youth with credulous eyes, and she swept his
soulful nature as one sweeps the keys of a familiar instrument, drawing
forth time-worn melodies that, nevertheless, were new to him. And just
because he thrilled under them, and looked in her eyes with startled
earnestness, did she like to play upon his soul. It would have been a
bore if he had understood, for he was a dull soul, and young--ages young
for Gila, though his years numbered two more than hers. She liked to see
his eyes kindle and his breath come quick. Some day he would tell her
with impassioned words how much he loved her, and she would turn him
neatly and comfortably down for a while, till he learned his place and
promised not to be troublesome. Then he might join the procession again
as long as he would behave. But at present she knew she could sway him
as she would, and she touched the orchids at her belt with tender little
caressing movements and melting looks. Even before she reached home she
knew he would have a box of something rarer or more costly waiting for
her, if the city afforded such.
She set him down at his club, quite well satisfied with her few minutes.
She was glad it didn't last longer, for it would have grown tiresome;
she had had just enough, carried him just far enough on the wave of
emotion, to stimulate her own soul.
Sweeping away from the curb again, bowing graciously to two or three
other acquaintances who were going in or out of the club building, she
gave an order for the hospital and set her face sternly to the duty
before her.
A little breeze of expectation preceded her entrance into the hospital,
a stir among the attendants about the door. Passing nurses apprized her
furs and orchids; young interns took account of her eyes--the mouse-eyes
had returned, but they lured with something unspeakable and thrilling in
them.
She waited with a nice little superb air that made everybody hurry to
serve her, and presently she was shown up to the door of Bonnie
Brentwood's room. Her chauffeur had followed, bearing a large pasteboard
suit-box which he set down at the door and departed.
"Is this Miss Brentwood's room?" she asked of the nurse who opened the
door grudgingly. Her patient had just awakened from a refreshing sleep
and she had no notion that this lofty little person had really come to
see the quiet, sad-eyed girl who had come there in such shabby little
garments. The visitor had made a mistake, of course. The nurse
grudgingly admitted that Miss Brentwood roomed there.
"Well, I've brought some things for her," said Gila, indicating the
large box at her feet. "You can take it inside and open it."
The nurse opened the door a little wider, looked at the small, imperious
personage in fur trappings, and then down at the box. She hesitated a
moment in a kind of inward fury, then swung the door a little wider open
and stepped back:
"You can set it inside if you wish, or wait till one of the men comes
by," she said, coolly, and deliberately walked back in the room and
busied herself with the medicine-glasses.
Gila stared at her haughtily a moment, but there wasn't much
satisfaction in wasting her glares on that white-linen back, so she
stooped and dragged in the box. She came and stood by the bed, staring
down apprizingly at the sick girl.
Bonnie Brentwood turned her head wearily and looked up at her with a
puzzled, half-annoyed expression. She had paid no heed to the little
altercation at the door. Her apathy toward life was great. She was lying
on the borderland, looking over and longing to go where all her dear
ones had gone. It wearied her inexpressibly that they all would insist
on doing things to call her back.
"Is your name Brentwood?" asked Gila, in the sharp, high key so alien to
a hospital.
Bonnie recalled her spirit to this world and focused her gaze on the
girl as if to try and recall where she had ever met her. Bonnie's
abundant hair was spread out over the pillow, as the nurse had just
prepared to brush it. It fell in long, rich waves of brightness and
fascinating little rings of gold about her face. Gila stared at it
jealously, as if it were something that had been stolen from her. Her
own hair, cloudy and dreamy, and made much of with all that skill and
care could do, was pitiful beside this wonderful gold mane with red and
purple shadows in its depths, and ripples and curls at the ends.
Wonderful hair!
The face of the girl on the pillow was perfect in form and feature.
Regular, delicate, refined, and lovely! Gila knew it would be counted
rarely beautiful, and she was furious! How had that upstart of a college
boy dared to send her here to see a beauty! What had he meant by it?
By this time the girl on the bed had summoned her soul back to earth for
the nonce, and answered in a cool, little tone of distance, as she might
have spoken to her employer, perhaps; or, in other circumstances, to the
stranger begging for work on her door-sill--Bonnie was a lady
anywhere--"Yes, I am Miss Brentwood."
There was no noticeable emphasis on the "Miss," but Gila felt that the
pauper had arisen and put herself on the same level with her, and she
was furious.
"Well, I've brought you a few things!" declared Gila, in a most
offensive tone. "Paul Courtland asked me to come and see what I could do
for you." She swung her moleskin trappings about and pointed to the
box. "I don't believe in giving money, not often," she declared, with a
tilt of her nasty little chin that suddenly seemed to curve out in a
hateful, Satanic point, "but I don't mind giving a little lift in other
ways to persons who are truly worthy, you know. I've brought you a few
evening dresses that I'm done with. It may help you to get a position
playing for the movies, perhaps; or if you don't know rag-time, perhaps
you might act--they'll take almost anybody, I understand, if they have
good clothes. Besides, I'm going to give you an introduction to a girls'
employment club. They have a hall and hold dances once a week and you
get acquainted. It only costs you ten cents a week and it will give you
a place to spend your evenings. If you join that you'll need evening
dresses for the dances. Of course I understand some of the girls just go
in their street suits, but you stand a great deal better chance of
having a good time if you are dressed attractively. And then they say
men often go in there evenings to look for a stenographer, or an actor,
or some kind of a worker, and they always pick out the prettiest. Dress
goes a great way if you use it rightly. Now there's a frock in here--"
Gila stooped and untied the cord on the box. "This frock cost a hundred
and fifty dollars, and I never wore it but once!"
She held up a tattered blue net adorned with straggling, crushed,
artificial rosebuds, its sole pretension to a waist being a couple of
straps of silver tissue attached to a couple of rags of blue net. It
looked for all the world like a draggled butterfly.
"It's torn in one or two places," pursued Gila's ready tongue, "but it's
easily mended. I wore it to a dance and somebody stepped on the hem. I
suppose you are good at mending. A girl in your position ought to know
how to sew. My maid usually mends things like this with a thread of
itself. You can pull one out along the hem, I should think. Then here is
a pink satin. It needs cleaning. They don't charge more than two or
three dollars--or perhaps you might use gasolene. I had slippers to
match, but I couldn't find but one. I brought that along. I thought you
might do something with it. They were horribly expensive--made to order,
you know. Then this cerise chiffon, all covered with sequins, is really
too showy for a girl in your station, but in case you get a chance to
act you might need it, and anyhow I never cared for it. It isn't
becoming to me. Here's an indigo charmeuse with silver trimmings. I got
horribly tired of it, but you will look stunning in it. It might even
help you catch a rich husband; who knows! There's half a dozen pairs of
white evening gloves! I might have had them cleaned, but if you can use
them I can get new ones. And there's a bundle of old silk stockings!
They haven't any toes or heels much, but I suppose you can darn them.
And of course you can't afford to buy expensive silk stockings!"
One by one Gila had pulled the things out of the box, rattling on about
them as if she were selling corn-cure. She was a trifle excited, to be
sure, now that she was fairly launched on her philanthropic expedition;
also the fact that the two women in the room were absolutely silent and
gave no hint of how they were going to take this tide of insults was
somewhat disconcerting. However, Gila was not easily disconcerted. She
was very angry, and her anger had been growing in force all night. The
greatest insult that man could offer her had been heaped upon her by
Courtland, and there was no punishment too great to be meted out to the
unfortunate innocent who had been the occasion of it. Gila did not care
what she said, and she had no fear of any consequences whatever. There
had not, so far to her knowledge, lived the man who could not be called
back and humbled to her purpose after she had punished him sufficiently
for any offense he might knowingly or unknowingly have committed. That
she really had begun to admire Courtland, and to desire him in some
degree for her own, only added fuel to her fire. This girl whom he had
dared to pity should be burned and tortured; she should be insulted and
extinguished utterly, so that she would never dare to lift her head
again within recognizable distance of Paul Courtland, or she would know
the reason why. Paul Courtland was _hers_--if she chose to have him; let
no other girl dare to look at him!
The nurse stood, starched and stern, with growing indignation at the
audacity of the stranger. Only the petrification of absolute
astonishment, and wonder as to what would happen next, took her off her
guard for the moment and prevented her from ousting the young lady from
the premises instantly. There was also the magic name of the handsome
young gentleman that had been used as password, and the very slight
possibility that this might be some rich relative of the lovely young
patient that she would not like to have put out. The nurse looked from
Bonnie to the visitor in growing wrath and perplexity.
Bonnie lay wide-eyed and amazed, startled bewilderment and growing
dignity in her face. Two soft, pink spots of color began to bloom out in
her cheeks, and her eyes took on a twinkle of amusement. She was
watching the visitor as if she were a passing Punch-and-Judy show come
in to play for a moment for her entertainment. She lay and regarded her
and her tawdry display of finery with a quiet, disinterested aloofness
that was beginning to get on Gila's nerves.
"You can have my flowers, too, if you want them," said Gila, excitedly,
seeing that her flood of insult had brought forth no answering word from
either listener. "They're very handsome, rare ones--orchids, you know.
Did you ever see any before? I don't mind leaving them with you because
I have a great many flowers, and these were given me by a young man I
don't care in the least about."
She unpinned the flowers and held them out to Bonnie, but the sick girl
lay still and regarded her with that quiet, half-amused gravity and did
not offer to take them.
"I presume you can find a waste-basket down in the office if you want to
get rid of them," said Bonnie, suddenly, in a clear, refined voice. "I
really shouldn't care for them. Isn't there a waste-basket somewhere
about?" she asked, turning toward the nurse.
"Down in the hall by the front entrance," answered the nurse, grimly.
She was ready to play up to whatever cue Bonnie gave her.
Gila stood haughtily holding her flowers and looking from one woman to
the other, unable to believe that any other woman had the insufferable
audacity to meet her on her own ground in this way. Were they actually
guying her, or were they innocents who really thought she did not want
the flowers, or who did not know enough to think orchids beautiful?
Before she could decide Bonnie was speaking again, still in that quiet,
superior tone of a lady that gave her the command of the situation:
"I am sorry," she said, quite politely, as if she must let her visitor
down gently, "but I'm afraid you have made some mistake. I don't recall
ever having met you before. It must be some other Miss Brentwood for
whom you are looking."
Gila stared, and her color suddenly began to rise even under the pearly
tint of her flesh. Had she possibly made some blunder? This certainly
was the voice of a lady. And the girl on the bed had the advantage of
absolute self-control. Somehow that angered Gila more than anything
else.
"Don't you know Paul Courtland?" she demanded, imperiously.
"I never heard the name before!"
Bonnie's voice was steady, and her eyes looked coolly into the other
girl's. The nurse looked at Bonnie and marveled. She knew the name of
Paul Courtland well; she telephoned to that name every day. How was it
that the girl did not know it? She liked this girl and the man who had
brought her here and been so anxious about her. But who on earth was
this huzzy in fur?
Gila looked at Bonnie madly. Her stare said as plainly as words could
have done: "You lie! You _do_ know him!" But Gila's lips said,
scornfully, "Aren't you the poor girl whose kid brother got killed by an
automobile in the street?"
Across Bonnie's stricken face there flashed a spasm of pain and her very
lips grew white.
"I thought so!" sneered Gila, rushing on with her insult. "And yet you
deny that you ever heard Paul Courtland's name! He picked up the kid and
carried it in the house and ran errands for you, but you don't know him!
That's gratitude for you! I told him the working-class were all like
that. I have no doubt he has paid for this very room that you are lying
in!"
"Stop!" cried Bonnie, sitting up, her eyes like two stars, her face
white to the very lips. "You have no right to come here and talk like
that! I cannot understand who could have sent you! Certainly not the
courteous stranger who picked up my little brother. I do not know his
name, nor anything about him, but I can assure you that I shall not
allow him nor any one else to pay my bills. Now will you take your
things and leave my room? I am feeling very--tired!"
The voice suddenly trailed off into silence and Bonnie dropped back
limply upon the pillow.
The nurse sprang like an angry bear who has seen somebody troubling her
cubs. She touched vigorously a button in the wall as she passed and
swooped down upon the tawdry finery, stuffing it unceremoniously into
the box; then she turned upon the little fur-trimmed lady, placed a
capable arm about her slim waist, and scooped her out of the room.
Flinging the bulging box down at her feet, where it gaped widely,
gushing forth in pink, blue, cerise, and silver, she shut the door and
flew back to her charge.
Down the hall hurried the emergency doctor, formidable in his
white-linen uniform. When Gila looked up from the confusion at her feet
she encountered the gaze of a pair of grave and disapproving eyes behind
a pair of fascinating tortoise-shell goggles. She was not accustomed to
disapproval in masculine eyes and it infuriated her.
"What does all this mean?" His voice expressed a good many kinds of
disapproval.
"It means that I have been insulted, sir, by one of your nurses!"
declared Gila, in her most haughty tone, with a tilt of her chin and a
flirt of her fur trappings. "I shall make it my business to see that she
is removed at once from her position."
The doctor eyed her mildly, as though she were a small bat squeaking at
a mighty hawk. "Indeed! I fancy you will find that a rather difficult
matter!" he answered, contemptuously. "She is one of our best nurses!
James!" to a passing assistant, "escort this person and
her--belongings"--looking doubtfully at the mess on the floor--"down to
the street!"
Then he swiftly entered Bonnie's room, closing and fastening the door
behind him.
The said James, with an ill-concealed grin, stooped to his task; and
thus, in mortification, wrath, and ignominy, did Gila descend to her
waiting limousine.
There were tears of anger on her cheeks as she sat back against her
cushions; more tears fell, which, regardless of her pearly complexion,
she wiped away with a cobweb of a handkerchief, while she sat and hated
Courtland, and the whole tribe of college men, her cousin Bill Ward
included, for getting her into a scrape like this. Defeat was a thing
she could not brook. She had never, since she came out of short frocks,
been so defeated in her life! But it should not be defeat! She would
take her full revenge for all that had happened! Courtland should bite
the dust! She would show him that he could not go around picking up
stray beauties and sending her after them to pet them for him.
She did not watch for acquaintances during that ride home. She remained
behind drawn curtains. Arrived at home, she stormed up to her room,
giving orders to her maid not to disturb her, and sat down angrily to
indite an epistle to Courtland that should bring him to his knees.
Meantime the doctor and nurse worked silently, skilfully over Bonnie
until the weary eyes opened once more, and a long-drawn sigh showed that
the girl had come back to the world.
By and by, when the doctor had gone out of the room and the nurse had
finished giving her the beef-tea that had been ordered, Bonnie raised
her eyes. "Would you mind finding out for me just what this room costs?"
she asked, wearily.
The nurse had been fixing it all up in her mind what she should say when
this question came. "Why, I'm under the impression you won't have to pay
anything," she said, pleasantly. "You see, sometimes patients, when they
go out, are kind of grateful and leave a sort of endowment of a bed for
a while, or something like that, for cases just like yours, where
strangers come in for a few days and need quiet--real quiet that they
can't get in the ward, you know. I believe some one paid something for
this room in some kind of a way like that. I guess the doctor thought
you would get well quicker if you had it quiet, so he put you in here.
You needn't worry a bit about it."
Bonnie smiled. "Would you mind making sure?" she asked. "I'd like to
know just what I owe. I have a little money, you know."
The nurse nodded and slipped away to whisper the story to the grave
doctor, who grew more indignant and contemptuous than he had been to
Gila, and sent her promptly back with an answer.
"You don't have to pay a cent," she said, cheerfully, as she returned.
"This bed is endowed temporarily, the doctor says, to be used at his
discretion, and he wants to keep you here till some one comes who needs
this room more than you do. At present there isn't any one, so you
needn't worry. We are not going to let any more little feather-headed
spitfires in to see you, either. The doctor balled the office out like
everything for letting that girl up."
Bonnie tried to smile again, but only ended in a sigh. "Oh, it doesn't
matter," she said, and then, after a minute, "You've been very good to
me. Some time I hope I can do something for you. Now I'm going to
sleep."
The nurse went out to look after some of her duties. Half an hour later
she came back to Bonnie's room and entered softly, not to waken her. She
was worried lest she had left the window open too wide and the wind
might be blowing on her, for it had turned a good deal colder since the
sun went down.
She tiptoed to the bed and bent over in the dim light to see if her
patient was all right. Then she drew back sharply.
The bed was empty!
She turned on the light and looked all around. There was no one else in
the room! Bonnie was gone!