NEW YORK CITY, Tuesday.
DEAR MISS HARMON: You will perhaps consider this letter an
impertinence, and yet you may not--under the circumstances. When
the other day I called at your house, at your father's request,
Mr. Harmon asked me to go up-stairs to see you. It was impossible
for me at that time to accept his kind invitation. You will
understand why. Since then, however, a change for the better has
taken place in my affairs. The outlook is no longer so hopeless. I
am leaving America. I sail on Saturday.
I cannot go without saying good-by. I have read in the newspapers
about your coming marriage to the Prince of Eurasia. I sincerely
hope that this realization of your life's ambition will bring the
happiness you expect.
No matter what the future may have in store for me, the
recollection of those all too few weeks we spent alone in close
association on Hope Island will never grow dim in my memory. I can
never forget you or the dream of supreme happiness that I once
thought within my grasp. The signal fire is now dead and cold on
Mount Hope's lofty summit, but another flame as bright and fierce,
which you yourself kindled, will continue to blaze in my heart
while life endures. I know that you are forever lost to me, I know
that another will call you wife, yet night and day I am haunted by
the memory of that mad afternoon on the sun-kissed sands when,
almost crazed with passion, I seized you in my arms to take you
for my own. Then, all at once, came the rude awakening!
But all that is past and gone. I steel my heart to try and forget
what I had won and lost again. I will leave you in peace to enjoy
your new happiness. You will never see or hear from me after I
leave New York. Yet I would like to see you just once more, to
grasp your hand and wish you well. We were always friends, and for
one brief moment we were almost lovers. May I call on Thursday
afternoon?
Yours sincerely,
JOHN ARMITAGE.
Ensconced in the big bay window of the library, comfortably propped up
with cushions, Grace sat gazing pensively over the tree tops of Central
Park. In her hand was Armitage's letter, which she had read and reread a
dozen times until she knew every word by heart. Close by, impatiently
tossed against a chair, was a magnificent floral basket which Prince
Sergius had sent that morning. Attached to the basket by a white ribbon
was an envelope--unopened. The perfume from the flowers scented the
entire room, but Grace seemed to be unconscious of their presence. She
kept looking out of the window as if expecting each instant to see some
one appear on the Avenue. Every now and then she consulted her watch.
"Ten minutes past three!" she murmured. "I wrote that I should expect
him at three. Perhaps he never got my letter."
A look of worry came over her face, and she was straining her eyes in an
effort to distinguish far-away figures on the avenues when the door
opened and her French maid entered. Grace looked up.
"What is it, Louise?" she asked.
"Ze telephone, Mademoiselle. His Royal Highness want to know if you are
at home."
"Did you say I was home?"
"_Mais non_, Mademoiselle. I said I would see if Mademoiselle was in."
Grace left her place by the window and paced nervously up and down the
room.
"Tell His Royal Highness that I'm out," she said. With a gesture of
impatience she added: "Say I've gone out to dinner and won't be back
until late. _Vous comprenez?_"
The girl curtsied.
"_Mais oui_, Mademoiselle."
She was leaving the room when Grace called her back.
"Take these flowers away, too. Their strong perfume makes me nervous."
"_Tres bien_, Mademoiselle."
Elevating her eyebrows as if to convey that she quite understood the
situation, the maid took up the floral-basket and disappeared.
Grace resumed her vigil at the window, watching eagerly every one who
came in sight along the avenue, wondering if each newcomer was the one
man who was in her thoughts.
She was annoyed with herself for having betrayed herself before the
servant. Yet surely they could all see that she detested the Prince, and
that she was only marrying him for his lofty position. It had been the
ambition of her life, her father approved it, her friends envied her,
the papers were full of the splendors of the wonderful Eurasian palace
of which she would one day be mistress. How could she resist? Yet how
they must all despise her for selling herself!
Once more she took up Armitage's letter and read it through. She
wondered why he was leaving America and what the change for the better
of which he spoke could be. No doubt he had been successful in securing
more congenial employment. She was sincerely glad to hear it. She would
remember him always.
She wondered why life was so contrary, so cruel. The one man she could
have loved truly, sincerely, was too poor for her to marry, too far
beneath her in the social scale. Suppose she braved everything for his
sake, what then? It would break her father's heart. All her friends
would laugh at her. The world would ostracise her. No--it was an
impossible dream. She owed something to her position. Her own happiness
must be sacrificed to please others. Angry, defiant yet powerless to
resist the laws of the society she moved in, she rebelled at the
injustice and cruelty of it.
Suddenly the bell at the front door rang. She heard voices, followed by
steps on the stairs. A footman appeared on the library threshold.
"Mr. Armitage has called to see Miss Harmon."
Grace advanced, nervous.
"Ask Mr. Armitage to come up."
The servant withdrew, and Grace crossed hastily to the mirror to see if
everything about herself was as she wanted him to see it. A moment later
she heard some one enter the room behind her. It was Armitage. She
turned and greeted him with a smile, extending her hand, which for a
moment he held firmly in his.
She hardly knew him, so altered was he in appearance. He wore a neat
business suit, with derby hat and gloves. His hair trimmed and carefully
brushed, was more wavy and glossy than usual, and a close shave threw
into still greater relief the academic outline of his features. The
change was so remarkable that at first she hardly recognized him. But
when she heard the familiar rich tones of his deep, manly voice, no
further doubt was possible.
"I've come to say good-by," he said, with a smile.
"What a change!" she exclaimed, with an effort to appear light-hearted
and at ease.
He made no answer for a moment, embarrassed as to what to say. Then he
replied:
"Yes--I do look a little different, don't I? It's wonderful what clothes
will do. No wonder they are the world's only standard!"
"Come and sit here and tell me about it."
She led the way to the low recess at the bay-window, and, sinking down
on the cushions, she motioned him to take a seat opposite.
"Tell me," she repeated, "what good fairy has worked this
transformation?"
He smiled as he replied:
"Things have changed a little for the better."
"You mean that you have found more lucrative and congenial employment?"
He hesitated, not willing to lie to her. Yet, after all, it was the
truth. His new position was decidedly more lucrative.
"Yes," he replied, after a pause. "More lucrative--more congenial."
Grace was puzzled. His answers were vague. He was hiding something from
her. Perhaps he thought her questions impertinent. After all, what right
had she to question him?
"I'm pleased--for your sake," she answered, rather haughtily.
Armitage was quick to notice the difference in her tone, and intuitively
he divined the reason.
"For my sake?" he echoed. "Why should you care?"
"I shall always be glad to hear that you are prospering and--happy," she
answered.
He looked into her eyes without speaking. There was a melancholy,
wistful expression in his face. He seemed to want to say something and
did not dare. Embarrassed by the continuity of his fixed gaze, she
averted her head and looked out of the window over into the park, where
the nurses and children were playing on the green lawns. There was a
silence that was almost painful. At last he broke it.
"You will be happy," he said. "One day you will be a Princess!"
Grace sighed. With a forced laugh she said:
"Happiness! What is happiness? We are always pursuing it, we think we've
found it, only to find it empty and unreal, after all."
"You're happy, aren't you?" he persisted.
For a moment she made no answer. Then she said:
"Yes--I suppose I am."
"When do you expect to get married?" he asked.
"I don't know--nothing is settled--perhaps never----"
She laughed nervously. There was something in the tone of her voice that
sounded like a stifled sob.
Armitage watched her closely. This was not the way a happy woman acts or
talks. Could it be that she did not care for the Prince, that she was
forcing herself in this ambitious marriage in spite of her own better,
truer self? Certainly the man was unworthy of her. The escapades and
scandals in which he had been mixed up were the talk of Europe. She must
be aware of his real character, or was she completely blinded by the
brilliancy of his position? His heart throbbed furiously as he thought
that he had perhaps guessed the truth.
He wondered if it would make any difference if he told her everything,
of the miraculous change in his fortune, that he was no longer a
penniless outcast of society, but the bearer of one of the proudest
titles in England. That's why he hesitated. It might make a difference,
and that he didn't want. If after being told of the change in his
position she consented to marry him, he would always suspect that it was
for his title. No, if he was to win her he was determined that she
should love him for himself. The thought that there was still a
possibility of making her his wife had never presented itself until now.
On the desert island, remote from the conventions of civilized life,
bound only by nature's laws, he had claimed her as his chattel, his
primordial right. He was the lord and master whose will she must obey
without question. But now, restored to the protection of civilization,
she was free to exercise her own will, and it had never occurred to him
that, of all the men who had courted her, she might have chosen him from
preference. Such a possibility was beyond his most fantastic dreams.
Yet, after all, why not?
Breaking the long and awkward silence, he said:
"Have you quite recovered from your experience on Hope Island?"
"Yes--I'm all right now," she replied quickly.
"You're more comfortable, at any rate," he smiled, glancing around at
the oriental rugs, books and costly _objets d'art_ with which the
luxuriously furnished room was littered. "I suppose you're glad to be
home."
She shook her head, and a wistful smile came into her face as she
answered:
"Sometimes I wish I were back there. Now that I've returned, it's the
same social treadmill again--the same exhausting round of teas,
receptions, dinners, and all the rest, hearing women talk nothing but
dress and scandal and bridge until you begin to think there is nothing
else in the world worth discussing. It's nauseating. When I think of
those ideal days on the little island--the life of perfect peace under
the cool trees by the silver sea--doing cheerfully each day's allotted
task, helping you as best I could--when I think of how happy I was
leading that lonely peaceful existence, I'm almost sorry we were
rescued."
A glad smile broke over his face. His eyes flashed and his mouth
trembled slightly as he eagerly bent forward.
"Really?" he said. "You were happier then?"
She flushed and then turned pale. He hardly heard the low answer that
came from her lips:
"I don't know."
His steady gaze embarrassed her. She was afraid that he might read the
secret which lay deep in her heart. Rising abruptly from her seat by the
window, she crossed the room, stopping near a side table to arrange some
American beauty roses in a vase. Armitage rose and followed her.
"Tell me," he persisted eagerly. "Were you happier then than you are
now?"
"Suppose we change the subject," she said hastily, without turning
round. "Let us talk about you and your plans. So you're going to
England?"
He nodded gravely.
"I sail on Saturday. I came to say good-by."
Grace nervously plucked one of the roses and crushed its soft, perfumed
petals against her face. Her head still averted, she said: "But you'll
come back?"
"No--never," he replied firmly.
She made no reply, and, as he could not see her face, he did not know
that tears were in her eyes and that her lips were trembling. She could
not speak without betraying her feelings. An awkward silence followed.
Armitage stood watching her. This girl loved him--he was convinced of
that now. Only her pride was keeping them apart. A struggle for the
mastery was going on within her, between her artificial self and her
true self. One word from him and she would know that she had no reason
to be ashamed of the man to whom she had given her love; that, on the
contrary, she might be proud to be his wife. But that one word he was
determined not to speak. He owed that much to his manhood, to his
self-respect. This would be the crucial test. If she loved him, it must
be for himself alone, not for his title. If he won her, he would proudly
carry off the prize of two New York seasons--he, penniless, unknown, to
all appearances an ordinary workman!
He moved forward so he could see her face.
"We've been good friends," he went on. "I can never forget you. You made
a new man of me. You came into my life at a time when everything seemed
at an end. Your sweet, gentle influence filled me with renewed hope,
renewed energy, a determination to begin life anew. Suddenly, I
discovered that you were indispensable to my happiness. In my folly I
dreamed that you might become my wife. Perhaps if things had turned out
otherwise, if the _Saucy Polly_ had not come---- Well, what's the use of
talking of that now? I was insane. I lifted my eyes to the stars. I
deserved to be punished for my temerity."
Grace did not stir. Fascinated, she stood listening to his words. There
was sadness in his voice, and the music of its rich tones still
exercised on her its old-time magnetism. What potent attraction was
there about this man that rendered her powerless to resist his pleading?
Was she afraid to confess to herself that she loved him and that she was
ready to do anything, break off with the Prince, incur the ridicule of
her friends, offend her father--for his sake?
Armitage continued:
"But that is all over now. We part good friends. You go your way--I will
go mine. You will find happiness with the Prince----"
Grace turned quickly. Her eyes red and flashing, her bosom heaving with
pent-up emotion, she cried:
"The Prince! The Prince! I detest the Prince! I wouldn't marry him if
there wasn't another man left in the world."
Armitage drew back, surprised.
"Aren't you engaged to him?" he demanded.
"No--no! That is only newspaper talk. He has been annoying me with his
attentions, and of course all my people were flattered. But there's
nothing more serious."
"Thank God!" he muttered under his breath.
"What did you say?" she asked.
"I'm glad--for your sake," was his evasive answer.
He approached closer and held out his hand.
"Good-by," he said in a low tone.
Again she averted her head, and as she did so she stumbled against the
table. Afraid she was going to fall, he caught her by the hand. Their
hands remained clasped. She made no attempt to withdraw. He grew bolder
and went still nearer. A strange sensation of sudden weakness came over
her. She felt as if her will-power was about to succumb before a
superior mental force. She loved this man. He was the first and only man
she had ever cared for, and she was losing him. Her eyes filled with
tears. What had she done that the happiness which other women know
should not be granted also to her?
"Good-by!" he said again.
She made no answer. Bending forward to catch a glimpse of her face, he
saw traces of tears.
"What?" he exclaimed. "You are crying!"
"Am I?" she said quickly, making a desperate effort to hide her face.
"How foolish!"
"Why are you crying?" he demanded.
"I'm nervous, I think. I have not yet quite recovered from the wreck."
He looked at her, trying to read her innermost thoughts. She met his
gaze unflinchingly.
"Is that the reason, or is there another?" Drawing her gently to him, he
said:
"You are unhappy-- I know you are---- You are allowing your pride to
stand in the way of your happiness. I have no right to blame you. You
are free to do as you think is right. Only I am sorry for you--sorrier
for you than I am for myself. Good-by. May God bless and protect you.
Just one kind word, one smile before I go. We may never see each other
again."
His voice trembled and grew husky. Manlike, he was ashamed of showing
emotion; he was anxious to get away before he lost control of himself.
He left her standing there, took his hat and gloves and went toward the
door. She stood motionless watching him going, powerless to utter the
word that would stay him. The color left her face. She grew ashen pale.
Her entire being trembled with suppressed emotion.
At the door he turned round for the last time.
"Good-by--God bless you!" he said.
"Wait--just a moment--just a moment!" she cried desperately.
The spell seemed broken. She made a movement forward, her hand
outstretched. There was a wild look of mute appeal in her eyes.
"You are going alone," she demanded, her breath coming and going in
quick spasmodic gasps.
"Yes--alone."
[Illustration: "NO--YOU'RE NOT! I'M GOING WITH YOU."]
"No--no--you're not!" she cried, advancing toward him.
"What do you mean?" he demanded.
"Because I'm going with you!"
The next instant she was in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder.
"Going with me?" he exclaimed hoarsely. He thought he must be dreaming.
Does such happiness as this come to a man so suddenly?
"Yes," she whispered; "as your wife--to the end of the world if
necessary."
"But have you considered everything--your father--your friends--the
uncertain future?"
"I've weighed everything. I knew that I loved you all along. I struggled
with my pride, and I've mastered it. My father will forgive me when he
knows that I am happy. As to what society thinks, I don't care."
"But are you willing to marry a poor man--are you willing to sacrifice
all the luxuries you now enjoy for what may be a precarious existence
with me?"
She looked up at him, her face radiant.
"I'd give up everything for you. Wealth does not bring happiness. I've
found that out. I did not know what happiness was until I spent those
blissful days with you on Hope Island. I'll welcome poverty if I am to
share it with you. We can live in a cottage, on nothing a year, and I'll
still be the happiest woman on earth."
He clasped her in his strong arms and fiercely kissed her unresisting
lips. Here was a woman that any man might rejoice to call wife, and he
had won her by love alone.
"It isn't as bad as all that, dearest," he said, with a smile.
"What do you mean?" she demanded, puzzled.
"There is no immediate danger of your having to live any differently."
Grace opened her eyes in amazement.
"What do you mean?" she repeated. "My father may be so incensed that he
won't give me anything."
Armitage smiled.
"We wouldn't take it if he did. We wouldn't need to. I have plenty of my
own."
Grace was more and more mystified.
"Are you jesting?" she exclaimed.
"Not in the least. Didn't I tell you there had been a change for the
better in my fortunes?"
"Yes, but----"
Taking fondly once more in his arms the girl he had won, he whispered:
"That's why I--that's why we--are going to England, dearest. My father,
Sir William Armitage, died three weeks ago. I am heir to the title and
estates."
"I always thought you were more than you seemed," she murmured. Looking
up at him mischievously, she added: "So you deceived me-- I marry a
title, after all?"
He looked down proudly at her as he replied with his frank smile:
"But I wooed you as a poor man. You are mine--by right of conquest!"
THE END.
WHAT THE CRITICS SAY OF
THE END OF THE GAME
BY ARTHUR HORNBLOW
* * * * *
THE LITERARY DIGEST
"'The End of the Game' belongs to the school of good old-fashioned
fiction which delighted the scant leisure hours of our
grandmothers. It is a good healthy tale of normal human happenings,
a sort of protest against the decadent type of novel which seems to
be widening its empire among us. The characters are good human
creatures and not the flat paper dolls found in the pages of so
much current fiction."
New York TIMES
"A creditable piece of work. The resemblance of the story to the
careers of certain men who have been much in the public eye is not
to be denied. One pronounced good quality of the novel is that the
author has not hesitated to bring the story to a tragic and logical
conclusion. His descriptions of the terrors of modern journalism
are not nearly so exaggerated as the reader will probably imagine.
The story of the patient wife has a pathos and a realism that
strike the keynote of sincerity."
New York WORLD
"Mr. Hornblow has novelized the brain-stormy Pittsburg millionaire
and a few other matters that make racy reading."
New York GLOBE
"The 70,000 readers who enjoyed Mr. Hornblow's story 'The Lion and
the Mouse' will have a similar treat in 'The End of the Game.'"
Cleveland NEWS
"The author's pictures of New York and Pittsburg are worthy of a
place beside the poetic prose of Whitman."
New York EVENING SUN
"If Mr. Hornblow's first book, 'The Lion and the Mouse,' was
capitalized Oil on troubled waters, 'The End of the Game' is
equally a study in steel."
Savannah (Ga.) NEWS
"An intensely interesting and capitally told story. Mr. Hornblow
has something to say and knows how to say it."
BOOK NEWS MONTHLY
"The same verve and rapidity of action that characterized Mr.
Hornblow's successful novel written from 'The Lion and the Mouse'
are in this new and up-to-date story."
_12mo. Illustrated and handsomely bound in red cloth, $1.50_
* * * * *
"THE PROFLIGATE"
By Arthur Hornblow
* * * * *
The Baltimore SUN
"In plot, incidents, emotions, verisimilitude and style this
interesting story ranks with the best of this year's novels. The
moral tone of the story is excellent--a welcome novelty in
up-to-date novels."
Chicago INTER-OCEAN
"'The Profligate' is a good story. The principal personage of the
book is a young man wholly given to gambling and dissipation. Yet
the author successfully intimates instinctive reserves of decency
in his hero and thus prepares us to accept his final turning away
from former pursuits under the inspiration of a good woman's
affection. The author must be given credit for a certain
originality of treatment; the denouement is sufficiently dramatic
and the interest admirably sustained to the end."
New York WORLD
"There are no waits between the acts in 'The Profligate.' The book
will make a lot of money."
Philadelphia NORTH AMERICAN
"'The Profligate' is a modern rake's progress centering in a
mysterious tragedy that drives the hero into exile and culminating
in a series of sensational surprises. The novelist's gifts of
invention, his skill in inspiring and conserving interest in his
important characters and a considerable talent for dramatic
description should contribute in no slight degree to strengthen the
grip of the story upon popular attention."
Charlestown, S. C. NEWS & COURIER
"A thrilling story of love, mystery and adventure, 'The Profligate'
claims the attention at the outset and holds it to the end. The
story is dramatically and forcefully told and altogether is a very
interesting book. The characters are not overdrawn, the situations
not impossible, and the book will doubtless have a large and ready
sale."
Mr. Hornblow's splendid achievements with "The Lion and the Mouse," and
"The End of the Game," must be fresh in the memory of all who follow
current literature.
_12mo, Cloth Bound. Illustrations by Charles Grunwald. $1.50_
G. W. DILLINGHAM CO., Publishers, NEW YORK
WHAT THE REVIEWERS SAID
About the Novel
THE LION AND THE MOUSE
Novelized from Charles Klein's great play
By ARTHUR HORNBLOW
* * * * *
New York TRIBUNE
"Mr. Hornblow has done his work with creditable aptitude. He is
successful where success is most important--in keeping up the
reader's suspense, in working effectively toward the climax. The
book will interest those who have seen the play, and will doubtless
send others to the theatre."
New York TIMES
"Mr. Hornblow has made his novelization of an enormously successful
play in a workmanlike manner. The story, like the play, belongs to
this very minute. It is full of a spirit and a feeling that are in
the air. It deals with subjects which much iteration has strongly
impressed on the people, and its point of view is the most obvious.
The novel is likely to have an enormous sale."
New York AMERICAN
"Undoubtedly the book of the hour. Both the novel and the play
appeal to the widest possible American public. The novelist gives
more of the interesting story and has enhanced the virility and the
element of suspense materially. The reader's interest will never
lag a moment from cover to cover."
Cleveland NEWS
"'The Lion and the Mouse,' as a novel, more than maintains the
reputation of its author as a clean-cut exposition of throbbing
American life by a real novelist. Mr. Hornblow knows his subject
and has succeeded in welding his own characteristic and
illuminating expression to the idea of another man in such a manner
that the novel must take its place beside the play as a welcome
addition to American art."
Washington POST
"Will become the most talked-of book of the year.... As exciting
and fascinating a narrative as has appeared in novel form in
years."
New Orleans HARLEQUIN
"Mr. Hornblow's book is written in distinguished English; its
chapters are chiselled to exact proportions; its story is clear and
limpid; particularly are its characters cleverly vivid, and with
few exceptions tell themselves in the dialogue more plainly than
they could with ever so much extrinsic aid of psychic and physical
description. The American nation is indebted to him. He has clothed
with the vibrant palpitating flesh of life-interest the greatest
economic problem and evil of the day. It is a book to make the
multitude think."