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 make-shift 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 regime 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 re-read 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 sha’n’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 chorussed. 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 good-will, 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 interests
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.
“And, Marion,” Helen began bravely, “I also want to congratulate you
on something else. You--you--neither of you have told me yet,” she
stammered, “but I am such an old friend of both that I will not be kept
out of the secret.” At these words Marion’s air of triumphant gayety
vanished; she regarded Helen’s troubled eyes closely and kindly.
“What secret, Helen?” she asked.
“I came to the door of Philip’s room the other day when you did not know
I was there,” Helen answered; “and I could not help seeing how matters
were. And I do congratulate you both--and wish you--oh, such happiness!”
Without a word Marion dragged her back down the passage to her
dressing-room, and closed the door.
“Now tell me what you mean,” she said.
“I am sorry if I discovered anything you didn’t want known yet,” said
Helen, “but the door was open. Mr. Wimpole had just left you and had not
shut it, and I could not help seeing.”
Marion interrupted her with an eager exclamation of enlightenment.
“Oh, you were there, then,” she cried. “And you?” she asked
eagerly--“you thought Phil cared for me--that we are engaged, and it
hurt you; you are sorry? Tell me,” she demanded, “are you sorry?”
Helen drew back and stretched out her hand toward the door.
“How can you!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “You have no right.”
Marion stood between her and the door.
“I have every right,” she said, “to help my friends, and I want to
help you and Philip. And indeed I do hope you ARE sorry. I hope you are
miserable. And I’m glad you saw me kiss him. That was the first and
the last time, and I did it because I was happy and glad for him; and
because I love him too, but not in the least in the way he loves you. No
one ever loved any one as he loves you. And it’s time you found it out.
And if I have helped to make you find it out I’m glad, and I don’t care
how much I hurt you.”
“Marion!” exclaimed Helen, “what does it mean? Do you mean that you are
not engaged; that--”
“Certainly not,” Marion answered. “I am going to marry Reggie. It is you
that Philip loves, and I am very sorry for you that you don’t love him.”
Helen clasped Marion’s hands in both of hers.
“But, Marion!” she cried, “I do, oh, I do!”
There was a thick yellow fog the next morning, and with it rain and a
sticky, depressing dampness which crept through the window-panes, and
which neither a fire nor blazing gas-jets could overcome.
Philip stood in front of the fireplace with the morning papers piled
high on the centre-table and scattered over the room about him.
He had read them all, and he knew now what it was to wake up famous, but
he could not taste it. Now that it had come it meant nothing, and
that it was so complete a triumph only made it the harder. In his most
optimistic dreams he had never imagined success so satisfying as the
reality had proved to be; but in his dreams Helen had always held the
chief part, and without her, success seemed only to mock him.
He wanted to lay it all before her, to say, “If you are pleased, I am
happy. If you are satisfied, then I am content. It was done for you, and
I am wholly yours, and all that I do is yours.”
And, as though in answer to his thoughts, there was an instant knock at
the door, and Helen entered the room and stood smiling at him across the
table.
Her eyes were lit with excitement, and spoke with many emotions, and
her cheeks were brilliant with color. He had never seen her look more
beautiful.
“Why, Helen!” he exclaimed, “how good of you to come. Is there anything
wrong? Is anything the matter?”
She tried to speak, but faltered, and smiled at him appealingly.
“What is it?” he asked in great concern.
Helen drew in her breath quickly, and at the same moment motioned him
away--and he stepped back and stood watching her in much perplexity.
With her eyes fixed on his she raised her hands to her head, and her
fingers fumbled with the knot of her veil. She pulled it loose, and
then, with a sudden courage, lifted her hat proudly, as though it were a
coronet, and placed it between them on his table.
“Philip,” she stammered, with the tears in her voice and eyes, “if you
will let me--I have come to stay.”
The table was no longer between them. He caught her in his arms and
kissed her face and her uncovered head again and again. From outside
the rain beat drearily and the fog rolled through the street, but inside
before the fire the two young people sat close together, asking eager
questions or sitting in silence, staring at the flames with wondering,
happy eyes.
The Lion and the Unicorn saw them only once again. It was a month later
when they stopped in front of the shop in a four-wheeler, with their
baggage mixed on top of it, and steamer-labels pasted over every trunk.
“And, oh, Prentiss!” Carroll called from the cab-window. “I came near
forgetting. I promised to gild the Lion and the Unicorn if I won out in
London. So have it done, please, and send the bill to me. For I’ve won
out all right.” And then he shut the door of the cab, and they drove
away forever.
“Nice gal, that,” growled the Lion. “I always liked her. I am glad
they’ve settled it at last.”
The Unicorn sighed, sentimentally. “The other one’s worth two of her,”
he said.
ON THE FEVER SHIP
There were four rails around the ship’s sides, the three lower ones of
iron and the one on top of wood, and as he looked between them from
the canvas cot he recognized them as the prison-bars which held him in.
Outside his prison lay a stretch of blinding blue water which ended in a
line of breakers and a yellow coast with ragged palms. Beyond that again
rose a range of mountain-peaks, and, stuck upon the loftiest peak of
all, a tiny block-house. It rested on the brow of the mountain against
the naked sky as impudently as a cracker-box set upon the dome of a
great cathedral.