Late one morning Laura and Brockton were seated at the little table in
the parlor, having breakfast together. They had been out the night
before, at a big supper given by some friends, and had only got home in
the small hours. Laura, attired in an expensive negligee gown, sat at
one side of the table, pouring out the coffee; Brockton, in a gray
business suit, sat opposite, carelessly scanning the _Wall Street
Messenger_. Neither spoke and both looked tired and out of sorts.
Brockton was as fond of champagne suppers as anyone, but he was not
getting any younger. They did not agree with his constitution as they
used to, with the result that he was generally out of humor the next
day.
While he and his companion toyed listlessly with the silver-plated
dishes in front of them, Annie busied herself about the room, trying to
put it in order. Everything lay about just as it had been thrown the
night before. The place looked as if a cyclone had devastated a
second-hand clothing store. In the alcove a man's dress coat and vest
were thrown carelessly on the cushions; a silk hat, badly rumpled, was
near it. An opera cloak had been flung on the sofa, and on a chair was
a huge picture hat with costly feathers. A pair of women's gloves were
thrown over the cheval glass. The curtains in the bay window were
half-drawn, filling the room with a rather dim light. Laura preferred
it so. She did not wish Brockton to see the ravages which late hours
and overabundance of rich foods were making on her complexion. She
still had some feminine vanity left.
With a grunt and gesture of annoyance, Brockton threw his paper aside.
Looking around, he demanded impatiently:
"Have you seen the _Recorder_, Laura?"
His companion was engrossed in the theatrical gossip of the _Morning
Chronicle_. Without looking up, she replied indifferently:
"No."
"Where is it?" he growled.
"I don't know," she answered calmly, still intent on her own paper.
Brockton began to lose his temper, as he did easily when not feeling
just right. Not daring to vent his ill humor on his _vis a vis_, he
looked around for the colored maid. Loudly he called:
"Annie----! Annie----!! Annie!!!" In a savage undertone, half directed
at Laura, he growled: "Where the devil is that lazy nigger?"
Laura looked up, a mild expression of indignant surprise on her face.
Quietly she said:
"I suppose she's gone to get her breakfast."
"Well, she ought to be here," he snapped.
"Did it ever occur to you," said Laura quickly, "that she has got to
eat, just the same as you have?"
"She's your servant, isn't she?" he barked.
"My maid," she corrected, with difficulty controlling herself.
"Well, what have you got her for--to eat, or to wait on you?" Again he
thundered: "Annie!"
"Don't be so cross," protested Laura. "What do you want?"
"I want the paper," he growled, pouring out one half-glass of water
from a bottle.
"I will get it for you," she said, with quiet dignity.
Wearily she got up and went to the table where there were other morning
papers. Taking the _Recorder_, she handed it to him, and, returning to
her seat, reopened the _Chronicle_. He relapsed into a sulky silence,
and for a few minutes there was peace. Suddenly Annie entered the room
from the sleeping apartments.
"Do yuh want me, suh?" she asked, with the ludicrous grin characteristic
of her race.
"Yes!" snapped the broker. "I did want you, but don't now. When I'm at
home I have a man to look after me, and I get what I want----"
Laura looked up angrily. Her patience was exhausted.
"For Heaven's sake, Will, have a little patience!" she said. "If you
like your man so well, you had better live at home, but don't come
around here with a grouch and bulldoze everybody----"
"Don't think for a moment that there's much to come around here for.
Annie, this room's stuffy."
"Yassuh."
"Draw those _portieres_. Let those curtains up. Let's have a little
light. Take away those clothes and hide them. Don't you know that a man
doesn't want to see the next morning anything to remind him of the
night before? Make the place look a little respectable."
Annie stood in considerable awe of Brockton. In fact, she was afraid of
him, so she did not stand on the order of going. She scurried around,
and after picking up the coat and vest, opera cloak and other things,
threw them over her arm without any idea of order.
"Be careful!" angrily shouted the irate broker, who was watching her.
"You're not taking the wash off the line."
"Yassuh!"
The negress literally flew out of the room. Laura put down her
newspaper.
"I must say you're rather amiable this morning," she said pointedly.
Brockton turned his head away.
"I feel like h--ll," he growled.
"Market unsatisfactory?" she inquired.
"No, head too big." Lighting a cigar, he took a puff and then made a
wry face. Putting the offending weed into the empty cup, he said, with
another grimace: "Tastes like punk."
"You drank a lot," she said unconcernedly.
He nodded.
"Yes--we'll have to cut out these parties. I can't do those things any
more. I'm not as young as I was, and in the morning it makes me sick."
Looking up at her, he added. "How do you feel?"
She rose from the breakfast table and sat down at a small _escritoire_.
"A little tired, that's all," she said languidly.
"You didn't touch anything, did you?"
"No."
"That's right--you've been taking too much lately. It was a great old
party, though, wasn't it?"
Laura yawned and gazed listlessly out of the window.
"Do you think so?"
Not noticing her expression of wearied disgust, he went on:
"Yes, for that sort of a blow-out. Not too rough, but just a little
easy. I like them at night, but I hate them in the morning. Were you
bored?"
Picking up his newspaper, he started to glance over it carelessly.
Still staring idly into the street, she answered laconically:
"I'm always bored by such things as that."
"You don't have to go."
"You asked me."
"Still, you could say no."
Rising, she stooped and picked up a newspaper which had fallen on the
floor. Placing it on the breakfast table, she returned to her seat at
the desk.
"But you asked me," she insisted.
"What did you go for if you didn't want to?"
"_You_ wanted me to."
"I don't quite get you," he said impatiently.
"Well, it's just this, Will--you have all my time when I'm not in the
theatre, and you can do with it just what you please. You pay for it.
I'm working for you."
He looked up at her quickly. Something in the tone of her voice warned
him that there was a scene coming, and he hated scenes. But he could
not resist inquiring sarcastically:
"Is that all I've got--just your time?"
"That and--the rest," she replied bitterly.
Looking at her curiously, he said:
"Down in the mouth, eh? I'm sorry."
"No," she retorted, her mouth quivering at the corners; "only, if you
want me to be frank, I'm a little tired. You may not believe it, but I
work awfully hard over at the theatre. Burgess will tell you that. I
know I'm not so very good as an actress, but I try to be. I'd like to
succeed myself. They're very patient with me. Of course, they've got to
be--that's another thing you're paying for; but I don't seem to get
along except this way."
Brockton shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"Oh, don't get sentimental," he said testily. "If you're going to bring
up that sort of talk, Laura, do it some time when I haven't got a
hang-over, and then, don't forget, talk never does count for much."
Rising and going to the mirror, Laura picked up a hat from a box, put
it on, and looked at herself in the mirror. She turned around and
looked at her companion steadfastly for a moment without speaking. It
was on the tip of her tongue to tell him the truth there and then, tell
him she had lied about mailing the letter to Madison, and that she had
been miserable ever since; tell him that this rotten, artificial life
disgusted and degraded her, that she was sick of it and of him. But she
had not the courage.
Meantime, Brockton, left to himself, went on perusing the paper more
carefully. Suddenly he stopped and looked at his watch.
"What time is it?" inquired Laura.
"After ten."
"Aren't you ever going out?" she demanded crossly.
Deeply engrossed in his paper, the broker made no answer. His eye had
just been attracted to an item which particularly interested him. It
was a despatch from Chicago, and read as follows:
"A story has reached here of an extraordinary gold find just made
in Nevada by two lucky prospectors. The men set out from Goldfield
several weeks ago, and got lost in the mountains. After enduring
terrible privations, and almost perishing in the blizzard, they
were found in last extremity by a party of hunters. They had
actually discovered gold, having accidentally stumbled on one of
the richest ore deposits in the gold region. A nugget of enormous
size was brought in by the rescuing party in support of their
well-nigh incredible story. The prospectors quickly recovered from
their terrible experience, and one of them, named John Madison, is
now on his way East for the purpose of organizing a syndicate which
will begin at once large operations in the Nevada gold fields.
Rumor has it that Mr. Madison will also bring back a bride."
Brockton caught his breath and looked sharply over at Laura. Did she
know about this? Was it the explanation of her petulance and
discontented attitude? That fellow Madison was now a man of means. The
coincidence of the despatch brought back to the broker's mind the night
scene on the terrace in Denver, and later their conversation at the
boarding house in New York, and with the subtle intuition of the shrewd
man of the world, he at once connected the two. Eyeing his companion
keenly and suspiciously, he said:
"I don't suppose, Laura, that you'd be interested now in knowing
anything about that young fellow out in Colorado? What was his
name--Madison?"
The girl started and changed color.
"Do you know anything?" she said quickly.
"No, nothing particularly," he replied, with affected carelessness.
"I've been rather curious to know how he came out. He was a pretty
fresh young man, and did an awful lot of talking. I wonder how he's
doing and how he's getting along. I don't suppose by any chance you
have ever heard from him?"
She shook her head.
"No, no; I've never heard."
"I presume he never replied to that letter you wrote?"
"No."
"It would be rather queer, eh, if this young fellow should happen to
come across a lot of money--not that I think he ever could, but it
would be funny, wouldn't it?"
"Yes, yes," she said quickly; "it would be unexpected. I hope he does.
It might make him happy."
"Think he might take a trip East and see you act? You know you've got
quite a part now."
Laura tossed back her head impatiently. Petulantly she said:
"I wish you wouldn't discuss him. Why do you mention it now? Is it
because you were drinking last night, and lost your sense of delicacy?
You once had some consideration for me. What I've done I've done. I'm
giving _you_ all that I can. Please, please, don't hurt me any more
than you can help. That's all I ask."
Brockton rose, and, going over to her, placed his hands on her
shoulders and his cheek close to the back of her head. He was sorry he
had spoken so sharply. In his gruff way he was as fond of her as ever,
but he could not help it if he sometimes felt under the weather.
"You know, dearie," he said kindly, "I do a lot for you because you've
always been on the level with me. I'm sorry I hurt you, but there was
too much wine last night, and I'm all upset. Forgive me."
He tried to kiss her, to make up, but she averted her head. Holding
herself aloof, she shuddered. A feeling of repulsion passed through
her. Perhaps never so much as now had she realized that this kind of
life was becoming more intolerable every hour.
In order to avoid his caresses, Laura had leaned forward. Her hands
clasped between her knees, she gazed straight past him, with a cold,
impassive expression. Brockton looked at her silently for a moment. The
man was really fond of her; he wanted to try and comfort her, but of
late a wall seemed to have risen between them. He realized now that she
had slipped away from the old environment and conditions. He had
brought her back, but he had regained none of her affection. With all
his money, their old _camaraderie_ was gone forever. These and other
thoughts hurt him as such things always hurt a selfish, egotistical
man, inclining him to be brutal and inconsiderate.
As they both remained there in silence, the front door bell rang, first
gently and then more violently. Brockton went to open. Before he could
reach it there was another ring. The caller, whoever it was, seemed in
a good deal of a hurry.
"D----n that bell!" exclaimed the broker.
He opened the parlor door and passed out into the private hall, so he
could open the door leading into the public corridor. Laura remained
seated where she was, immovable and impassive, with the same cold, hard
expression on her face. When, she pondered, would she be able to summon
up courage enough to tell Brockton the truth--that she detested him and
his set and loathed herself? Why had he mentioned John just now? Could
he have read her thoughts and guessed of whom she had been thinking?
Presently the outer door slammed loudly, and Brockton re-entered the
room, holding a telegram in his hand.
"A wire," he said briefly.
Laura started forward.
"For me?" she exclaimed.
"Yes."
She looked surprised.
"From whom, I wonder? Perhaps Elfie, with a luncheon engagement."
"I don't know," he said indifferently, handing her the closed yellow
envelope.
As she broke it open and hastily read the contents, he watched her face
closely. She gasped involuntarily as she caught sight of the signature,
but by a great effort managed to control herself. Outwardly calm and
self-possessed, she silently read the message, which was dated Buffalo,
the night before, and ran as follows:
"MY OWN DARLING:
"I have been through the shadow of the valley, but have won out.
To-day I am rich. Isn't it glorious? I am the happiest man on
earth. I shall be in New York before noon to-morrow. I am coming to
marry you, and I'm coming with a bank-roll. I wanted to keep it
secret, and have a big surprise for you, but I can't hold it any
longer, because I feel just like a kid with a new top. Don't go
out. I'll be with you early.
"JOHN."
She crushed the telegram up in her hand, and crossed the room so he
should not see her face. John was coming back--a rich man. He was
coming back to claim her. Great God! What could she say to him?
"No bad news, I hope?" said Brockton suspiciously.
"No, no--not bad news," she replied hastily.
"I thought you appeared startled."
"No, not at all," she stammered.
Brockton sat down and picked up the newspaper again. Carelessly he
asked:
"From Elfie?"
"No--just a friend."
"Oh!"
He sat down again, making himself comfortable in the armchair. Laura,
in an agony of suspense, growing momentarily more nervous, watched him
sideways, wondering how she could get rid of him, hoping he would soon
go out. It would never do for John to come and find him there. With two
men of such violent temper, already jealous to the breaking point,
there was no telling what terrible tragedy might happen. Besides, she
was anxious to be alone, so she might think out some plan of action.
Something must be done at once. It was near eleven already. John would
reach New York about noon; he would probably seek her out at once. She
could reasonably expect him that very afternoon. A cold chill ran
through her at the thought. What would she say to him? Get rid of
Brockton she must at all costs. Timidly she asked:
"Won't you be rather late getting down town, Will?"
Without lifting his head, he answered carelessly:
"Doesn't make any difference. I don't feel much like the office now.
Thought I might order the car and take a spin through the park. The
cold air will do me a lot of good. Like to go?"
"No, not to-day," she replied hastily. A silence followed, and then she
went on: "I thought your business was important; you said so last
night."
"No hurry," he answered. Suddenly turning and looking up at her, he
asked searchingly: "Do you--er--want to get rid of me?"
"Why should I?" she demanded, with pretended surprise.
"Expecting some one?" he demanded.
"No--not exactly," she replied hesitatingly.
Turning her back on him, she went to the window, and stood there,
gazing out into the street. Brockton watched her for a moment; then,
with a covert smile, he said dryly:
"If you don't mind, I'll stay here."
Laura left the window, and coming back into the room, sat down at the
piano.
"Just as you please," she said, realizing that he was watching her, and
trying her utmost to appear unconcerned. After playing a few bars, she
stopped and said in a more conciliatory tone:
"Will?"
"Yes."
"How long does it take to come from Buffalo?"
"Depends on the train," he answered laconically.
"About how long?" she persisted.
"Between eight and ten hours, I think." Looking up, he asked: "Some one
coming?"
Ignoring his question, she asked:
"Do you know anything about the trains?"
"Not much. Why don't you find out for yourself? Have Annie get the
timetable."
"I will," she said.
Leaving the piano, she went to the door and called:
"Annie! Annie!"
The negress appeared on the threshold.
"Yassum!"
"Go ask one of the hall-boys to bring me a New York Central timetable."
"Yassum!"
The maid crossed the room, and disappeared through another door. Laura,
with forced nonchalance, seated herself on the arm of the sofa, humming
a popular air. Brockton turned and faced her.
"Then you _do_ expect some one, eh?" he exclaimed.
Her heart was in her throat, but she remained outwardly calm as she
replied carelessly:
"Only one of the girls who used to be in the same company with me. But
I'm not sure that she's coming here."
"Then the wire was from her?"
"Yes."
"Did she say what train she was coming on?"
"No."
"Well, there are a lot of trains. About what time did you expect her
in?"
"She didn't say."
"Do I know her?"
"I think not. I met her while I worked in 'Frisco."
"Oh!"
He resumed reading his paper, and the next moment Annie re-entered with
a timetable.
"Thanks," said Laura, taking it. Then, pointing to the breakfast table,
she said: "Now take those things away, Annie."
The maid started in to gather up the dishes, while her mistress became
engrossed in a deep study of the timetable. Soon Annie left the room
with the loaded tray, and Laura looked up in despair.
"I can't make this out," she cried.
Brockton looked up and held out his hand.
"Give it here; maybe I can help you."
She rose, and, approaching the table, handed him the timetable, a
diabolical labyrinth of incomprehensible figures and words specially
compiled by railroad managers to puzzle and befog the traveling public.
But Brockton, from long practice, seemed familiar with its mysteries.
"Where is she coming from?" he demanded, as he quickly turned over the
leaves.
"The West," she answered promptly. "The telegram was from Buffalo. I
suppose she was on her way when she sent it."
Brockton had found the right page, and was busy calculating the time
made by the different trains.
"There's a train comes in here at nine-thirty--that's the Twentieth
Century. That doesn't carry passengers from Buffalo. Then there's one
at eleven-forty-one. One at one-forty-nine. Another at three-forty-five.
Another at five-forty and another at five-forty-eight. That's the Lake
Shore Limited, a fast train; and all pass through Buffalo. Did you
think of meeting her?"
"No, she'll come here when she arrives."
"She knows where you live?"
"She has the address."
"Ever been to New York before?"
"I think not."
He passed back the timetable.
"Well, that's the best I can do for you."
"Thank you."
She took the timetable and placed it in the desk. Brockton, who had
taken up his paper again, gave an exclamation of surprise.
"By George--this is funny."
"What?" she demanded, looking impatiently at the clock.
"Speak of the devil, you know."
"Who?"
"Your old friend--John Madison."
Laura started involuntarily. She became deathly pale, and put her head
on the chair-back to steady herself. Controlling her agitation by a
supreme effort, she said:
"What--what about him?"
"He's been in Chicago."
"How do you know?"
Brockton held out the newspaper.
"Here's a dispatch about him."
She came quickly forward and looked over the broker's shoulder. Her
voice was trembling with suppressed excitement, as she said:
"What--where--what's it about?"
Brockton chuckled. Holding out the paper so she could see, and watching
her face closely, he went on:
"I'm damned if he hasn't done what he said he'd do--see! He's been in
Chicago, and is on his way to New York. He's struck it rich in Nevada,
and is coming with a pot of money. Queer, isn't it? Did you know
anything about it?"
"No, no; nothing at all," she said, laying the paper aside and
returning to her former place near the piano. Her face was drawn and
white, and there was a hard, metallic note perceptible in her voice.
"Lucky for him, eh?" said the broker.
"Yes, yes; it's very nice."
"Too bad he couldn't get this a little sooner, eh, Laura?"
"Oh, I don't know," she said, with a forced laugh. "I don't think it's
too bad. What makes you say that?"
"Oh, nothing. I suppose he ought to be here to-day. Are you going to
see him if he looks you up?"
"No, no," she replied quickly; "I don't want to see him. You know that,
don't you--that I don't want to see him? What makes you ask these
questions?"
Brockton shrugged his shoulders.
"Just thought you might meet him, that's all. Don't get sore about it."
"I'm not."
She still held John's telegram crumpled in one hand. Brockton put down
his paper, and regarded her curiously. She saw the expression on his
face, and, reading its meaning, averted her head in order not to meet
his eye.
"What are you looking at me that way for?" she demanded hotly.
"I wasn't conscious that I was looking at you in any particular way.
Why?"
"Oh, nothing. I guess I'm nervous, too."
"I dare say you are."
"Yes, I am."
Brockton rose slowly from his chair. Crossing over to where she sat, he
stood with folded arms, looking her squarely in the face. There was a
hard look in his eyes, a determined expression around his mouth. He was
in one of his obstinate, ungovernable tempers, and Laura knew at once
by his manner that a critical moment was at hand. He began ominously:
"You know I don't want to delve into a lot of past history at this
time, but I've got to talk to you for a moment."
She rose quickly, and, going to the other side of the room, pretended
to be busy. Nervously, she said:
"Why don't you do it some other time? I don't want to be talked to just
now."
He followed her, and, in the same, hard, determined tone, said firmly:
"But I've got to do it, just the same."
Trying to affect an attitude of resigned patience and resignation,
Laura shrugged her shoulders and resumed her seat on the sofa.
"Well, what is it?" she said.
He looked at her in silence for a moment, as if not quite sure how to
begin. Then, quietly, he said:
"You've always been on the square with me, Laura. That's why I've liked
you a lot better than the other women----"
She stirred restlessly on her seat, and began to polish her
finger-nails. Peevishly, she said:
"Are you going into all that again this morning. I thought we
understood each other."
"So did I," he replied bitterly; "but somehow, I think that we _don't_
quite understand each other."
She looked up, as if surprised.
"In what way?"
Looking steadily at her, he went on:
"That letter I dictated to you the day that you came back to me and
left for you to mail--did you mail it?"
For a sixteenth of a second she hesitated. Should she go on lying, or
stop right now and confess everything? She dare not. She had not the
courage. Positively, decisively, almost indignantly, she answered:
"Yes--of course. Why do you ask?"
He eyed her keenly, trying to penetrate her thoughts.
"You're quite sure?"
"Yes, I'm quite sure." With an effrontery that surprised herself, she
added: "I wouldn't say so if I wasn't."
"And you didn't know Madison was coming East until you read about it in
that newspaper?"
"No--no--I didn't know."
"Have you heard from him?"
Again an opportunity presented itself to tell the truth, and again her
courage failed her.
"No--no--I haven't heard from him." Peevishly, she exclaimed: "Don't
talk to me about this thing. Why can't you leave me alone? I'm
miserable enough, as it is."
She walked away, with the idea of leaving the room, but quickly he
intercepted her. Sternly, he said:
"But I've got to talk to you. Laura, you're lying to me."
"What!"
She made a valiant effort to seem angry, but Brockton was too old a
bird to be deceived. Raising his voice in anger he exclaimed:
"You're lying to me, and you've been lying to me all along! Like a fool
I've trusted you. Show me that telegram!"
"No," she said defiantly.
She retreated into a far corner. He followed her.
"Show me that telegram!" he commanded.
"You've no right to ask me," she exclaimed hotly.
Before he could prevent it, she had torn the telegram in half and run
to the window. Before she could throw the pieces out, he had caught her
by the arm. Livid with rage, he almost shouted:
"Are you going to make me take it away from you? I've never laid my
hands on you yet."
"It's my business!" she cried in desperation.
"Yes, and it's mine!" he retorted, trying to seize the fragments.
Her face flushed from the struggle, now furiously angry, she fought him
with all her strength. They battled all over the room. Finally he
backed her against the dresser, and she was powerless to resist
further. He put out his hand to seize the torn pieces of the telegram,
which she had stuffed inside her waist.
"That telegram's from Madison," he cried hotly. "Give it here!"
"No!" she exclaimed, white as death, and still defiant.
"I'm going to find out where I stand," he cried. "Give me that
telegram, or I'll take it away from you."
"No!"
"Come on!" he said savagely, his teeth clenched, his face white from
furious jealousy.
The struggle was unequal. He was the stronger. Further resistance was
futile.
"All right," she said breathlessly; "I'll give it to you."
Slowly, she drew the pieces out of her bosom, and handed them to him.
He took them, and, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, slowly smoothed them
out, and pieced them together so that he could read the dispatch. When,
at last, he began to read, she staggered back apprehensively.
He read it slowly, deliberately. When he had finished, he looked up.
Sternly, he said:
"Then you knew?"
"Yes," she faltered.
"But you didn't know he was coming until he arrived?"
"No."
"And you didn't mail the letter, did you?"
"No----"
His face turned livid with rage. Clenching his fists menacingly, he
advanced towards her.
"What did you do with it?" he thundered.
Shrinking from him, afraid of his violence, she replied faintly:
"I--I burned it."
"Why?" he shouted, in a fury.
Dazed, bewildered, almost hysterical, Laura was unable to answer. He
advanced until he almost stood over her, his arm raised threateningly,
as if about to strike her. She cowered before him.
"Why--why?" he repeated hoarsely.
Almost in tears, she murmured weakly:
"I--I couldn't help it. I simply couldn't help it."
Folding his arms he looked down at her with an expression in which pity
was mingled with contempt. A straightforward man himself, he had no
patience with lying. He could forgive her lying--it was natural to
her--but she had made him appear a liar. With a sweeping gesture of his
hand, which took in the whole room, and its luxurious contents, he
said:
"And he doesn't know about us?"
"No."
Thoroughly exasperated, he again advanced towards her, his face
distorted with rage.
"By God!" he exclaimed. "I never beat a woman in my life, but I feel as
though I could wring your neck!"
White-faced, trembling, she stared at him helplessly. Hysterically, she
cried:
"Why don't you? You have done everything else. Why don't you?"
"Don't you know," he continued furiously, "that I gave Madison my word
that if you came back to me I'd let him know? Don't you know that I
like that young fellow, and I wanted to protect him, and did everything
I could to help him? And do you know what you've done to me? You've
made me out a liar--you've made me lie to a man--a man--you understand!
What are you going to do now? Tell me--what are you going to do now?
Don't stand there as if you've lost your voice--how are you going to
square me?"
Summoning up all her courage, she faced him, calmly, defiantly.
"I'm not thinking about squaring _you_," she said ironically. "What am
I going to do for _him_?"
"Not what _you_ are going to do for him," he retorted. "What am _I_
going to do for him? Why, I wouldn't have that young fellow think that
I tricked him into this thing for you or all the rest of the women of
your kind on earth. Good God! I might have known that you, and the
others like you, couldn't be square."
She made no answer. The attitude of hostility and defiance had gone.
She looked at him silently, pleadingly, like some helpless dumb animal
trying to placate its master's wrath. Brockton glanced at his watch,
walked over to the window and then came back to where she stood.
Shaking his fist at her, he muttered:
"You've made a nice mess of it, haven't you?"
"There isn't any mess," she answered weakly. "Please go away. He'll be
here soon. Please let _me_ see him--please do that."
"No," he replied doggedly, "I'll wait. This time I'm going to tell him
myself, and I don't care how tough it is."
Frightened at this suggestion, which might be so full of dire
consequences, she was instantly galvanized into action. Starting up
again, she cried:
"No, you mustn't do that!" Approaching him, she said pleadingly: "Oh,
Will, I'm not offering any excuse. I'm not saying anything, but I'm
telling you the truth. I couldn't give him up--I couldn't do it. I love
him."
Shrugging his shoulders he made an ironical exclamation:
"Huh!"
"Don't you think so?" she went on piteously. "I know you can't see what
I see, but I do. And why can't you go away? Why can't you leave me
this? It's all I ever had. He doesn't know. No one will ever tell him.
I'll take him away. It's the best for him--it's the best for me. Please
go."
He laughed, and, going back to the armchair, deliberately reseated
himself. Ignoring her tearful pleading, he said scornfully:
"Why--do you think that I'm going to let you trip him the way you
tripped me? No. I'm going to stay right here until that man arrives,
and I'm going to tell him that it wasn't my fault. You alone were to
blame."
She listened blankly, staring at him in a bewildered, dazed sort of
way. Her face was white as death, and her hands twisted convulsively.
Slowly, with a half-stifled sob, she cried:
[Illustration: SHE SANK DOWN ON HER KNEES BESIDE HIM.
_Page 273._]
"Then you are going to let him know?" she said slowly. "You're not
going to give me a single, solitary chance?"
The plaintive tone in her voice touched him. He hated such scenes, and
would willingly have overlooked anything to avoid one. But there was a
limit to a man's patience. Perhaps, however, he had been a bit brutal.
He did not trust himself to look up, but his voice was less harsh as he
replied:
"I'll give you every chance that you deserve when he knows. Then he can
do as he pleases, but there must be no more deception, that's flat."
Approaching the chair in which he sat, she laid a hand on his shoulder.
Gently, she said:
"Then you must let me tell him."
Brockton turned away impatiently. She sank down on her knees beside
him.
"Yes--you must," she went on imploringly. "If I didn't tell him before
I'll do it now. You must go. If you ever had any regard for me--if you
ever had any affection--if you ever had any friendship, please let me
do this now. I want you to go--you can come back. Then you'll
see--you'll know--only I want to try to make him understand that--that
maybe if I'm weak I'm not vicious. I want to let him know that I didn't
want to do it, but I couldn't help it. Just give me the chance to be as
good as I can be----"
Brockton turned and looked straight at her. She did not flinch under
his severe, critical gaze. Impulsively, coaxingly, she went on:
"Oh, I promise you I will tell him, and then--then I don't care what
happens--only he must learn everything from me--please--please, let me
do this--it's the last favor I shall ever--ever ask of you. Won't you?"
This last appeal, uttered hysterically, was followed by a flood of
weeping. She had controlled herself as long as she could, but at last
her nerves could not stand the strain, and she broke down completely.
Brockton rose, and for a moment stood watching, as if mentally debating
himself what was the best thing to do. Finally, he said:
"All right; I won't be unkind. I'll be back early this afternoon, but
remember--this time you'll have to go right through to the end." With a
significant warning gesture, he added: "Understand?"
Drying her eyes, she said hastily:
"Yes, I'll do it--all of it Won't you please go--now?"
"All right," he replied.
The broker disappeared into the bedroom and almost immediately entered
again with overcoat on his arm and hat in hand. He went towards the
door without speaking. At the threshold he halted and, looking back at
her, said firmly:
"I am sorry for you, Laura, but remember--you've got to tell the
truth."
"Please go," she cried almost hysterically.
He went out, closing the door behind him.