THE LAST ACT OF "GIRLS' LOVE"
The wail of grief that echoed through New York for Rose Doran, suddenly
snatched from life in the prime of her beauty, sounded in the ears of
Max a warning note. Her memory must not be smirched. And then again came
the temptation. As she lay dying he had decided what to do. But now that
she was dead, now that letters and telegrams by the hundred, and visits
of sympathy, and columns in the newspapers, were making him realize more
and more her place in the world she had left, and the height of the
pedestal on which the Doran family stood, the question repeated itself
insistently: Why not reconsider?
Max had thought from time to time that he knew what temptation was; but
now he saw that he had never known. His safeguard used to be in calling
up his father's image to stand by him, in listening for the tones of a
beloved voice which had the power to calm his hot temper, or hold him
back from some impetuous act of which he would have been ashamed later.
He had seemed to hear the voice as Rose slept her last sleep, under her
white veil, but later it was silent. It left him to himself, and
sometimes he was even persuaded that it joined with the voice of Rose,
whispering that siren word, "Reconsider."
Jack Doran had loved Rose. Perhaps on the other side of the valley he
had forgiven her, and wished above all other things that her memory
should remain bright. If Max reconsidered, it would all be easy. No one
would be surprised if he took long leave and went abroad. No one would
think it strange or suspicious if a girl "Cousin" should later appear on
the scene: a Miss Doran of whom no one had ever heard, who had been
educated abroad, and who, because she had lost her parents, was to take
up life in America. Or maybe it needn't even come to that, in case he
found the girl. She might be married. She might prefer to remain where
she was, with plenty of money from her distant relations, the Dorans, of
whose existence she would be informed for the first time. There would be
no difficulty in arranging this. The one real difficulty was that Max's
soul would be in prison. The bars would be of gold, and he would have in
his cell everything to make him and his friends think it a palace. But
it would be a prison cell, all the same, for ever and ever; and at night
when he and his soul were alone together, looking into each other's
eyes, he would know that from behind the door he had locked upon himself
there was no escape.
There were moments, and whole hours together, when he said with a kind
of sudden rage against the responsibility thrown on him, "I'll take
Rose's advice--the last words she ever spoke." But then, in some still
depth far under the turmoil of his tempted spirit, he knew that his
first decision was the only one possible for honour or even for
happiness. And the day after the funeral he made it irrevocable by
telling Edwin Reeves a wild story that had come to him in a strange
moment of something like exaltation. It had come as he stood bareheaded
by the grave where Rose had just been laid to sleep beside Jack Doran;
and in that moment a lie for their sakes seemed nobler than the truth
that would hurt them. More and more, as he thought of it on his way back
to the house which had once been "home," and as the possibilities
developed in his mind, with elaborations of the tale, this lie appealed
to his chivalry. Everybody might hear it without fear that Jack or Rose
would be blamed. That was the great advantage. There need be no
whisperings and mysteries. And once the tale was told, there would be no
going back from it.
The story which fixed his imagination and inspired him to martyrdom
might have made a plot for some old-fashioned melodrama, but Max began
to realize that there was nothing in fiction so incredible as the things
which happen in life: things one reads about any day in newspapers, yet
which in a novel would be laughed at by critics. He would say to Edwin
Reeves that, shortly before her death, Rose had learned through the
dying confession of a Frenchwoman who had nursed her in childbirth that
her girl baby had been changed for a boy, born about the same time to a
relative of the nurse; that hearing this story she had intended to write
Max, and ask him to go to France to prove or disprove its truth, but
that she had been struck down before summoning courage to break the
news. Edwin Reeves would then understand Rose's anxiety to see Max; and
he would keep the secret, at least until the girl was found. As for what
ought to be done in the case of not finding her, or learning without
doubt that she was dead, Max thought he might take the lawyer's advice
as a friend of the Dorans, as a legal man, and as a man of the world.
Perhaps, if in Edwin Reeves's judgment silence would in that event be
justified, Max might accept this verdict.
There was that one grain of hope for the future--if it could be called
hope. But there was another person besides Edwin Reeves and Edwin
Reeves's son (Max's best friend of old days) who must be told at once
how little claim he had to the Doran name and fortune. That person was
Billie Brookton.
Max had dimly expected opposition from Edwin Reeves, whose advice might
be what Rose Doran's had been: to give money, and let everything remain
as it had been. It was somewhat to his surprise that the lawyer, after
listening in silence, agreed that there was just one thing to do, if the
girl still lived. Grant (who was with him in their private office by
Max's wish), though more demonstrative, more openly sympathetic, held
the same opinion.
Max ought to have been glad of this encouragement, but somehow, shaming
himself for it, he felt a dull sense of injury, especially where Grant
was concerned. Grant exclaimed that it was horribly hard lines, and that
old Max was the splendid fellow everybody had always believed him to be.
Lots of chaps would have been mean, and stuck to the name and money,
though of course no honourable man could do that. Grant quite saw how
Max felt, and would have to act in the same way himself, no matter what
it cost. If the truth had to come out, every one would say he'd behaved
like a hero--that was one comfort; but, as Edwin Reeves reminded them
both, Max might be rewarded for his noble resolve by learning that there
was no need to make the sensational story public. If the girl had died
or could not be found, it would be--in Mr. Reeves's opinion--foolishly
quixotic to rouse sleeping dogs, and ruin himself, to put money in the
pockets of the Reynold Dorans, who had more than they wanted already.
"You'll feel like getting leave to run over to France, I suppose," said
the lawyer, "though of course the search might be made for you if you
prefer."
"I prefer to go myself," Max decided quietly.
"Why not let me go with you?" Grant suggested, with a certain eagerness
which it seemed to Max he tried to suppress, rather than to show as a
proof of friendship. "The governor could spare me for a while, I expect,
and it wouldn't be quite such a gloomy errand as if you were alone. I'd
be glad to do it for you, dear old boy, honestly I would."
Yes, he would be glad. Max saw that. And instead of feeling drawn nearer
to Grant Reeves, he felt suddenly miles away. They had drifted apart
since Max had joined his regiment in the West and Grant had become a
partner with his father. Now Max told himself that he had never known
Grant: that as men they were so far from one another he could really
never know him; and he wondered at the impulse which had made him wish
Grant to hear the story with Edwin.
"But suppose it's all true and you find the girl over on the other side
somewhere?" Grant went on, when Max had answered that the search might
be long, and it would be better for him to make it alone. "What will
you do? Hadn't my mother better fetch her? Mother's over in Paris now,
you know, so it would be less trouble. You mightn't want to bring her
back yourself, unless, of course----"
"Unless--what?" Max wanted to know.
"Well, you're not related to the girl, and you're about the same age.
She'll naturally look upon you as a hero, a deliverer, and all that, if
she's a normal woman. If it were in a book instead of real life, the end
would be----"
"Different from what it will be with us," Max cut him short. "Don't
let's speak or think of anything like that."
"It only occurred to me," Grant excused himself mildly, "that
if--nothing like that _did_ happen, you mightn't want to come back to
this country yourself, for a while. It's a queer sort of case. And you
see you went through West Point and got your lieutenancy as Max Doran.
If you weren't Max Doran, but somebody else, I wonder what they would do
about----"
"I shouldn't give them the trouble of doing anything," said Max quietly.
"I'd resign from the army. But there'll be other doors open, I hope. I
don't mean to fade out of existence because I'm not a Doran or a fellow
with money. I'll try and make something out of another name."
"And you'll succeed, of course," Edwin Reeves assured him. "I suppose it
was in Grant's mind that if this extraordinary story proved to be true,
and you should give up your name and your fortune to John and Rose
Doran's daughter, why you would in a way be giving up your country,
too. You say that the confession Mrs. Doran received was from a
Frenchwoman: that this person took the child of a relative, and
exchanged it for the Doran baby. If we are to believe that, it makes you
of French blood as well as French birth. Grant supposed, perhaps, that
this fact might change your point of view."
Max had not thought of it, and resented the suggestion which the two
seemed to be making: that he would no longer have the right to consider
himself an American. "But I don't feel French," he exclaimed. "I don't
see how I ever can."
"Yet you speak French almost like a Frenchman," said Grant. "We used to
tease you about it in school. Do you remember?"
Did he remember? And Jack Doran had called him "Frenchy." Always, it
seemed, he had been marching blindly toward this moment.
Nothing was settled at the end of the talk, except that the secret was
to be kept for the present. And Max learned that Rose had made an
informal will, leaving him all her jewellery, with the request that it
should be valued by experts and sold, he taking the money to "use as he
thought fit." She had made this will years ago, it seemed, directly
after Jack Doran's death, while her conscience was awake. Max guessed
what had been in her mind. She had wanted him to have something of his
own, in case he ever lost his supposed heritage. He was grateful to her
because, not loving him, she had nevertheless thought of his welfare and
tried to provide for it. Mr. Reeves knew something about the value of
Rose's jewels. She had not had many, he reminded Max. Once, soon after
her marriage, and while she was still abroad, all her wedding presents
and gifts from her husband had been stolen in a train journey. Since
then, she seemed to have picked up the idea that a beautiful woman ought
not to let herself be outshone by her own jewels. She had cared for
dress more than for jewellery, and, with the exception of a rope of
pearls, her ornaments had not been worth a great deal. Still, they ought
to sell for at least twelve or fifteen thousand dollars, counting
everything, and two or three rather particularly fine rings which Jack
had given her.
"I think she must have meant me to except those from the things to be
sold," said Max. "She would have known I'd never let them go."
His first impulse after that interview with the Reeveses was to dash out
West and see Billie, to tell her that something had happened which might
make a great difference in his circumstances, and to give her back her
freedom. But when he had stopped to think, he said to himself that it
wouldn't be fair to go. Face to face, it would be hard for Billie to
take him at his word, and he did not want to make it hard. Instead, he
wrote, telling her that he was getting leave to go abroad on important
business--business on which the whole future would depend. Perhaps
(owing to circumstances which couldn't be explained yet, till he learned
more about them himself) he might be a poor man instead of a rich one.
Meanwhile, she mustn't consider herself bound. Later, when he knew what
awaited him, if things righted themselves he would come to her again,
and ask what he had asked before. In any case, he would explain.
It was rather a good letter, the version which Max finally let stand,
after having torn up half a dozen partly covered sheets of paper. His
love was there for the girl to see, and he could not help feeling that,
possibly--just possibly--she might write or even telegraph, saying, "I
refuse to be set free."
While he waited, he engaged his passage to Cherbourg on a ship that was
to sail at the end of the week. That would give Billie's answer time to
come. Or--just madly supposing she cared enough to have an understudy
play her part for a few days--it would allow time for a wonderful
surprise, and the greatest proof of love a girl could give a man.
There was no telegram, but the day before he was to sail an envelope
with Billie Brookton's pretty scrawl on it was put into his hand. He
opened it carefully, because it seemed sacrilege to tear what she had
touched, or break the purple seal, with the two bees on it, which she
used instead of initials or a monogram. The perfume which came from the
paper was her own special perfume, named in honour of her success and
popularity--"Girls' Love." Max remembered Billie's telling him once that
it cost "outsiders" five dollars an ounce, because there were amber and
lots of wonderful, mysterious things in it; but _she_ got it for
nothing.
"How good, how noble you are!" were her first words; and Max's heart
leaped. This divine creature, who could have her pick of men, was going
to say ... but as his eyes travelled fast from line to line, the beating
of his heart slowed down.
* * * * *
"Come back to me when this horrible business trouble is over, and ask me
again, as you say you will. You'll find me waiting, oh, _so_
impatiently! for I _do_ love you. Whatever happens, Max--dear, handsome
Max--you will be the one great romance of my life. I can never forget
you, or those blue eyes of yours, the day you told me you cared. They
will haunt me always. Oh, how I wish I were rich enough for both of us,
so that we might be happy, even in case of the worst, and you lose your
money! But I don't know how to keep the wretched stuff when I have it.
And though I make a lot now, I'm not strong, and who knows how long my
vogue may last? We poor actress girls, who depend on our health and the
fickle public, have to think of these sordid things. It is, oh, _so_ sad
for us! No woman who hasn't known the struggle herself can realize. Do
hurry back, with good news for both, and save me from a _dreadful_ man
who is persecuting me to marry him. I met him in such an odd way the
last time I was here in Chicago, but I didn't tell you the story of the
adventure, because it would only have worried you. Besides, you made me
forget every one and everything--you did truly, Max! But he frightens me
now, he is so fearfully rich, and so strong and insisting; and somehow
he's got round auntie. She's so silly; she thinks you oughtn't to have
left me as you did, though of course you had to. _I_ understood, if she
doesn't. She's only a foolish old lady, but she does fuss so about this
man! If you don't rescue me, he may be my fate. I _feel_ it. Dear Max, I
wait for you. I want you.
BILLIE.
"P.S. _Please wire when you know_."
As he read the letter through for the second time, he could hear through
the open window of his room a woman's voice singing one of Gaëta's
songs, the one most popular: "Forever--never! Who knows?"
The words mingled themselves with the words of the letter: "Come back.
Bring good news. Forever--never! Who knows?" And the song was from the
last act of "Girls' Love."