DECIDED BY LOT.
It was evening, and three of the most prominent men of New York City
confronted each other at the residence of the sculptress. Milton
Wayland, a noted stock broker, Edmund Connors, a successful politician,
and Iago Doane, an editor, formed the trio.
“I trust,” said Wayland, “we may now and forever settle the question of
superiority at whist.”
“I did not come here to play whist tonight,” said Connors, frankly and
boldly.
“Pray, then,” said the editor, with ill-concealed sarcasm, “what
brought you here?”
“Are you my father confessor?” said the politician.
“No,” replied Doane, “I have enough agonies of my own; nor would I like
to hold in my soul the knowledge of all your evil deeds.”
“Do you think a politician is worse than an editor?” said Connors.
“Frankly speaking,” said Doane, “no. The difference in our deception of
the public lies in the method only.”
The men were evidently ill at ease, but all laughed at Doane’s
boldness.
“We poor monied men,” said Wayland, “seem to be altogether out of
consideration.”
“How so?” said Connors.
“Because in this day and generation,” said Wayland, “thanks to Doane,
the newspapers have killed our trade by exposing our tricks.”
Connors looked on in grim satisfaction at the contest between money and
printer’s ink, and quietly said: “I am not so sure that newspapers are
just what they should be.”
“What’s the complaint against us?” said Doane, in mock fear.
“There is as little honesty in journalism as there is in the world of
finance,” said Wayland.
“Nothing truer was ever said,” chipped in Connors. “The ordinary
newspaper of today but reflects the cowardice of wealth. There is
little of the sincerity of conviction which prevailed in the days of
Horace Greeley.”
“They always cram Greeley down our throats,” cried Doane.
“Well,” said Connors, “wasn’t he a pretty bold and fearless man?”
“I’ll admit all that,” retorted Doane, “but I never did worship at the
shrine of any journalistic God.”
“But,” said Wayland, apparently realizing that the argument was growing
somewhat intense, “we have wandered some distance from the original
query.”
“And that was?” said Connors.
“The real object of our presence here,” interposed the editor. “Come,
now, what brought you here, Connors?”
“I must yield,” said Connors, “since the moulder of public opinion
implores the mere politician to tell the truth.”
“Be careful,” said Wayland, “sensations may be at a premium.”
“Bah,” said Doane, in real anger, “I never mix shop with social
intercourse.”
“Now,” said the wily politician, “don’t let us lose our tempers.”
“I did not intend offense,” said Wayland.
“And now,” said Connors, “since my friend has made the _amende de
honorable_, I will state frankly that I came here to take Ouida Angelo
to the Italian opera.”
“And so did I,” said Wayland.
“That also was my purpose,” said Doane.
“Well,” sighed Wayland, “it would be no fun for all of us to go
together.”
“Nor,” said Connors, “can we very well divide the lady into three
separate existences.”
“I suggest,” said Wayland, “that we draw lots.”
“There,” said Doane, “again breaks out his natural spirit of
speculation and chance.”
“No intention to talk shop,” sarcastically retorted Wayland.
This proposition finally proving agreeable, a simple plan of
lot-drawing was indulged in by these favorites of fortune, the result
of which was a victory for Doane.
“Doane always wins,” complained Wayland.
“I wonder if he plays fair,” spoke up Connors.
“Gentlemen,” said Doane, evidently gratified by his success, “don’t
weep. Allow me to console you. She really cares for neither of us.
Now, you are young, vigorous men. I am a free lance. I sleep all day;
work all night. You may have the hope of some day wedding decent,
commonplace wives. Just the creatures to be the safe and proper mothers
of your children. What matters it, if I, who hate everybody, and whom
everybody hates, am swallowed up in the mad vortex of passion? Society
loses nothing, and gains a dainty bit of gossip to chew on for a month.”
Ouida majestically burst upon them at this juncture.
“So,” she cried, “you have been making me the subject of chance. Pray,
what excuse dare you offer for such a profane proceeding?”
“And, Ouida, you should have heard of the consolation he offered, as he
gloated over his victory.”
Without giving the sculptress a chance to ask, Doane quickly said: “I
told them, madame, that you would marry neither of them.”
“Did you insinuate that it was possible that I might marry you?”
“No, but here, publicly, I proclaim the fact, that my newspaper and I
are yours at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, your perpetual offer at times grows somewhat wearisome,” said
Ouida, “but, seriously speaking, Doane, get a law passed which will
allow marriage for a limited period, renewable at the option of the
parties, and I will try you for a brief period. The thought of being
forever tied to one man appals me.”
“But,” remonstrated Connors, “you forget, dear lady, that sometimes
offspring follows marriage.”
“Bah,” said Ouida, passionately, “they ought to be throttled ere
conceived. There are too many carelessly reared brats in the world
today. It would be a good thing to stop pro-creation for a generation.”
“There is really some sense in that,” thoughtfully reflected Wayland
aloud.
Ouida continued: “The Romans were wise. They killed children not
physically perfect. Pharaoh sacrificed the first born of the Jews.
I see no cruelty whatever in the idea. But I will not continue this
discussion. I am too full of anger.”
“Because I won?” said the editor.
“Partially so,” replied Ouida. “I was not consulted, and I refuse to be
bound by such a silly arrangement. Think you that one sour, dyspeptic,
gossipy editor, would for an entire evening suffice me, especially at
the opera, where one who listens to the music, is entirely out of the
fashion?”
“But--” the editor started in on a protest.
“I shall not listen to you,” cried Ouida, as she imperiously stamped
her shapely foot, “I will settle this matter by inviting you all to
occupy seats in my box. I shall take no vote upon the matter, for well
I know your acceptance is unanimous.”
“But, madame,” protested Wayland, “this is most unkind; you should not
treat us as though we were children.”
“I would you were as innocent,” bantered the lady of the house.
“What do you know about us?” said Connors.
“Do you think I don’t get some compensation for allowing Doane among my
intimates?” said Ouida.
“So he gives you the news, does he, before the dear public gets it?”
said Connors.
“A truce to this nonsense,” said Wayland. “Gentlemen, what shall we
do--accept the polite invitation of her royal highness?”
“Accept,” said Ouida, in breathless indignation, “accept? Is there any
doubt of it? Oh, well, there need not be. I withdraw it--”
“Seriously?” said Doane.
“I’ll give a railroad,” said the stock broker, “to make my peace with
her.”
“Now understand me,” said Ouida, imperiously, “I am not offended at
anything any one has said. This, above all other places, is Liberty
hall. Law, ordinary social rules, have long been banished, but as we
were talking, I was seized with a monstrous, overwhelming inspiration.
I must be alone tonight. I felt as though I might carve the boldest
stroke of ‘A Modern Hercules.’ Go! nor stay upon the order of your
going.”
No protest prevailed, and the trio left; nor did they stop on the
street to offer consolation to each other.