An hour later she felt as if she had known Smitherton for a long while
and could rely upon him. Then he lighted a cigar and said slowly: "I
have taken all this time and said nothing useful. I did it
deliberately--because what comes next will sound so cruel that I
wouldn't say it if the reason wasn't sufficient. I'm going to hurt
you--but only as the dentist or surgeon might hurt you. Shall I go on?"
She looked at him across the table and since cowardice had no place in
her composition braced herself and nodded her acquiescence.
"You don't get much help from your brother. It's not his fault, perhaps,
but it's true. You get none at all from your father. Your mother is in a
condition of mental derangement. It's up to you. You've walked your feet
sore seeking honest employment--and you've met with failure and affront.
Now I'm coming to it and I'm going to put it plain. In this town of New
York there is just one opening for you. One thing will bring you
handsome returns: nurses for your mother--comfort for your father--but
it will be an ordeal. You must capitalize your beauty and the publicity
that attaches to your name."
Mary Burton's lovely face grew paler, and, fearing interruption, the man
rushed on. "I don't mean in the way the Sunday editor suggested. I mean
the stage. I eke out my revenue in Park row with some press-agent work,
and I happen to know what I'm talking about. Mary Burton is one of the
most advertised names in the city. To a manager it would be worth
whatever it cost."
"But"--her voice faltered--"but I can't act. I've been in amateur things
of course, but--"
"You don't have to know how to act." His voice rose ironically. "Few
stars do--besides, I'm talking about vaudeville. The highest-priced
vaudeville headliner in America boasts that she can neither act, sing
nor dance."
He paused for a moment, then, as she said nothing, proceeded gravely:
"Think that over, Miss Burton. New York pays for names and what New York
pays for the rest of the country accepts--at more than face value. I can
see to it that your contract is carefully drawn--and you needn't fear
the usual unpleasant features of visiting managers. They will come to
you. It's not what you would prefer--but if other things fail telephone
me."
It was a small restaurant, very plain but neat, and at this hour of the
late afternoon the man from Park row and the woman who had once been the
toast of capitals from the Irish Sea to Suez sat across one of its small
tables undisturbed by other patrons. Only a waiter stood across the room
and a cat rubbed against his ankles.
In her mourning she made a wonderfully appealing picture, as she gazed
down at her plate, even though her lowered lashes half-masked the
mismated beauty of her eyes. Suffering had laid a veil of transparent
pallor over the brilliant vividness of her coloring--a coloring that her
lover had once likened to the gorgeousness of the Mosque of Omar. Yet,
by this, her beauty was rather enhanced than lessened as though Nature,
the master-painter, had retouched a picture already wondrous, softening
its colors with a tone more spiritual. Both face and figure had lost
something of roundness and the hand that lay on the table was slenderer
of finger and wrist, but Mary Burton had not been robbed of her beauty,
and when she spoke, very low and hesitantly, one realized that out of
her voice no single golden note was missing. She might still be
truthfully advertised as one of the world's rare beauties.
"I know," she said softly, "that you make that suggestion in true
kindness--and I know how great my need is. If I am to save my mother and
father from starvation, I must do something, and yet--" She paused and
shuddered. "Maybe it's all foolish and over-fastidious, but your
suggestion sets every nerve in me on edge. It's not very different after
all from your Sunday editor's suggestion--except in the spirit of its
making."
"Still, there is a difference," he assured her. "The footlights are
between and they give a sense of separation--and protection. Was
Herron--the Sunday man--particularly obnoxious? He's not human, you
know--he's just an efficient machine."
The fingers of the hand that lay on the table trembled a little and
Mary's eyes as they met his were clouded with distress.
"I hadn't supposed such things could be," she said. "He was very
impersonal about it all--and he grew enthusiastic as he outlined what he
wanted." Her words came slowly in a detached voice, though as she spoke
her delicate features responded to the shiver of disgust that ran
through her shoulders and at times her lips quivered. "He wanted me to
write it all--telling about every man abroad, especially with a title,
who had ever--been nice to me. He wanted pictures of me; all sorts of
pictures, in evening-gowns, in polo togs--in bathing-suits. He wanted a
chapter on how much my clothes used to cost--all my clothes. He said the
women would 'eat that up.'" She stopped and a wan smile crept into her
eyes, as she added, "I am using his words, Mr. Smitherton. But I could
stand that. I sat through it. I couldn't afford to lose any chance if it
was a chance I might decently take. But it was when he wanted his
picture, too, Jefferson's--"
She had to stop there for a moment and a mist came to her eyes which she
resolutely kept from overflowing in actual tears as she went on. "It was
when he wanted me to write down all his words and publish his letters
that I realized I couldn't fight even starvation that way."
"The damned brute!" muttered Smitherton. "The unspeakable beast!"
"To do him justice," admitted the girl generously, "I think he forgot,
in visualizing those pages which the women would 'eat up,' that it was
actually me he was talking to--it was just outlining work to a reporter.
He said something about 'sob-stuff,' too. To me, Mr. Smitherton, he
spoke of all these terrible, hideous things, that I lie awake
remembering, as 'sob-stuff'--and I knew that the worst of them were
times that made sobs impossible--when even tears wouldn't come."
"I had no idea it had been that bad." Smitherton's sympathy was genuine
and spontaneous.
"It was worse even," she went on. "He spoke of that--that afternoon when
I read the ticker tape--and knew what had happened. He said that,
properly colored, that would make a--a great scene. He said it had
drama." Her voice choked, then she added: "So you see your suggestion
will be a hard one for me to take. I should feel like--like Godiva
riding through the streets. And yet for her own people Judith went to
the tent of Holofernes. That wasn't easy, either."
They rose from the table and went out, and the girl held out her hand.
"Please don't think that I am unappreciative," she pleaded. "I know how
kind you have been--and I don't know how much longer I can hold out. You
said I could trust you, and now I know it, too. If--" her voice broke,
but her chin came up--"if I'm driven to it, I'll let you know--and be
very grateful."
"Don't let any one else talk to you," he cautioned. "Remember that this
is the capital of sharks. Now I'm going to call a taxi', and take you
home."
But she shook her head. "It's good of you," she said and her cheeks
flushed. "But I'd rather you didn't. I'm going by the people's
chariot--the subway." She was not yet quite able to conquer the old
pride that remained from the old life. She shrunk from showing him the
meanness of her quarters; she who had reigned and been toasted and lived
in the exclusive aloofness of the favored few, and who now faced
starvation. So he parted from her at the nearest kiosk of the
underground.
* * * * *
It would be a pleasant thing to paint the rehabilitation of Paul Burton,
showing how the underlying qualities of manhood rose in adversity as
they had never risen in opulence, and how love transformed him from a
weakling into a hero. But veracity intervenes. In childhood his
character had lacked stamina, and in manhood a hot-house atmosphere had
stifled even what had been there in the beginning. For a short time
after he had seen Marcia Terroll he fought the world and his own
terrible weakness with such a resolution that he utterly burned up and
consumed what spirit of combat was left within him. Perhaps the
recording angel, counting not only results but handicaps, wrote on the
great ledger of human balances a generous merit mark for even that brief
struggle.
Paul was like a weak swimmer in a strong undertow. He battled hard and
if he could not battle long it was because the measure of his strength
was not a matter of his own choosing. For a while he held a position as
organist in a church--and during those days he brought home the only
revenue which came in. But that did not last. The truth must be told.
Paul's fastidious spirit sickened at the sordid and tawdry, and when he
discovered one day, through the unkind offices of a vagabond violinist,
that it was possible to reconstruct a dream world, even in the midst of
want and poverty, his hunger for tranquillity triumphed over his
resolve. With a hypodermic needle he picked the lock--and threw open the
gate of dreams. To himself he said that it was only a temporary
indulgence, to be put aside when he had conquered the agonies of that
sleeplessness which had of late tortured him. Mary, deprived of his aid,
fought on alone, with all the fighting courage of the Burton blood at
its best--and fought hopelessly.
Elizabeth Burton could not be left alone. Her mind had crumbled into
such pitiful decay that her care chained the daughter in a rigorous
confinement. Now even the opportunity for seeking employment was denied
her.
The ruin of the Burton family was as total and complete as if fate were
bent on tallying measure for measure their past magnificence. The
quarters which Yamuro had chosen were given up and lodgings taken of a
far meaner sort.
If Mary needed a final twisting of the knife in her wounded life it came
when there stood between them and the streets a single asset, and she
went to realize on that, haggling with a pawnbroker over her engagement
ring.
Marcia Terroll came back to town for a brief stay between engagements
and stopped with Dorothy Melliss at their old rooms. She had not dared
to ask any question about Paul, and the other girl would have refrained
from volunteering information had she possessed it. Indeed, it would
have been unlikely that Dorothy would know anything of the submerged
Burtons in this city where lives may run out parallel spans almost door
to door, and never touch. But one evening as Marcia was crossing the
square, just after the lights began to glow, a human derelict sidled up
to her and accosted her with a mumbled petition for alms. The man was
old and his clothes though neatly patched were threadbare and worn. His
face, too, was seamed and his breath was alcoholic.
"Madam," he said in a low voice as he fell into step with her, "I was
not always so unfortunate, nor am I responsible for my adversities.
Could you--"
With a shudder of disgust Marcia quickened her pace, and the man,
fearful of the eye of police authority, dropped back. But Miss Terroll
could never bring herself without a struggle to ignore the plea of old
age. It struck her, too, that despite his panhandler's manner this man
was yet in a fashion different.
There was evidently someone who sought to keep him neatly mended up,
for her woman's eye had caught that detail in a glance. Through his
inebriety lurked a ghost-like suggestion of past gentility. She turned
impulsively back, beckoning to him as she searched her purse. In it were
two quarters and one of them she gave him.
"God bless you, madam," he began with a grotesque echo of the ancient
pompousness. "God knows I had never anticipated such a necessity."
As she hurried on, he removed his hat and bowed with an attempt at
stateliness which held a pathos of burlesque.
Marcia Terroll was spared the hurt of knowing that the panhandler with
whom she had divided the contents of her pocketbook, and whom she had
thus enabled to buy five greatly desired glasses of beer, was the father
of the man she loved.
So, though Mary Burton did not know it, this was the way old Tom eked
out the very scant pin-money she could spare him for his own method of
drugging his sorrows.