He went the next day to see Letty Lane at the Savoy and learned that she
was too ill to receive him. Mrs. Higgins in the sitting-room told him
so.
Dan liked the big cordial face of the Scotch-woman who acted as
companion, dresser and maid for the star. Mrs. Higgins had an affable
face, one that welcomes, and she made it plain that she was not an enemy
to this young caller.
The visitor, in his blue serge clothes, was less startling than most of
the men that came to see her mistress.
"She works too hard, doesn't she?"
"She does everything too hard, sir."
"She ought to rest."
"I doubt if she does, even in her grave," returned Higgins. "She is too
full of motion. She is like the little girl in the fairy book that
danced in her grave."
Dan didn't like this comparison.
"Can't you make her hold up a little?"
Higgins smiled and shook her head.
Letty Lane's sitting-room was as full of roses as a flower garden. There
were quantities of theatrical photographs in silver and leather frames
on the tables and the piano. Signed portraits from crowned heads;
pictures of well-known worldly men and women whom the dancer had
charmed. But a full-length picture of Letty Lane herself in one of the
dresses of _Mandalay_ lay on the table near Dan, and he picked it up.
She smiled at him enchantingly from the cardboard, across which was
written in her big, dashing hand: "For the Boy from _my_ Town. Letty
Lane."
Dan glanced up at Mrs. Higgins.
"Why, that looks as though this were for me."
The dressing woman nodded. "Miss Lane thought she would be able to see
you to-day."
The picture in his hand, Dan gazed at it rapturously.
"I'm from Blairtown, Montana, where she came from."
"So she told me, sir."
He laid the picture back on the table, and Higgins understood that he
wanted Miss Lane to give it to him herself. She led him affably to the
door and affably smiled upon him. She had a frill in her hand, a thimble
on her finger, and a lot of needles in her bodice. She looked motherly
and useful. Blair liked to think of her with Letty Lane. He put his hand
in his pocket, but she saw his gesture and reproved him quietly: "No,
no, sir, please, I never do. I am just as much obliged," and her face
remained so affable that Blair was not embarrassed by her refusal. His
parting words were:
"Now, you make her take care of herself."
And to please him, as she opened the door, she pleasantly assured him
that she would do her very best.
Dan went out of the Savoy feeling that he had left something of himself
behind him in the motley room of an actress with its perfumed atmosphere
of roses and violets. The photograph which he had laid down on the table
seemed to look out at him again, and he repeated delightedly, "That one
was for me, all right! I'm the 'boy from her town' and no mistake." And
he thought of her as she had lain, lifelessly and pale on the
dressing-room sofa, under the touch of hired hands, and how, no doubt,
she had been lying in her room when he called to-day, with shades drawn,
resting before the long hard evening, when London would be amused by
her, delighted by her, charmed by her voice, by her body and her grace.
He had wandered up as far as Piccadilly, went into a florist's and stood
before the flowers. Her sitting-room had been full of roses, but Dan
chose something else that had caught his eye from the window,--a huge
country basket of primroses, smelling of the earth and the spring. He
sent them with his card and wrote on it, "To the Girl from My Town," and
sent the gift with a pleasure as young and as fresh as was his own
heart.
He got no note of acknowledgment from his flowers. Miss Lane was
evidently better and played every night; no mention was made of her
indisposition in the papers. But Dan couldn't go to the Gaiety or bear
to see her make the effort which he knew must tire her beyond words to
conceive.
After a few days he called at the Savoy to get news of her. He got as
far as the lift when going up in it he saw Prince Poniotowsky. The sight
affected Miss Lane's townsman so forcibly that instead of going up to
the dancer's apartment Dan took himself off, and anger, displeasure and
something like disgust were the only sentiments he carried away from the
Savoy. He sent her no flowers, and gave himself up unreservedly to
Joshua Ruggles and to a couple of men who came in to see him by
appointment. And when toward four o'clock he found himself alone with
Ruggles, Dan threw himself down in a big chair and looked intensely
bored.
[Image]
"Well, I guess we don't need to see any more of these fellows for a
week, Dan," Ruggles yawned with relief. "I'm blamed if it isn't as hard
to take care of money as to get it. I was a poor man once, and so was
your father. Those were the days we had fun."
Ruggles took out a big cigar, struck a match sharply, and when he had
lit his Henry Clay he fixed his gaze on the flying London fog, whose
black curtain drew itself across their window.
"There's a lot of excitement," Ruggles said, "in not knowing what you're
going to get; may turn out to be anything when you're young and on the
trail. That's the way your father and me felt. And when we started out
on the spot that's Blairtown on the map to-day, your father had forty
dollars a week to engineer a busted mine and to pull the company into
shape."
Dan knew the story of his father's rise by heart, but he listened.
"He took on with the mine a lot of discontented half-hearted
rapscallions--a whole bunch, who had failed all along the line. He didn't
chuck 'em out. 'There's no life in old wood, Josh,' he said to me, 'but
sometimes there's fire in it, and I'm going to light up,' and he did. He
won over the whole lot of them in eighteen months, and within two years
he had that darned mine paying dividends. Meanwhile something came his
way and he took it."
From his chair Dan asked: "You mean the Bentley claim?"
"Measles," his friend said comically, with a grin. "Your father was sick
to death with them. When he was sitting up for the first time, peeling
in his room, there was a fellow, an Englishman, a total stranger, come
in to see him. 'Better clear out of here,' your father says to him. 'I'm
shedding the damnedest disease for a grown man that ever was caught.'
'I'm not afraid of it,' the Englishman said, 'I'm shedding worse.' When
your father asked him what that was, he said the idea that he could make
any money in the West. He told your father that he was going back to
England and give up his western schemes, and that he had a claim to
sell, and he told Blair where it lay. 'Who has seen it?' your father
asked. 'Any of my men?' And the Englishman told your father that nobody
had wanted to buy it and that was why he had come to him. He said he
thought his only chance to sell was to hold up some blind man on his
dying bed and that he had heard that Blair was too sick to stir out of
his room and to prospect. Your father liked the fellow's cheek and when
he found out that he had the maps with him, your father bought the whole
blooming sweep at the man's price, which was a mere song.
"Your father never went near his purchase for a year or more, and when
he had turned the mine he was managing over to the original company,
with me as manager in his place, at a salary of twenty thousand dollars
a year, he said to me one day, 'Ruggles, you'll be sorry to know that
the fun is all over, I've struck oil.' But the oil was copper. The whole
blooming business that he'd bought of that Englishman was rich with ore.
Well, that's the story of Blairtown," Ruggles said. "You were born there
and your mother died there."
Dan said: "Galorey told me what dad did later for the man that sold him
the mine, and it was just like everything else he did, for dad was all
right, just as good as they come."
Ruggles agreed. He left his reminiscences abruptly. "Your dad and me had
the fun in our time; now you are going to get the other kind; you're
going to make the dust fly that he dug up."
And the rich young man said musingly: "I'll bet it isn't half as good at
my end."
And Ruggles agreed: "Not by a jugful." And followed: "What's on
to-night? _Mandalay?_"
Dan's fury at Prince Poniotowsky came back. "I guess you thought I was a
little loose in the lid, didn't you, Josh, going so often to the same
play?"
"You wouldn't have been the first rich man that had the same disease,"
Ruggles answered.
"There is nothing the matter with _Mandalay_, but I'm not gone on any
actress living, Josh; you are in the wrong pew."
Dan altered his indolent pose and sat forward. "But I _am_ thinking of
getting married," he said.
"I hope it's to the right girl, Dan."
And with young assurance Blair answered: "It will be if I marry her. I
know what I want all right."
"I hope she knows what she wants, Dan."
"How do you mean?"
"You or your money. You have the darnedest handicap, my boy."
Blair flushed. "I'll get to hate the whole thing," he said ferociously.
"It meets me everywhere--bonds--stocks--figures--dividends
--coupons--deeds--it's too much!" he said suddenly, with resentment. "It is
too much for me. Why, sometimes I feel a hundred years old, and like a
hunk of gold."
Ruggles, in answer to this, said: "Why, that reminds me of what a man
remarked about your father once. It was the same English chap your
father bought the claim of. Speaking of Blair, he said to me: 'You know
there's all kinds of metal bars, and when you cut into them some is
bullion and some's coated with aluminum, and there's others that when
you cut down, cut a clean yellow all along the line.' If, as you say,
you feel like a hunk of metal, it ain't bad if it is that kind."
"It's got to stop coming in between me and the woman I marry, all right,
though." Dan did not pursue his subject further, for his feelings about
the duchess were too unreal to give him the sincere heartiness with
which he would have liked to answer Ruggles.
He went over to the window, and, with his hands in his pockets, stood
looking out at the fog. Ruggles, at the table, opened the cover of the
book of _Mandalay_ and took out the four checks made out to Lady Galorey
and which he had forgotten. He hurriedly thrust them into his pocket.
"Come away, Dannie," he said cheerfully, "let's do something wild. I
feel up to most anything with this miserable fog down on me. If it had
any nerve it would take some form or shape, so a man could choke it
back."
Ruggles blew his nose violently.
"There's nothing to do," said Dan in a bored tone.
"Why don't you see who your telegram is from?" Ruggles asked him. It
proved to be a suggestion from Gordon Galorey that Dan should meet him
at five o'clock at the club.
"What will you do, Rug?"
"Sleep," said the Westerner serenely; "I'm nearly as happy in London as
I am in Philadelphia. It's four o'clock now and I can't sleep more than
four hours anyway. Let's have a real wild time, Dannie."
Dan looked at him doubtfully, but Ruggles' eyes were keen.
"What kind of a time do you mean?"
"Let's ask the Gaiety girl for dinner--for supper after the theater."
"Letty Lane? She wouldn't go."
"Why not?"
"She is awfully delicate; it is all she can do to keep her contracts."
He knows that, Ruggles thought. "Let's ask her and see." He went over to
the table and drew out the paper. "Come on and write and ask her to go
out with us to supper."
"See here, Rug, what's this for?"
"What's strange in it? She is from our state, and if you don't hustle
and ask her I am going to ask her all alone."
Dan was puzzled as he sat down to the table, reflecting that it was
perfectly possible that old Ruggles had fallen a prey to the charms of
an actress. She wouldn't come, of course. He wrote a formal invitation
without thinking very much of what he said or how, folded and addressed
his note.
"What did you say?" Ruggles asked eagerly.
"Why, that two boys from home wanted to give her a supper."
"Well," said Ruggles, "if the answer comes while you are at the club
I'll open it and give the orders. Think she'll come?"
"I do not," responded Dan rather brutally. "She's got others to take her
out to supper, you bet your life."
"Well, there's none of them as rich as you are, I reckon, Dan."
And the boy turned on him violently.
"See here, Josh, if you speak to me again of my money, when there's a
woman in the question--"
He did not finish his threat, but snatched up his coat and hat and
gloves and went out of the door, slamming it after him.
Mr. Ruggles' profound and happy snore was cut short by the page boy, who
fetched in a note, with the Savoy stamping on the back. Ruggles opened
it not without emotion.
"Dear boy," it ran, "I haven't yet thanked you for the primroses; they
were perfectly sweet. There is not one of them in any of my rooms, and
I'll tell you why to-night. I am crazy to accept for supper"--here she
had evidently struck out her intended refusal, and closed with, "I'm
coming, but don't come after me at the Gaiety, please. I'll meet you at
the Carlton after the theater. Who's the other boy? L. L."
The "other boy" read the note with much difficulty, for it was badly
written. "He'll have to stop sending her flowers and going every night
to the theater unless he wants a row with the duchess," he said dryly.
And with a certain interest in his rôle, Ruggles rang for the head
waiter, and with the man's help ordered his first midnight supper for an
actress.