If Laura Murdock was not quite so young as she looked, she was far from
appearing her real age, which was twenty-five. A casual observer at
most, would have accorded her twenty. In her case Nature had been
unusually kind. Her skin was soft as a new-born infant's, her
complexion fresh as the unplucked rose, her expression innocent and
unsophisticated. A priest unhesitatingly would have given her
absolution without confession. Her baby face, her childish prettiness
and air of unaffected ingenuousness, her good taste in dress, her
natural refinement, and cleverness in keeping men guessing had been,
indeed, the chief keystones of her success. And, most remarkable of
all, perhaps, was that she had been able to retain this prettiness and
girlishness after what she had gone through, for, at the time this
narrative opens, Laura Murdock had already lived a career which would
have made a wreck of most women.
Born in Melbourne, of English parents, she came at an early age from
Australia to San Francisco. Her father was connected in a business
capacity with one of the local theatrical companies, and the young girl
naturally drifted to the stage. She had only a mediocre histrionic
talent, but what was perhaps more important, she had uncommon good
looks, and she soon found that beauty was not only a valuable asset,
but a sure lever to success. The critics praised her, not because she
acted well, but because she dressed exquisitely, and pleased the eye.
Managers and authors flattered her. Soon she found, to her amazement,
that she was the success of the hour. Stage Johnnies raved about her;
sent her flowers and invited her to supper; women envied her, and said
spiteful things. Portraits of her in various attitudes appeared in the
newspapers and magazines. In a single night she was carried high on the
top wave of sensational popularity.
The outcome was only logical. Even a virtuous woman could not stand the
strain, and Laura was not virtuous. Of neurotic temperament, inherently
weak, if not actually vicious in character, with the spirit of the
courtesan strong within her from an early age, fond of luxury and
personal adornment she could not legitimately afford, it was not
surprising that she listened to the flatterers and went to the devil
quicker than any woman before her in the whole history of gallantry. At
the end of her first season, her reputation was completely in tatters.
Accepting the situation philosophically, she did not pretend to be
better than she was, but she was clever enough not to cheapen herself
by entangling herself too promiscuously. She had lovers by the score,
yet none could boast of having really won her heart. A woman of
superficial emotions, she was entirely without depth, yet so long as it
suited her purpose, she was able to conceal this shallowness and
profess for the admirer of the moment the greatest affection and
devotion. This is an art and she was an adept at it. Sensually she
quickly attracted men, and it was not long before she became a prime
favorite in the select circles that made such resorts as "The Yellow
Poodle" and "Moreland's" famous, yet in her dissipations she was always
careful not in any way to indulge in excesses which would jeopardize
her physical attractiveness, or for one moment diminish her keen sense
of worldly calculation.
One day, obeying a foolish impulse, she married. The venture was, of
course, a failure. Her selfish vacillating nature was such that she
could not remain true to the poor fool who had given her his name. To
provide the luxuries she incessantly demanded, he embezzled the funds
of the bank where he was employed, and when exposure came, and he was
confronted with a jail sentence, she was horrified to see him kill
himself in front of her. There was a momentary spasm of grief, a tidal
wave of remorse, followed in a few brief weeks by the peculiar
recuperation of spirits, beauty and attractiveness that so marks this
type of woman. Gradually she became hardened and indifferent. She began
to view life as a hunting field, in which the trophy went to the
hardest rider. Deceived herself by men, she finally arrived at that
stage of life known in theatrical circles as "wised up."
Coming to New York, she attracted the attention of a prominent
theatrical manager, and was given a part, in which she happened to make
a hit. This was enough to immediately establish her reputation on the
metropolitan stage. The fact that before reaching the age of womanhood,
she had had more escapades than most women have in their entire lives,
was not generally known in Manhattan, nor was there a mark upon her
face or a single coarse mannerism to betray it. She was soft voiced,
very pretty, very girlish, yet she was no fool. Her success did not
turn her head or blind her to her shortcomings as an actress. She
realized that in order to maintain her position she must have some
influence outside of her own ability, so she laid plans to entangle in
her net a hard-headed, blunt and supposedly soubrette-proof theatre
manager. He fell victim to her charms, and in his cold, stolid way,
gave her what love there was in him. Still not satisfied, she played
two ends against the middle, and finding a young man of wealth and
position, who could give her in his youth an exuberance of joy utterly
apart from the character of the theatrical manager, she allowed him to
shower her with presents. When his money was gone, she cast him aside
and demurely resumed her relations with the unsuspecting theatre
manager. The jilted lover became crazed, and one night at a restaurant,
attempted to murder them both.
From that time on, her career was a succession of brilliant coups in
gaining the confidence and love, not to say the money, of men of all
ages, and all walks of life. Her powers of fascination were as potent
as her professions of reform were insincere. She never made an honest
effort to be an honest woman, she never tried to do the square thing.
Yet, like other women of her type, she found all sorts of excuses for
her wrongdoing. She pretended that she was persecuted, a victim of
circumstances, and was ever ready to explain away the viciousness of
character, which was really responsible for her troubles.
In spite of her success on the stage, she was an indifferent actress.
Her lack of true feeling, her abuse of the dramatic temperament in her
private affairs, had been such as to make it impossible for her
sincerely to impress audiences with genuine emotional power, and
therefore, despite the influences which she always had at hand, she
remained a mediocre artist.
Her meeting with Willard Brockton was, from her point of view, the best
possible thing that could have happened. Brockton was a New York stock
broker, and like many men of his tastes and means, was a good deal of a
sensualist. Of morals he frankly confessed he had none, yet he was an
honest sensualist for he played the game fair. He never forgot that he
was a gentleman. He was perfectly candid about his _amours_ and never
expected more from a woman than he could give to her. He was honest in
this, that he detested any man who sought to take advantage of a pure
woman. He abhorred any man who deceived a woman. The same in love as in
business, he believed that there was only one way to go through life,
and that was to be straight with those with whom one deals. A master
hand in stock manipulation and other questionable practices of Wall
Street, he realized that he had to pit his cunning against the craft
of others. He was not at all in sympathy with present-day business
methods, but he did not see any particular reason why he should
constitute himself a reformer. Although still in the prime of life, he
cared nothing for society and held aloof from it. If he went to the
trouble to keep in touch at all with people of his own set, it was
simply for business reasons. What he seemed to delight in most was the
life of Bohemia, with its easy _camaraderie_, its lax moral code, its
contempt for the conventions. He enjoyed the company of women of facile
virtue, the gay little supper parties after the theatre, and the glass
that inebriates and cheers, in a word, he enjoyed going the pace that
kills. He was a man of many _liasons_, but none were as serious or had
lasted so long as his present pact with Laura Murdock. No woman before
had been clever enough to hold him. He appeared very fond of her, and
completely under her influence. His friends shook their heads, looked
wise, and took and gave odds that he would be so foolish as to marry
her.
The couple took seats at a table, the cynosure of all eyes. Every head
turned in their direction, conversations were temporarily suspended and
there was much whispering and craning of necks, to get a glimpse of the
young woman whose reputation, or lack of it, was already so notorious.
Far from being embarrassed at this display of public interest, Laura
seemed to enjoy the attention she excited. Languidly sinking into her
seat, she said to her escort with a smile:
"Don't they stare? You'd think they had never seen a woman before."
Brockton laughed as he lit a fresh cigar.
"How do you know they're staring at you? I'm not such a bad looker
myself."
Laura ran over the menu to see what there was to tempt her appetite.
"Bring me some lobster," she said to the waiter.
"And a bottle of wine--Moet and Chandon white seal," broke in Brockton,
"_frappe_--you understand, and make it a rush order. I have to get away
in a few minutes."
Laura pursed her delicately chiseled lips together in a pout. She liked
to do that on every possible occasion, because, having practiced it at
home before the mirror, she thought it looked cunning.
"You're surely going to give yourself time to eat a bite, aren't you?"
she cried in affected dismay.
The broker looked at his watch.
"I must be in Boston early to-morrow morning. The express leaves the
Grand Central at 12:15. I've just time to drink a glass of wine and
sprint for the train. That's why I kept the taxi waiting outside. I
hate to go. I assure you I'd much rather sit here with you. But go I
must."
As far as his _amours_ were concerned, women of the Laura Murdock and
Elfie St. Clair type appealed strongly to the broker. Not only did he
enjoy their bohemianism and careless good-fellowship, but he entered
fully into the spirit of their way of living. He professed to
understand them and in a measure to sympathize with them. Entirely
without humbug or cant, he recognized that they had their own place in
the social game. They were outcasts, if you will, but interesting and
amusing outcasts. He rather liked the looseness of living which does
not quite reach the disreputable. Behind all this, however, was a high
sense of honor. He detested and despised the average stage-door Johnny,
and he loathed the type of man who seeks to take young girls out of
theatrical companies for their ruin. Otherwise he had no objection to
his women friends being as wise as himself. When they entered into an
agreement with him there was no deception. In the first place, he
wanted to like them; in the second place he wanted them to like him.
His iron-gray hair, contrasting with their youth, not only made him
look like their father, but his manner towards them was distinctly
paternal. He insisted also on their financial arrangements, being kept
on a strictly business basis. The amount of the living expenses was
fixed at a definite figure and he expected them to limit themselves to
it. He made them distinctly understand that he reserved the right at
any time to withdraw his support, or transfer it to some other
_inamorata_, and he gave them the same privilege. While he consulted
only his own selfish pleasures, Brockton was not an uncharitable man.
He was always ready to help anyone who was unfortunate, and at heart he
sometimes felt sorry for these women who had to barter their self
respect to indulge their love of luxury. He hoped that some of them
would one day meet the right man and settle down to respectable married
life, but he insisted that such an arrangement could be possible only
by the honest admission on the woman's part of what she had been and
the thorough and complete understanding of her past by the man
involved. He was gruff and blunt in manner, yet well liked by his
intimates. They thought him a brute, almost a savage, but almost every
one agreed with Laura that he was "a pretty decent savage." She and the
broker had been pals for two years, and she had never been happier in
her life. He was most generous with his money and his close relations
with several prominent theatrical managers made it possible for him to
secure for her desirable engagements. There was no misunderstanding
between them. He knew exactly what she was and what she had been. He
any way. He always told her that whenever she felt it inconsistent with
her happiness to continue with him, it was her privilege to quit, and
he himself reserved the same right. As far as such an irregular marital
relation as this could be said to be desirable, it was an ideal
arrangement.
"How long will you be gone?" asked Laura, as she toyed with a lobster
claw and glanced around the cafe, to see who was there.
"I've no idea," answered Brockton. "I may return day after to-morrow or
I may be detained there a week or longer. It's a big job, you know--in
connection with floating a big issue of railroad bonds. There's a
barrel of money in it. I may not get back before you go to Denver."
The girl looked up at him quickly, and laying down her knife and fork,
leaned across the table. Resting her dimpled chin on her ungloved and
tapering hands, which were covered with blazing stones, she said with
more genuine feeling than she had yet shown:
"Oh, Will--it was awfully good of you to get me that engagement and let
me go. A number of girls I know were after it--some with far more
experience than I've had. They're all crazy to play stock at this time
of year. Of course, I don't need the money as much as they do, but I'm
fond of acting and it's a bully way to spend some of the summer.
Besides, I think the air out there--the high altitude--will do me lots
of good."
"That's all very well," rejoined the broker with a grimace of mock
despair, "but what am I going to do all alone in this dusty, thirsty
town, while you're playing Camille, and what not under the shady trees
at Denver? I'm an ass to stand for it."
She laid a consoling hand on his arm.
"No, you're, not. You're a darling boy. You know I had my heart set on
getting that stock engagement, and you went to all kinds of trouble to
make the manager let me have it. Really, Will--I can't say how grateful
I am! I won't be so long away--only six short Weeks--and if you like
you can come to Denver and bring me East again. It'll be awfully jolly
traveling home together, won't it?"
Brockton looked at her and smiled indulgently. He was only joking, just
to see how she would take it. Of course he would let her go. He would
be a selfish brute if he played the tyrant and consulted only his own
convenience.
"All right, kid," he said kindly. "Go and enjoy yourself. Never mind
about me--I'll jog along somehow. I'll miss you, though. I don't mind
telling you that. When you're ready to come home, just telegraph and
I'll take the next train for Denver. If you need any money, you know
where to write me. Meantime, put this in your inside pocket."
He pressed his strong fingers down on her open palm, and closed her
hand. Opening it, she found five new crisp one hundred dollar notes. A
crimson glow of pleasure spread over her face and neck. For a moment
she was unable to stammer her thanks.
"Oh, Will--you are so good!"
"That's nothing," he laughed lightly, "have a good time with it. Buy
what things you need. You understand--that is only a little extra pin
money. Your regular weekly cheque will be sent to you at Denver."
All she could say was to repeat:
"Oh--Will--you are so good!"
He lifted his glass and looked whimsically at her through the dancing
bubbles of the foaming champagne. In a low voice he said:
"Here's to my little girl! May she tread the stage of Denver with the
grace and charm of an Ellen Terry and return to New York covered with
new laurels!"
Calling for the bill, and tossing a ten dollar note to the waiter, he
rose hastily:
"I hate to go and leave you here alone, but I must catch that train."
"Oh, don't mind me," she replied, smiling up at him. "I'll stay a few
minutes yet." Nodding towards the left, she added: "I see Elfie over
there. I'll sit with her. Don't worry about me. I'll go home in a
taxi."
He took her hand. He would have liked to kiss her, but like most men,
he hated to make public demonstration of his feelings.
"Good-bye, little one," he said fondly. "Be a good girl. Write me
directly you get to Denver. Be sure to send me all the press
notices----" Facetiously he added: "--all the bad ones mind. I'm not
interested in the others. And when you're ready to come home, just
telegraph, and I'll come for you. Good-bye!"
"Good-bye, Will."
The next moment he was gone.
For some time after his, departure she sat quietly at the table, toying
idly with the rich food in front of her. Absorbed in her own thoughts
she paid no attention to what was transpiring around. She was
singularly depressed that evening, she knew not why. It was very
foolish, for she had every reason to feel elated. Things certainly
continued to go her way. After all the storm and stress of her past
life, she was at last settled and contented. She had plenty of money, a
good friend, influence with the theatre managers, and now she had
secured the very engagement she had been longing for. What could any
reasonable woman possibly desire more? Yet for all that she sometimes
felt there was something missing in her life. She was too intelligent
not to know the degradation of the kind of existence she was leading,
and sometimes the realization of it made her utterly miserable. If it
were not for the champagne and the hourly excitement which helped her
to forget, she sometimes felt she would take her life. In her heart she
knew that she did not love Will Brockton, and she believed him too
clever a man to imagine for a moment that she had any real affection
for him. They were pals, that was all. He liked her very much--she was
sure of that. But it was not love. How could a woman of her character
expect to inspire decent love in any man? Theirs was a careless,
unconventional tie, which could be broken to-morrow. A quarrel, and she
would see him no more. She shivered. The mere thought of such a
contingency was decidedly unpleasant. It's so easy, she mused, to
become accustomed to automobiles, luxurious apartments, fine gowns and
the rest, but so hard--oh, so hard!--to learn how to do without them.
Emptying her glass, she rose from her seat and strolled toward where
Elfie St. Clair was still sitting with the two men.
"Hello, Laura!" cried her friend as she came up. "We saw you from the
distance. Come and sit down. These gentlemen are friends of mine--Mr.
Warner--Mr. Madison--Miss Murdock."
The men bowed, while Elfie made room for the newcomer.
"Won't you take something?" asked Warner politely.
"No, thank you--I've just had a bite."
"Why did Mr. Brockton run away?" demanded Elfie, unable to restrain her
feminine curiosity. His sudden departure was unusual enough to suggest
a lover's quarrel.
"He had to catch a train--important business in Boston," replied Laura
carelessly. Impulsively she burst out: "Oh, Elfie--what do you think? I
got that stock engagement after all. I'm perfectly daffy about it. I
play leads in 'Camille,' 'Mrs. Dane's Defense,' and such plays as
that."
"Where is it?" demanded Elfie.
"In Denver. Don't you remember? I told you I was after it?"
"Denver? Why that's where Mr. Madison comes from."
Both girls turned and looked at the big Westerner. Laura regarded him
with more attention. If this man was from Denver, he might be useful to
her. She was not the kind to neglect anything that was likely to
promote her interests. Looking him well over, she noted his big,
muscular frame, his steel-gray eyes, and determined, prognathous jaw.
It was a type of manhood that was new to her. He was decidedly worth
cultivating.
"You live in Denver?" she said, trying on him the effect of her dimpled
smile, which was irresistible to most men.
He nodded carelessly.
"Yes--I'm with one of the newspapers there."
"Oh!"
She was glad now that she had come over to Elfie's table. Decidedly
this man would be very useful. It is always a good thing to know
journalists. It suggested favorable paragraphs and good notices in the
papers. She remembered what a philosophical chorus girl once told her:
"Rather a good press agent than great talent." Forthwith Laura exerted
herself to be very amiable. She laughed and chatted and when Madison,
in his turn, ordered a bottle of wine, she graciously allowed him to
drink to her success.
"But you must help me!" she said coquettishly.
"Sure!" he answered gayly, half in jest.
She inquired about Denver, the life there, the theatres, and their
audiences. She asked his advice as to the best hotel for her to stop
at, questioned him about his own life and work, and sought to flatter
him by appearing to take interest in everything he said.
The small hours of the morning still found them there. When at last
they parted, she said in that arch, captivating way, which none better
than she knew how to employ:
"We will be good friends, won't we?"
"You bet we will!" was his laconic, careless rejoinder.