Denver, Colorado, June 15, 19--.
Dear Will:
I've made good all right. The management is delighted and already
wants me to sign for next year. My notices are wonderful. They say
I'm great. I enclose some of the newspaper dope. It's been awful
fun. You should have seen me as the tuberculous Camille, expiring
to slow music in Armand's arms. It was a scream. I had to bite the
property bedclothes to keep from exploding outright. But the scene
went fine. People sobbed all over the house.
Denver's a peach of a place. Fancy--I found a big "Welcome" arch
up--no doubt in honor of my arrival--and it's been up ever since.
Seriously, I'm a big social success--invited everywhere--tea
parties, church gatherings and other choice functions. Can you
imagine yours truly, demure and penitent, taking part in bazaars,
solemnly presided over by elderly spinsters in spectacles? You ask
why I don't write more regularly. My dear boy--if you only knew how
busy I am, what with rehearsals, social duties and so forth! What
nonsense to imagine for a moment that it was because my time was
taken up by some other man. You must think I'm foolish. No, no,
dear--not quite so dippy as that. No other charmer for mine while
my Will is good to me. Write soon to
Your own
LAURA.
P.S.--How's dear old Broadway these days? If you see Elfie, tell
her to write.
Colorado, land of enchantment, possesses at least one distinct
advantage over other states of the Union. Apart from the rugged
grandeur of its scenery, its lofty, awe-inspiring peaks and stupendous
canons, the climate is perhaps without its equal in the world. Denver,
particularly, is richly favored in this respect. Situated near the
foothills of the Rockies, on a high, broad plateau, sheltered by the
majestic mountains from the fierce storms and blizzards that sweep the
plains, the winters are delightfully mild and salubrious. Owing to the
great altitude the atmosphere is pure and dry and in the hot months the
breezes which blow almost continuously from the snow-capped heights of
Pike's Peak, make the air deliciously cool, with a temperature rarely
rising above the eighties. For this reason Denver is almost as popular
a summer resort with those who live in the Middle West, as Colorado
Springs, Manitou, and other fashionable places.
Nor does this picturesque mountain capital with its 200,000 population,
lack in up-to-date comforts and amusements. It has beautiful homes,
fine hotels, good theatres. Its people are cultured and discriminating.
They hear the best music and see the latest comedies. In the winter,
Paderewski plays for them; Sembrich sings for them; Mrs. Fiske and
Maude Adams act for them. In the summer they applaud at an open air
theatre pleasantly set among the shady trees, the latest Broadway
successes performed by a stock company especially engaged in New York.
It was as leading lady of this organization that Laura Murdock made her
debut in Denver.
As already intimated, Mr. Brockton's protegee was not a good actress;
she was not even a competent actress. Deficient in mentality, lacking
any real culture, she failed utterly to rise to the opportunity offered
by the roles with which she was entrusted. Fortunately for her, summer
audiences are not highly critical. Her youth and beauty pleased, and
the local reviewers, susceptible like ordinary mortals to the charms of
a pretty woman, were unusually indulgent. Some of them paid doubtful
compliments, but what they said of her acting sounded good to Laura,
who eagerly cut out the notices and mailed them to Brockton.
So far her summer season had been a decided success. She liked Denver
and Denver liked her. This she considered most fortunate, for it suited
her purpose to make such a hit of this engagement that the echo of it
would reach as far East as Broadway. It would give her better standing
with the theatre managers in New York and put a quietus for good on
comment in unfriendly quarters. A clever tactician with an eye always
open to the main chance, she exerted herself to the utmost to make
friends and neglected no opportunity to advance her interests. She
attended church regularly and made liberal donations to the local
charities. When entertainments were organized on behalf of the poor,
she volunteered her services, which were gratefully accepted. Thus her
local popularity grew and was firmly and quickly established.
The papers spoke eulogistically of her goodness of heart, interviewed
her on every possible pretext and published portraits of her by the
score. Society soon followed suit. The best people of the town took her
up and the women gushed over her. She was such a young little thing,
they said, so ingenuous and interesting, so refined, so different from
most actresses. Sorry that she should be all alone in a strange place,
exposed to the temptations of a big city, they took her under their
wing, and invited her to their homes. One lady, particularly, was most
cordial in her invitation. Her name was Mrs. Williams, and Laura met
her at a church picnic. The wife of a millionaire cattle king, she
owned a handsome house in Denver and a beautiful country home near
Colorado Springs. Mrs. Williams took a great fancy to the demure young
actress and declined to say good-bye in Denver until Laura had promised
to go and spend a week with her at her country ranch.
"It's a lovely spot, dear," she said. "I'm sure you'll enjoy yourself.
My house is perched up on the side of Ute Pass, and overlooks the whole
Colorado Canon, two thousand feet below. It is a wonderful spectacle.
You must come. I won't take a refusal."
Laura promised, willing enough. She would be glad of the rest after her
weeks of hard work.
Of John Madison she had seen a great deal. Following her old tactics,
she had started out to fascinate the tall newspaper man, expecting to
find him an easy victim. For once, however, she found that she had met
her match. Directly she arrived in Denver she sent him her card, and he
called at the hotel, his manner courteous, but distinctly cold. He had
not forgotten, however, the promise made in New York, and he offered to
give her such help as he could. Aware of his close connection with the
local newspapers, she was glad to accept his offer to act as her press
representative. She even offered to pay him, but he flatly declined,
and the covert smile that accompanied the refusal made her angry.
"Why do you refuse?" she demanded. "Are you so rich?"
"I'm dead broke," he answered dryly. "But you see, I'm a queer
fellow--there are certain things I can't do--one of them is to take
money from a woman."
On another occasion, when she went a little out of her way to show him
attention he said, with brutal candor:
"Don't waste your time on me. I'm only a poor devil of a newspaper man.
There are plenty of fatter fowl to pluck. Denver's full of softheads
with money to burn."
She hated him for that speech. His careless words and disdainful
attitude cut her sensitive nature to the quick. Evidently he despised
her.
Yet for all that, he did not neglect her interests. For two weeks after
her arrival and previous to her debut, she was the most written about
person in town. The papers were full of her. It was invaluable
advertising and she tried to show her appreciation in other ways,
inviting him to dinner, and sending him little presents. But still he
held aloof, letting her understand plainly that he knew her record and
was not to be hoodwinked or inveigled. The truth was, that women of her
class did not interest him. Indeed, they filled him with aversion, yet
he pitied rather than condemned them. "One never knows," he used to say
when the question came up with his men friends, "what kind of a life
they were up against, or to what temptations they were subjected. The
most virtuous woman alive could not swear exactly what she would do if
confronted with certain conditions." This was a pet theory of his, and
it made him more charitable than others.
Meantime, he was studying Laura at close range. He found that she was
weak rather than really vicious. There was much of the spoiled child in
her make-up. Her bringing up had been bad. In different environments
she might have been entirely different. There was much in her that
attracted him. He liked her merry disposition, her girlish
ingenuousness. Such a naive nature, he argued, could not be wholly
depraved. He frankly enjoyed her society, and it was not long before he
let down the barriers of his reserve. Laura was quick to notice the
change, and she would have belied her sex if it had not given her
pleasure. Madison interested her; he was refreshingly different from
all the men she had ever met. She wondered what his life was. At every
opportunity she encouraged him to speak of himself.
"Do you like this newspaper work?" she demanded, one day.
He shook his head.
"No; there is nothing in it," he answered. "When a big story breaks
loose--a strike or a murder, or a bank robbery--one likes the
excitement, but when things quiet down the dull routine palls on you. I
won't stay in it."
"Then what will you do?"
"Hike it up to the Northwest--and dig for gold," he replied.
Confidentially he went on: "I have the chance of a quarter interest in
a mine up there. If I strike luck, I'll be richer than Croesus."
"And then?" she smiled.
"Then I'll come back and marry you!" he said laughingly.
It was said lightly, but like many words uttered in jest, it sounded as
if there might be some truth back of it. Both grew silent and the
subject was quickly changed.
While mortified at her discomfiture, Laura thought more of the big
fellow for his attitude of utter indifference. She had been so pampered
and courted all her life that it was a novelty to find that she made
absolutely no impression on this one man. Her respect for him grew in
consequence. Gradually, he, too, seemed to take more pleasure in her
society. He called more frequently and became more friendly. He was
still on his guard, as if he still distrusted her--or perhaps
himself--but he did not avoid her any longer.
The theatre naturally took up most of her time. When not acting, she
was rehearsing new roles. It was interesting work, and she felt it was
valuable experience. Madison declared she had improved wonderfully,
and, in his enthusiasm, wrote eulogistic articles about her in the
papers that were copied far and wide. Indeed, she could thank him for
all the success she had had. He was at the theatre every night,
watching her from the front, taking the liveliest interest in her
success, and promoting it in every possible way. A critic who ventured
to find fault he threatened to horsewhip; he put her portrait in the
papers and printed interesting stories concerning her that had only his
imagination for foundation. He transacted business for her with the
local manager, and acted in her behalf in all the necessary
negotiations with the Church Bazaar committees.
Before very long they were the best of friends. Laura found him not
only useful, but a delightful companion. What time could be spent from
rehearsals, she spent with him. In the familiar, intimate, theatrical
style, they already called each other by their first names. They went
out horseback riding together, and he took her for long automobile
trips, showing her many of the wonderful places with which Colorado
abounds. They played golf at Broadmoor, and fished black-spotted trout
in South Platte river. They drank health-giving waters at Great Spirit
Springs, and viewed the reconstructed ruins of the prehistoric
cliff-dwellers at Manitou. They traveled on the cog railroad to the
dizzy summit of Pike's Peak, and visited the busy gold-mining camp at
Cripple Creek. Here Madison was on familiar ground. He showed his
companion the manner in which man wrests the coveted treasure from
Nature, the whole process of mining, the powerful electric drills, the
ponderous machinery, the ore deposits in the hard granite. He pointed
out the miners' cabins on the mountainsides, replicas of the rough log
huts in Alaska in which he, himself, had lived. It was all very
interesting and so novel that for the first time in her life Laura felt
the delightful sensation of seeing something new. Time had no longer
any significance to her. The days and weeks sped by so pleasantly that
she gave no thought to returning East. Sometimes she even forgot to
write her weekly letter to Mr. Brockton. She marveled herself that she
could be so happy and contented far away from the alluring glitter of
the Great White Way.
Then all at once the truth dawned upon her, and the revelation came
with the suddenness and force of an unexpected blow. She was in love
with this man. All these weeks, unknown to herself, quite
unconsciously, she had been slowly falling desperately, madly, honestly
and decently in love. The man she left behind in New York, the man to
whom she owed everything, did not exist any more. John Madison was the
man she loved.
At first she tried to laugh it off as being too absurd. She, Laura
Murdock, with her ripe experience of the world and many adventures with
men--to fall in love like a silly, sentimental schoolgirl! It was too
ridiculous. How the Rialto would laugh if they knew. Of course, they
never would know, for there was nothing in it. The Westerner probably
did not care two straws for her. He liked her, of course, or he would
not bother to waste his time with her, but, no doubt, he thought of her
only as a friend, a lively companion who kept him amused. No doubt,
too, he knew her record and secretly despised her. Even if he did not
care for her and told her so--even if he were willing to marry her,
what then? She would be a fool to listen to him. What kind of a life
could he, a penniless scribbler, give her compared with the comforts
and gifts which Willard Brockton was able to shower upon her?
Above all else, Laura had sought to be practical in life. She often
declared that it was one of the secrets of her success. It was late in
the day, therefore, to make a mistake of which only an unsophisticated
beginner could be guilty. Yet, much as she tried to laugh it off and
reassure herself, the matter worried her. When, mentally, she compared
the two men, the advantage invariably remained with the younger. John
was nearer her own age, they had in common many tastes and interests
which the broker cared nothing about, and she felt more exuberant, more
youthful, in the newspaper man's society. Brockton, she could not help
remembering, was more than double her age. It would be unnatural if she
had not found the younger man more congenial. In her heart she felt
that Brockton, with all his money, had no real hold upon her, and that
if John really did care for her and asked her to marry him, she would
be face to face with the hardest question for which she had ever had to
find an answer.