distress her, for she had a true artistic disregard for ready money,
and the absence of it had never disturbed her. But now it assumed a
sudden and alarming value. She had ten pounds in her purse and ten
pounds at her studio--these were just enough to pay for a quarter's
rent and the rates, and there was a hat and cloak in Bond Street which
she certainly must have. Her only assets consisted of the possibility
that some one might soon order a miniature, and to her mind that was
sufficient. Some one always had ordered a miniature, and there was no
reasonable doubt but that some one would do it again. For a moment she
questioned if it would not be sufficient if she bought the ring and
allowed the watch to remain. But she recognized that the ring meant
more to her than the watch, while the latter, as an old heirloom which
had been passed down to him from a great-grandfather, meant more to
Philip. It was for Philip she was doing this, she reminded herself.
She stood holding his possessions, one in each hand, and looking at
the young woman blankly. She had no doubt in her mind that at least
part of the money he had received for them had paid for the flowers he
had sent to her in Scotland. The certainty of this left her no choice.
She laid the ring and watch down and pulled the only ring she
possessed from her own finger. It was a gift from Lady Gower. She had
no doubt that it was of great value.
"Can you lend me some money on that?" she asked. It was the first time
she had conducted a business transaction of this nature, and she felt
as though she were engaging in a burglary.
"We don't lend money, miss," the girl said, "we buy outright. I can
give you twenty-eight shillings for this," she added.
"Twenty-eight shillings!" Helen gasped. "Why, it is worth--oh, ever so
much more than that!"
"That is all it is worth to us," the girl answered. She regarded the
ring indifferently and laid it away from her on the counter. The
action was final.
Helen's hands rose slowly to her breast, where a pretty watch dangled
from a bow-knot of crushed diamonds. It was her only possession, and
she was very fond of it. It also was the gift of one of the several
great ladies who had adopted her since her residence in London. Helen
had painted a miniature of this particular great lady which had looked
so beautiful that the pleasure which the original of the portrait
derived from the thought that she still really looked as she did in
the miniature was worth more to her than many diamonds.
But it was different with Helen, and no one could count what it cost
her to tear away her one proud possession.
"What will you give me for this?" she asked, defiantly.
The girl's eyes showed greater interest. "I can give you twenty pounds
for that," she said.
"Take it, please," Helen begged, as though she feared if she kept it a
moment longer she might not be able to make the sacrifice.
"That will be enough now," she went on, taking out her ten-pound note.
She put Lady Gower's ring back upon her finger and picked up Philip's
ring and watch with the pleasure of one who has come into a great
fortune. She turned back at the door.
"Oh," she stammered, "in case any one should inquire, you are not to
say who bought these."
"No, miss, certainly not," said the woman. Helen gave the direction to
the cabman and, closing the doors of the hansom, sat looking down at
the watch and the ring, as they lay in her lap. The thought that they
had been his most valued possessions, which he had abandoned forever,
and that they were now entirely hers, to do with as she liked, filled
her with most intense delight and pleasure. She took up the heavy gold
ring and placed it on the little finger of her left hand; it was much
too large, and she removed it and balanced it for a moment doubtfully
in the palm of her right hand. She was smiling, and her face was lit
with shy and tender thoughts. She cast a quick glance to the left and
right as though fearful that people passing in the street would
observe her, and then slipped the ring over the fourth finger of her
left hand. She gazed at it with a guilty smile, and then, covering it
hastily with her other hand, leaned back, clasping it closely, and sat
frowning far out before her with puzzled eyes.
To Carroll all roads led past Helen's studio, and during the summer,
while she had been absent in Scotland, it was one of his sad pleasures
to make a pilgrimage to her street and to pause opposite the house and
look up at the empty windows of her rooms. It was during this daily
exercise that he learned, through the arrival of her luggage, of her
return to London, and when day followed day without her having shown
any desire to see him or to tell him of her return, he denounced
himself most bitterly as a fatuous fool.
At the end of the week he sat down and considered his case quite
calmly. For three years he had loved this girl, deeply and tenderly.
He had been lover, brother, friend, and guardian. During that time,
even though she had accepted him in every capacity except as that of
the prospective husband, she had never given him any real affection,
nor sympathy, nor help; all she had done for him had been done without
her knowledge or intent. To know her, to love her, and to scheme to
give her pleasure had been its own reward, and the only one. For the
last few months he had been living like a crossing sweeper in order to
be able to stay in London until she came back to it, and that he might
still send her the gifts he had always laid on her altar. He had not
seen her in three months. Three months that had been to him a blank,
except for his work--which, like all else that he did, was inspired
and carried on for her. Now at last she had returned and had shown
that, even as a friend, he was of so little account in her thoughts,
of so little consequence in her life, that after this long absence she
had no desire to learn of his welfare or to see him--she did not even
give him the chance to see her. And so, placing these facts before him
for the first time since he had loved her, he considered what was due
to himself. "Was it good enough?" he asked. "Was it just that he
should continue to wear out his soul and body for this girl who did
not want what he had to give, who treated him less considerately than
a man whom she met for the first time at dinner?" He felt he had
reached the breaking-point; that the time had come when he must
consider what he owed to himself. There could never be any other woman
save Helen; but as it was not to be Helen, he could no longer, with
self-respect, continue to proffer his love only to see it slighted and
neglected. He was humble enough concerning himself, but of his love he
was very proud. Other men could give her more in wealth or position,
but no one could ever love her as he did. "He that hath more let him
give," he had often quoted to her defiantly, as though he were
challenging the world, and now he felt he must evolve a makeshift
world of his own--a world in which she was not his only spring of
acts; he must begin all over again and keep his love secret and sacred
until she understood it and wanted it. And if she should never want it
he would at least have saved it from many rebuffs and insults.
With this determination strong in him, the note Helen had left for him
after her talk with Marion, and the flowers, and the note with them,
saying she was coming to take tea on the morrow, failed to move him
except to make him more bitter. He saw in them only a tardy
recognition of her neglect--an effort to make up to him for
thoughtlessness which, from her, hurt him worse than studied slight.
A new _régime_ had begun, and he was determined to establish it
firmly and to make it impossible for himself to retreat from it; and
in the note in which he thanked Helen for the flowers and welcomed her
to tea, he declared his ultimatum.
"You know how terribly I feel," he wrote; "I don't have to tell you
that, but I cannot always go on dragging out my love and holding it up
to excite your pity as beggars show their sores. I cannot always go on
praying before your altar, cutting myself with knives and calling upon
you to listen to me. You know that there is no one else but you, and
that there never can be any one but you, and that nothing is changed
except that after this I am not going to urge and torment you. I shall
wait as I have always waited--only now I shall wait in silence. You
know just how little, in one way, I have to offer you, and you know
just how much I have in love to offer you. It is now for you to
speak--some day, or never. But you will have to speak first. You will
never hear a word of love from me again. Why should you? You know it
is always waiting for you. But if you should ever want it, you must
come to me, and take off your hat and put it on my table and say,
'Philip, I have come to stay.' Whether you can ever do that or not can
make no difference in my love for you. I shall love you always, as no
man has ever loved a woman in this world, but it is you who must speak
first; for me, the rest is silence."
The following morning as Helen was leaving the house she found this
letter lying on the hall-table, and ran back with it to her rooms. A
week before she would have let it lie on the table and read it on her
return. She was conscious that this was what she would have done, and
it pleased her to find that what concerned Philip was now to her the
thing of greatest interest. She was pleased with her own
eagerness--her own happiness was a welcome sign, and she was proud and
glad that she was learning to care.
She read the letter with an anxious pride and pleasure in each word
that was entirely new. Philip's recriminations did not hurt her, they
were the sign that he cared; nor did his determination not to speak of
his love to her hurt her, for she believed him when he said that he
would always care. She read the letter twice, and then sat for some
time considering the kind of letter Philip would have written had he
known her secret--had he known that the ring he had abandoned was now
upon her finger.
She rose and, crossing to a desk, placed the letter in a drawer, and
then took it out again and reread the last page. When she had finished
it she was smiling. For a moment she stood irresolute, and then,
moving slowly toward the centre-table, cast a guilty look about her
and, raising her hands, lifted her veil and half withdrew the pins
that fastened her hat.
"Philip," she began, in a frightened whisper, "I have--I have come
to--"
The sentence ended in a cry of protest, and she rushed across the room
as though she were running from herself. She was blushing violently.
"Never!" she cried, as she pulled open the door; "I could never do
it--never!"
The following afternoon, when Helen was to come to tea, Carroll
decided that he would receive her with all the old friendliness, but
that he must be careful to subdue all emotion.
He was really deeply hurt at her treatment, and had it not been that
she came on her own invitation he would not of his own accord have
sought to see her. In consequence, he rather welcomed than otherwise
the arrival of Marion Cavendish, who came a half-hour before Helen was
expected, and who followed a hasty knock with a precipitate entrance.
"Sit down," she commanded, breathlessly, "and listen. I've been at
rehearsal all day, or I'd have been here before you were awake." She
seated herself nervously and nodded her head at Carroll in an excited
and mysterious manner.
"What is it?" he asked. "Have you and Reggie--"
"Listen," Marion repeated. "Our fortunes are made; that is what's the
matter--and I've made them. If you took half the interest in your work
I do, you'd have made yours long ago. Last night," she began,
impressively, "I went to a large supper at the Savoy, and I sat next
to Charley Wimpole. He came in late, after everybody had finished, and
I attacked him while he was eating his supper. He said he had been
rehearsing 'Caste' after the performance; that they've put it on as a
stop-gap on account of the failure of 'The Triflers,' and that he knew
revivals were of no use; that he would give any sum for a good modern
comedy. That was my cue, and I told him I knew of a better comedy than
any he had produced at his theatre in five years, and that it was
going begging. He laughed, and asked where was he to find this
wonderful comedy, and I said, 'It's been in your safe for the last two
months and you haven't read it.' He said, 'Indeed, how do you know
that?' and I said, 'Because if you'd read it, it wouldn't be in your
safe, but on your stage.' So he asked me what the play was about, and
I told him the plot and what sort of a part his was, and some of his
scenes, and he began to take notice. He forgot his supper, and very
soon he grew so interested that he turned his chair round and kept
eying my supper-card to find out who I was, and at last remembered
seeing me in 'The New Boy'--and a rotten part it was, too--but he
remembered it, and he told me to go on and tell him more about your
play. So I recited it, bit by bit, and he laughed in all the right
places and got very much excited, and said finally that he would read
it the first thing this morning." Marion paused, breathlessly. "Oh,
yes, and he wrote your address on his cuff," she added, with the air
of delivering a complete and convincing climax.
Carroll stared at her and pulled excitedly on his pipe.
"Oh, Marion!" he gasped, "suppose he should? He won't, though," he
added, but eying her eagerly and inviting contradiction.
"He will," she answered, stoutly, "if he reads it."
"The other managers read it," Carroll suggested, doubtfully.
"Yes, but what do they know?" Marion returned, loftily. "He knows.
Charles Wimpole is the only intelligent actor-manager in London."
There was a sharp knock at the door, which Marion in her excitement
had left ajar, and Prentiss threw it wide open with an impressive
sweep, as though he were announcing royalty. "Mr. Charles Wimpole," he
said.
The actor-manager stopped in the doorway bowing gracefully, his hat
held before him and his hand on his stick as though it were resting on
a foil. He had the face and carriage of a gallant of the days of
Congreve, and he wore his modern frock-coat with as much distinction
as if it were of silk and lace. He was evidently amused. "I couldn't
help overhearing the last line," he said, smiling. "It gives me a good
entrance."
Marion gazed at him blankly. "Oh," she gasped, "we--we--were just
talking about you."
"If you hadn't mentioned my name," the actor said, "I should never
have guessed it. And this is Mr. Carroll, I hope."
The great man was rather pleased with the situation. As he read it, it
struck him as possessing strong dramatic possibilities: Carroll was
the struggling author on the verge of starvation; Marion, his
sweetheart, flying to him gave him hope; and he was the good fairy
arriving in the nick of time to set everything right and to make the
young people happy and prosperous. He rather fancied himself in the
part of the good fairy, and as he seated himself he bowed to them both
in a manner which was charmingly inclusive and confidential.
"Miss Cavendish, I imagine, has already warned you that you might
expect a visit from me," he said, tentatively. Carroll nodded. He was
too much concerned to interrupt.
"Then I need only tell you," Wimpole continued, "that I got up at an
absurd hour this morning to read your play; that I did read it; that I
like it immensely--and that if we can come to terms I shall produce
it. I shall produce it at once, within a fortnight or three weeks."
Carroll was staring at him intently and continued doing so after
Wimpole had finished speaking. The actor felt he had somehow missed
his point, or that Carroll could not have understood him, and
repeated, "I say I shall put it in rehearsal at once."
Carroll rose abruptly, and pushed back his chair. "I should be very
glad," he murmured, and strode over to the window, where he stood with
his back turned to his guests. Wimpole looked after him with a kindly
smile and nodded his head appreciatively. He had produced even a
greater effect than his lines seemed to warrant. When he spoke again,
it was quite simply, and sincerely, and though he spoke for Carroll's
benefit, he addressed himself to Marion.
"You were quite right last night," he said; "it is a most charming
piece of work. I am really extremely grateful to you for bringing it
to my notice." He rose, and going to Carroll, put his hand on his
shoulder. "My boy," he said, "I congratulate you. I should like to be
your age, and to have written that play. Come to my theatre to-morrow
and we will talk terms. Talk it over first with your friends, so that
I shan't rob you. Do you think you would prefer a lump sum now, and so
be done with it altogether, or trust that the royalties may--"
"Royalties," prompted Marion, in an eager aside.
The men laughed. "Quite right," Wimpole assented, good-humoredly;
"it's a poor sportsman who doesn't back his own horse. Well, then,
until to-morrow."
"But," Carroll began, "one moment, please. I haven't thanked you."
"My dear boy," cried Wimpole, waving him away with his stick, "it is I
who have to thank you."
"And--and there is a condition," Carroll said, "which goes with the
play. It is that Miss Cavendish is to have the part of _Nancy_."
Wimpole looked serious and considered for a moment.
"_Nancy_," he said, "the girl who interferes--a very good part. I
have cast Miss Maddox for it in my mind, but, of course, if the author
insists--"
Marion, with her elbows on the table, clasped her hands appealingly
before her.
"Oh, Mr. Wimpole!" she cried, "you owe me that, at least."
Carroll leaned over and took both of Marion's hands in one of his.
"It's all right," he said; "the author insists."
Wimpole waved his stick again as though it were the magic wand of the
good fairy.
"You shall have it," he said. "I recall your performance in 'The New
Boy' with pleasure. I take the play, and Miss Cavendish shall be cast
for _Nancy_. We shall begin rehearsals at once. I hope you are a
quick study."
"I'm letter-perfect now," laughed Marion.
Wimpole turned at the door and nodded to them. They were both so
young, so eager, and so jubilant that he felt strangely old and out of
it. "Good-by, then," he said.
"Good-by, sir," they both chorused. And Marion cried after him, "And
thank you a thousand times."
He turned again and looked back at them, but in their rejoicing they
had already forgotten him. "Bless you, my children," he said, smiling.
As he was about to close the door a young girl came down the passage
toward it, and as she was apparently going to Carroll's rooms, the
actor left the door open behind him.
Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his final exit. They were both
gazing at each other as though, could they find speech, they would ask
if it were true.
"It's come at last, Marion," Philip said, with an uncertain voice.
"I could weep," cried Marion. "Philip," she exclaimed, "I would rather
see that play succeed than any play ever written, and I would rather
play that part in it than--Oh, Philip," she ended, "I'm so proud of
you!" and rising, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed on his
shoulder.
Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed the tips of her fingers
gently. "I owe it to you, Marion," he said--"all to you."
This was the tableau that was presented through the open door to Miss
Helen Cabot, hurrying on her errand of restitution and goodwill, and
with Philip's ring and watch clasped in her hand. They had not heard
her, nor did they see her at the door, so she drew back quickly and
ran along the passage and down the stairs into the street.
She did not need now to analyze her feelings. They were only too
evident. For she could translate what she had just seen as meaning
only one thing--that she had considered Philip's love so lightly that
she had not felt it passing away from her until her neglect had killed
it--until it was too late. And now that it was too late she felt that
without it her life could not go on. She tried to assure herself that
only the fact that she had lost it made it seem invaluable, but this
thought did not comfort her--she was not deceived by it, she knew that
at last she cared for him deeply and entirely. In her distress she
blamed herself bitterly, but she also blamed Philip no less bitterly
for having failed to wait for her. "He might have known that I must
love him in time," she repeated to herself again and again. She was so
unhappy that her letter congratulating Philip on his good fortune in
having his comedy accepted seemed to him cold and unfeeling, and as
his success meant for him only what it meant to her, he was hurt and
grievously disappointed.
He accordingly turned the more readily to Marion, whose interest and
enthusiasm at the rehearsals of the piece seemed in contrast most
friendly and unselfish. He could not help but compare the attitude of
the two girls at this time, when the failure or success of his best
work was still undecided. He felt that as Helen took so little
interest in his success he could not dare to trouble her with his
anxieties concerning it, and she attributed his silence to his
preoccupation and interest in Marion. So the two grew apart, each
misunderstanding the other and each troubled in spirit at the other's
indifference.
The first night of the play justified all that Marion and Wimpole had
claimed for it, and was a great personal triumph for the new
playwright. The audience was the typical first-night audience of the
class which Charles Wimpole always commanded. It was brilliant,
intelligent, and smart, and it came prepared to be pleased.
From one of the upper stage-boxes Helen and Lady Gower watched the
successful progress of the play with an anxiety almost as keen as that
of the author. To Helen it seemed as though the giving of these lines
to the public--these lines which he had so often read to her, and
altered to her liking--was a desecration. It seemed as though she were
losing him indeed--as though he now belonged to these strange people,
all of whom were laughing and applauding his words, from the German
Princess in the Royal box to the straight-backed Tommy in the pit.
Instead of the painted scene before her, she saw the birch-trees by
the river at home, where he had first read her the speech to which
they were now listening so intensely--the speech in which the hero
tells the girl he loves her. She remembered that at the time she had
thought how wonderful it would be if some day some one made such a
speech to her--not Philip, but a man she loved. And now? If Philip
would only make that speech to her now!
He came out at last, with Wimpole leading him, and bowed across a
glaring barrier of lights at a misty but vociferous audience that was
shouting the generous English bravo! and standing up to applaud. He
raised his eyes to the box where Helen sat, and saw her staring down
at the tumult, with her hands clasped under her chin. Her face was
colorless, but lit with the excitement of the moment; and he saw that
she was crying.
Lady Gower, from behind her, was clapping her hands delightedly.
"But, my dear Helen," she remonstrated, breathlessly, "you never told
me he was so good-looking."
"Yes," said Helen, rising abruptly, "he is--very good-looking."
She crossed the box to where her cloak was hanging, but instead of
taking it down, buried her face in its folds.
"My dear child!" cried Lady Gower, in dismay. "What is it? The
excitement has been too much for you."
"No, I am just happy," sobbed Helen. "I am just happy for him."
"We will go and tell him so, then," said Lady Gower. "I am sure he
would like to hear it from you to-night."
Philip was standing in the centre of the stage, surrounded by many
pretty ladies and elderly men. Wimpole was hovering over him as though
he had claims upon him by the right of discovery.
But when Philip saw Helen, he pushed his way toward her eagerly and
took her hand in both of his.
"I am so glad, Phil," she said. She felt it all so deeply that she was
afraid to say more, but that meant so much to her that she was sure he
would understand.
He had planned it very differently. For a year he had dreamed that, on
the first night of his play, there would be a supper, and that he
would rise and drink her health, and tell his friends and the world
that she was the woman he loved, and that she had agreed to marry him,
and that at last he was able, through the success of his play, to make
her his wife.
And now they met in a crowd to shake hands, and she went her way with
one of her grand ladies, and he was left among a group of chattering
strangers. The great English playwright took him by the hand and in
the hearing of all praised him gracefully and kindly. It did not
matter to Philip whether the older playwright believed what he said or
not; he knew it was generously meant.
"I envy you this," the great man was saying. "Don't lose any of it,
stay and listen to all they have to say. You will never live through
the first night of your first play but once."
"Yes, I hear them," said Philip, nervously; "they are all too kind.
But I don't hear the voice I have been listening for," he added, in a
whisper. The older man pressed his hand again quickly. "My dear boy,"
he said, "I am sorry."
"Thank you," Philip answered.
Within a week he had forgotten the great man's fine words of praise,
but the clasp of his hand he cherished always.
Helen met Marion as she was leaving the stage-door and stopped to
congratulate her on her success in the new part. Marion was radiant.
To Helen she seemed obstreperously happy and jubilant.