A SERPENT WHISPERS AND A WOMAN LISTENS
The word cattle seemed to arouse the roan colt to his own existence. He
whinnied ingratiatingly and tugged at his hitching strap. Whether or not
his master had forgotten, he knew it was supper time. Harvey heard him.
"Well," he said to Druce, backing away towards the gate. "I've got to be
going. Drop into the store some time. I'll give you a cigar."
"Thanks," laughed Druce. Then under his breath he added, "Like blazes I
will." He turned back to Elsie. "Is that the Rube," he demanded, "who
wants to marry you?"
"Yes," defended Elsie hotly, "and he's all right, too. I don't think it
was nice of you to make fun of him as you did."
"Now, now," said Druce soothingly. "Don't be angry with me. I was just
playing around." He paused and looked warily at the house. "Everything
all right, eh?"
"Yes, I guess so," replied Elsie, with an anxious look in the same
direction. "Harvey frightened me when I first got home. For a moment I
thought he knew that I had been out with you."
"Well, what if he did? There's no harm in going for a ride with me, is
there?"
"No-o," Elsie shook her head doubtfully. "But I don't feel just right
about it."
"And that grocery fellow didn't know after all, eh?"
"I think not. At least he said nothing."
Druce shrugged his shoulders derisively.
"I think not. At least he said nothing." he couldn't detect a hair in the
butter. I'm not worried about him. How is it with your own folks? Your
mother doesn't know?"
[Transcriber's note: previous paragraph transcribed as printed, with
apparent obfuscation by duplicated line.]
"No," replied Elsie, uneasy again. "Anyway, mother wouldn't matter so
much, but dad--" She covered her face with her hands.
"Never mind," said Druce tenderly, drawing her toward him and caressing
her. "We had some ride, didn't we?"
"Grand," replied Elsie, brightened by the recollection.
"I told you it would be all right if I hired the car and picked you up
around the corner from the mill. Say--" The man lowered his tone. "Gee,
you're prettier than ever today, Elsie!"
Something in his manner caused the girl to recoil. The shrinking movement
did not escape Druce.
"What's the matter, girlie?" he inquired. "Do you know that in all the
weeks I have been coming down here from Chicago to see you, you haven't
even kissed me?"
"Please," pleaded the girl, pushing him away. She scarcely understood her
mood. She only knew she did not want Druce to touch her.
"What's the matter?" repeated Druce, following close behind her.
"I--I don't know," faltered the girl, "I feel wicked somehow."
"Why?" He led her to a bench and sat down beside her. "Haven't I always
treated you like a lady?"
"Yes, Martin, you've been good to me--but--I feel wicked."
Druce laughed. "Nonsense, girlie," he said, "you couldn't be wicked if
you tried. Do you know what you ought to do?"
"What?" she asked.
"Turn your back on this town where nothing ever happens and come to
little old Chicago, the live village by the lake."
"Chicago! What could I do there?"
"Make more money in a month than you can earn here in a year."
"But how?"
"You can sing," said Druce appraisingly. "You're there forty ways when it
comes to looks. Why they'd pay you a hundred dollars a week to sing in
the cabarets."
"Cabarets?" The girl's interest was aroused. "What's a cabaret?"
"A cabaret," said Druce, "is a restaurant where ladies and gentlemen
dine. A fine great hall, polished floors, rugs, palms, a lot of little
tables, colored lights, flowers, silver, cut glass, perfumes, a grand
orchestra--get that in your mind--and then the orchestra strikes up and
you come down the aisle, right through the crowd and sing to them."
"Oh, I'd love to do that," said the girl.
"Why not try it?"
"I--I wouldn't know how to begin."
"I'll show you how."
"Tell me, tell me how, quick."
"Dead easy," Druce explained smoothly. "I'm going back to Chicago on the
evening train tonight. Now there's no use having trouble with your folks.
They wouldn't understand. You tell them you are going over to one of the
neighbors', anything you can think of. That train slows down at the
junction, right across the field there--you can always hear it whistle.
I'll be aboard the last car and I'll take you to Chicago with me. Then
when we get there we--"
He broke off abruptly for Elsie started up from the bench and moved
slowly away.
"What's the matter, girlie?" asked Druce.
"I--I don't know," the girl answered. "There isn't anyone here but just
us, is there?"
"No," replied Druce, watching the girl closely, "why?"
"Because," she half whispered, "it seemed to me just then that someone
touched me on the arm and said, 'Don't go!'"
Druce started. He looked carefully around. Then he laughed.
"You're hearing things tonight, Elsie," he said. "There's no one here but
just you and me." He took her by the hand and was drawing her down to the
bench when suddenly the front door of the cottage opened and Mrs. Welcome
appeared.
"Elsie," she called. She stood framed in the lighted doorway, her eyes
shaded with her hand. Like a shadow Druce faded from his seat beside the
girl and dodged behind a tree out of sight, but in hearing.
"Is that you, Elsie?" asked the mother. "I thought I heard voices. Was
Harvey here?"
"Yes," replied the girl in confusion, "he has just gone."
"You didn't see anything of your father, did you?"
Elsie shook her head. "You--you don't suppose dad's drinking again?" the
girl asked anxiously.
"I suppose so," replied the mother wearily. "He hasn't been here all
day."
"Oh, mother," the girl wailed. "What shall we do?" She sank down on the
seat.
Her mother took her in her arms. "Don't cry," she said. "Come in and help
me get supper."
"I'm waiting for Patience," replied the girl. "I'll be in the house in a
moment. You go ahead with the work. When Patience comes we'll both help
you."
Mrs. Welcome walked back into the cottage. As the door closed behind her
Druce reappeared. He had not missed a word of the conversation between
Elsie and her mother; as he now approached he outlined in his mind an
immediate plan of attack.
"Elsie," he said softly. The girl started.
"I thought you had gone," she said. "No, don't touch me. I'm in trouble.
My father--" she covered her face with her hands.
"Yes, I know," said Druce. "I heard it all. Why do you stay here? Why do
you--"
"It isn't that," retorted the girl, too proud to accept sympathy. "You
made me lie to my mother. That is the first time I ever deceived my
mother."
"Don't cry," said Druce. He drew her to the bench. "Come," he went on,
"be sensible. Dry those tears. Come with me to Chicago."
"How do you know I could get a chance to sing in that place you told me
of?" she demanded, open to argument.
Druce pressed his advantage. "Why," he said, "I'm interested in one
myself. I think I could arrange to place you."
"Martin," said Elsie, "you said you were in the live stock business."
Druce hesitated a moment, toying with his cane. "I am," he said slowly.
"This cabaret--er--is a little speculation on the side. Come now, say
you'll be at the train at eight o'clock."
The girl considered long.
"Think," said Druce, "with one hundred dollars a week you will be able to
take your mother out of this hole. Why, you'll be independent! You owe it
to your family not to let this opportunity escape you."
"I'll go," said Elsie.
"Good! Good for you, I mean," said Druce.
"On one condition," the girl went on.
"What do you mean?"
Elsie got up from her seat embarrassed. "It all depends," she said.
"On what?" demanded Druce.
"On you, Martin."
"Me?" Druce laughed uneasily.
"Yes," said the girl walking close to him and looking him in the face.
"There is only one way I can go to Chicago with you."
"How's that, girlie?" was Druce's astonished question.
Elsie held up her left hand timidly. "With a plain gold ring on that
finger, Martin," she said. She was now blushing furiously. She knew that
she had virtually proposed to Druce. He laughed and something in his
laugh jarred her.
"Oh, marriage," he said.
"You know that Martin, don't you? I couldn't go to Chicago with you any
other way."
Druce took off his hat. "Elsie," he said, "you're as good as gold. I
honor you for your scruples."
He paused to think for a moment. "I'll tell you," he said. "You come
along with me and I'll marry you as soon as we reach Chicago. Meanwhile
I'll telegraph ahead and arrange to have you taken care of by my old
aunt. You'll be as safe with her as if you were in your own home."
"You promise to marry me?"
"Sure I do, girlie." He broke off blusteringly. "What do you take me for?
Do you think I'd lure you to Chicago and then leave you?"
"Martin," said Elsie gravely, "a girl must protect herself."
"You'll go, honey?" Druce persisted.
"I can't tell," replied the girl desperately, anxious to promise and yet
afraid.
"You'll go," said Druce positively, "at eight o'clock--"
A cool voice broke in on his sentence. Druce started like a man suddenly
drenched with cold water.
"What's that is going to happen at eight o'clock, Mr. Druce?"
The speaker was Patience Welcome.