Early one morning John came to the hotel to take Laura for a
prearranged excursion. Temporarily out of the bill at the theatre, and
a long holiday being hers to enjoy, she had suggested a little trip to
Manitou to see the far-famed Garden of the Gods, a place of scenic
marvels, where, by a strange freak of Nature, great rocks and boulders,
fantastic in shape and coloring, are thrown together in all kinds of
curious formations. The plan was to go by train as far as Colorado
Springs, and then finish the journey by automobile.
They started gleefully, by rail, and were soon spinning across the
verdant plains in the direction of Pike's Peak, the snow-capped peak of
which rose majestically in the distance. The day was beautiful, and
both being in good spirits, they enjoyed to the full the fresh,
invigorating air.
On reaching Colorado Springs, they partook of an appetizing luncheon,
served merrily under the trees. She laughed and chattered and discussed
plans for the future, while John, strangely silent, just looked at her,
quietly enjoying her spontaneous gayety, surprised himself at the keen
interest he was taking in her society. And the more he watched her
laughing eyes and dimpled smiles, the more he realized the loneliness,
the solitude of his own empty, aimless life. The summer would soon be
at an end. The past few weeks had sped by all too quickly for him, and
in the interval this girl, with her vivacious manner and laughing eyes,
had strangely grown upon him. What would he do when she was gone? When
the meal was finished, he went in search of a machine. An expert
chauffeur himself, they could manage the car without aid, and soon they
were running smoothly and rapidly along the mountain roads.
Laura chatted continuously while John kept a watchful eye in front. As
they flew along under the murmuring pines, he pointed out the various
places of interest. The machine was running fast, with the going none
too smooth, when, all at once, while making a sharp turn, the wheels
skidded, and they were almost ditched. Laura gave a little scream, and,
instinctively, grasped her companion's arm. He laughed to reassure her,
and, giving the wheel a vigorous twist, the car was again under control
and once more on its way.
Laura had always felt nervous in automobiles, even in New York, where
she was accustomed to go at a much slower pace. But to-day, in spite of
the mishap they had just escaped, she had no fear. She knew that John
was a splendid driver, watchful, resourceful, careful. With his immense
strength and skill, the machine seemed but a toy in his hands.
She watched him furtively, admiring him. This was no city roue, his
constitution undermined by dissipation. He was good to look at,
wholesome, frank, virile. Perhaps if she had met him earlier, her life
might have been very different. She might have been a respectable
woman. She could have loved such a man as this. She did love him--she
was sure of it now. There was no mistaking the feeling he inspired in
her. Once, he chanced to glance down, and caught her looking intently
at him.
"What's the matter?" he smiled.
"Nothing," she answered gravely.
Soon they reached their destination. The automobile came to a stop,
and, getting down, she took his arm, and together they approached the
imposing gateway of the far-famed Garden of the Gods. When she passed
through the red perpendicular portals of the place, Laura was filled
with awe. It was the first time she had beheld this unique and
beautiful demonstration of Nature, and she could not repress her
enthusiasm. In the wildest flights of her imagination, she had never
pictured such a scene as the one now presented to her eyes. It was as
if she had been suddenly transported to fairyland, and was treading
among the colossal habitations of giants. On all sides were stupendous
masses of rock, huge boulders of all colors--white, yellow and
red--most fantastically shaped. There were lofty towers, strange,
wind-wrought obelisks, pointed pinnacles, bizarre in shape as one sees
in nightmares. It reminded her of the settings of Wagner's music dramas
and the weird pictures of Gustave Dore. She admired the Graces, lofty
fragments of strata shaped like obelisks. Then there was the Cradle, a
huge rock so nicely balanced that it seemed as if a child's touch could
send it crashing from its pedestal, yet probably it had stood there
since creation day. Other rocks, strangely colored, were standing on
end in all kinds of extravagant postures. Some were shaped like fierce
animals; others resembled faces, houses, men. It seemed like a vision
of another world, a glimpse of some vanished people, a race of titanic
beings who had suddenly been petrified into stone. The place was
deserted. There was no one there but themselves. A sepulchral silence
hung heavy over everything. It was as mournful and awe-inspiring as a
city of the dead.
By the time they had seen all the wonders of the garden the sun was low
on the horizon. A glorious crimson glow shot up out of the west, and,
flooding the heavens, tinged each surrounding object with rich color.
Tired after the day's adventures, they sat on a bench at the base of a
tall stone pillar, which, in the growing dark, seemed like a colossal
sentinel standing guard in a camp of giants. Madison was very silent.
Deep in his own thoughts, he paid little attention to his companion.
"How quiet it is!" murmured Laura, almost to herself, as she contrasted
the heavy stillness of the place with the roar and excitement of
Broadway.
"How lonely!" added Madison. Bitterly he exclaimed: "It reminds me of
my own life."
Quickly she looked up at him. It was unusual for him to speak of
himself.
"Are you lonely?" she demanded.
He nodded.
"Often."
She looked puzzled, not understanding.
"Why are you lonely? You are young and strong and clever. The world is
before you----"
He remained silent for a moment, without replying. In the uncertain
light of the late afternoon, she could see that his eyes were fixed
steadily on her. In them was a look that every woman understands, be
she pure or impure. Then slowly, his deep, bass voice beautifully
modulated, he said gravely:
"I am lonely because I am alone. All these years, ever since I was a
boy, I have spent my life alone. I have had many so-called
friends--yes; but even friends do not satisfy the longing to have some
one still nearer and dearer, some one to whom you can turn in trouble,
some one who will be always there to share in your joys. Work--yes, I
can work, but why should I strive and toil? For myself? Bah--I'm sick
of it all. To live alone, as I do, is not worth the effort it costs.
Sometimes I think I'd just as soon blow out my brains as not. What's
the use of straining every nerve and sweating blood to make a success
in life if there's no one to share success with when it comes?"
She understood. A thrill ran through her entire being. Her heart
throbbed violently and her lips trembled as she said gently:
"Why don't you marry? Any girl would consider herself fortunate if she
could go through life with such a man as you."
Suddenly she winced. His big, muscular hand had caught hers and was
holding it firmly in an steel-like grip. Bending over so close that she
felt his warm breath on her cheek, he said hoarsely:
"Do you mean that? Would you give up all that you have now--to marry
me?"
Something rose up in her throat and choked her. Her heart beat
furiously as though it would burst. What she had foreseen and dreaded
was upon her.
"I?" she gasped in unaffected surprise.
"Yes, you," he said fiercely. "You must have seen what has been in my
heart for days--that I care for you. The first moment I set eyes on you
I knew that you were just the kind of girl I wanted for a wife. At
first I was afraid of you. I had heard things about you--gossip and all
that. You came here. We were thrown together. I still mistrusted you,
but I watched you, and saw you weren't as bad as I'd been led to
believe. I guess people have lied about you. What do I care what they
say? You're good enough for me. I soon found out that I loved you. I'm
a man of very few words. I'm not an adept at pretty speeches. Tell
me--will you marry me?"
She made no reply. It was now almost dark, and he could not see her
face plainly. Hoarsely he repeated:
"Did you hear me? I want you to marry me."
She shook her head.
"It's impossible," she murmured. "It's impossible."
"You don't care for me--I've made a fool of myself. Is that it?"
She laid her gloved hand gently on his hand.
"I do care for you."
"Then why is it impossible?" he demanded fiercely. He put his arm
around her and tried to draw her to him.
Quietly, but firmly, she disengaged herself, and it was with some show
of dignity that she replied:
"Because I care for you--just because of that."
"You are not free?" he demanded.
She hesitated.
"It is not that--there is another reason."
"What is it?"
At first she was tempted to deceive him and keep up for his benefit her
masterful assumption of innocence. But what was the good? He would soon
know her real record, if he did not already know it. Kind friends would
soon enlighten him, and then he would despise her the more. A man of
such broad experience was not to be hoodwinked so easily. No, it was
folly to beat about the bush. At one time she might have seized the
happiness he held out to her, but now it was too late.
"What is it?" he persisted. "Do you mean that man Brockton? Is he the
obstacle?"
"He is one of them," she answered firmly. She was astonished at her own
self-possession, but there was a quiver in her voice as she went on:
"My life has been different to what you perhaps think. I am not
altogether to blame, although I have no excuses to offer. You
understand now?"
She half expected an explosion of wrath, but none came. Instead, he
said calmly:
"I know all about your past life. I've known everything from the first:
how you went to San Francisco as a kid and got into the show business,
and how you went wrong, and then how you married--still a kid--and how
your husband didn't treat you exactly right, and then how, in a fit of
frenzied drunkenness he came home and shot himself."
The girl leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. A low moan
escaped her lips. Madison touched her gently on the shoulder.
"But that's all past now," he went on. "We can forget that. I know how
you were up against it, after that; how hard it was for you to get
along. Then, finally, how you've lived, and--and that you and that man
Brockton have been--well--never mind. I know all this, and still I ask
you to marry me. What is past makes no difference. I don't care what
you have been but only what you are. If you think you care enough for
me to leave this man and begin life anew with me, I'll marry you. I may
not be able to give you all the luxuries his money provided, but at
least, as my wife, you'll be able to lift your head up in the world. I
don't profess to be a saint myself. I'm no better and no worse than the
next man, and I'm not unreasonable enough to expect too much in a woman
who has had to make her own way in the world--especially on the stage.
There's some good in you, yet, Laura; I believe in you. Something tells
me that you'll make good if only given half a chance, and that chance I
hold out to you now. Break away from this rotten life you've been
leading. It can end only in one way. You're young now, and you're
beautiful, and it doesn't seem to matter, but some day your youth and
beauty will be gone, and what then? Quit now, while there's still time.
Be my wife. I'll work hard for you, and, with God's help and you to
inspire me, I'll get there!"
She listened in silence. His melodious, earnest voice sounded like
sacred music in her ears. It was a glimpse of Heaven that he gave her,
a promise of redemption and regeneration, yet her heart told her that
it was impossible. If she consented, what would the outcome be? One
day, sooner or later, he would regret having married her and would
taunt her with her past. They would not be able to take a step in New
York but some one would point derisively at her.
"It's impossible," she murmured weakly.
"Why?" he persisted.
"Give me time to consider," she pleaded.
"I'll give you until to-morrow."
With that, he released her, and went to light the lamps of the
automobile. It was now quite dark, and it required skilful manoeuvring
to find the right road. The return home was silent; each was engrossed
in thought. At the door of the hotel he merely pressed her hand.
"To-morrow," he whispered.
All night long she tossed feverishly. Sleep was out of the question. In
a few hours she must decide what her future life would be--the petted,
pampered mistress of Willard Brockton, wealthy member of the New York
Stock Exchange, or the wife of John Madison, an interesting but
impecunious newspaper reporter. If she married this man, it meant that
she must relinquish immediately everything she loved--her sumptuous
apartment on Riverside Drive, her automobile, her beautiful gowns, and
gay little midnight champagne suppers in good company. Her life
henceforth would be dreadfully prosaic and commonplace. She would be
comparatively poor, perhaps in actual want. Even if she remained on the
stage, she could not hope to secure good parts. Probably she would not
be able to dress even decently; no one would look at her; she would
have to darn stockings and be content with one hat a season--all this
was a picture depressing and discouraging enough to one who had been
accustomed to all the luxuries money can buy.
On the other hand there would be compensatory advantages not to be
ignored. As John Madison's legitimate wife, she could once more take
her place in the world as a virtuous woman. She could again lift up her
head and look decent people honestly in the face. She would be the
lawful wife, entitled to regard, not the despised paramour, a plaything
to be discarded and thrown aside at a man's whim. Once more she would
be able to feel respect for herself. At heart Laura was not a bad girl.
She was weak and luxury loving, and, when tempted, had been unable to
resist entering into a style of living which suited her own peculiar
tastes. She had paid the price with a light heart, but as she grew
older she was becoming wiser. She realized what an awful price she was
paying for her fun. She knew that, with the sacrifice of her chastity,
she had surrendered everything a self-respecting woman holds dear, all
for what--a few glittering trinkets! In what was she better than a
common wanton? And what would her end be, but the end of all women of
her kind? When her youth had passed and her beauty had faded, her
admirers would grow cold and indifferent. Abandoned by all, friendless
and homeless, she would go unwept to an early grave.
The thought was one to fill her with horror. Why not try to save
herself now, while there was yet time? She still had a chance. A
drowning man will grasp even at a straw. She was not irretrievably
lost. The devil might still be cheated of a victim. This man believed
in her; he offered to make her his honored wife. He forgave the past
and held out a generous hand to save her. A revulsion of feeling
suddenly shook the girl to the innermost recesses of her being. Burying
her face in her pillow, she burst into a flood of tears. For the first
time in her life, her better instincts were awakened.
She would show the world that it had misjudged her, that she was not as
bad as she seemed. Her future life, her future conduct should redeem
all that had gone before. Perhaps the Almighty would be merciful and
hold out a forgiving hand. She might still be a happy, decent woman.
With a prayer on her lips, she dropped down on her knees. The
following-day this telegram flashed over the wires to New York:
"Theatre closes next Saturday night. You needn't come for me. Am
invited to spend a week with a lady at Colorado Spring's. Will
return to New York alone.
LAURA."
A few hours later this message was received in reply:
"Am compelled to go to Kansas City on business, so will pick you up
anyhow. Leave address at Denver hotel.
WILL."